No one really prepares us for how lonely adulthood can be.
I barely admitted to myself why I prefer ordering food over cooking. I do enjoy cooking, but when I order in, at least I get to exchange a few words with the delivery person. Even if it’s just a quick “hi, thanks.” I work from home, and sometimes go days without speaking to anyone. As an adult, I’ve learned that company is just as essential as food, water, or air.
Surprised
Last Friday, I had an asthma attack and with my last bit of strength, I called an ambulance for myself. They took me to the hospital, and I only got home Monday afternoon. I’d left my phone at home and expected dozens of messages and missed calls, but there were just two notifications: an email from my boss asking for a report the next day, and a funny cat video from a friend. No one noticed I’d basically checked out for three days, and that hit me hard.
I remembered feeling sorry for my neighbor Enikő as a kid—she never went anywhere and no one visited her—and realized that at 35, I’m living the kind of life she had at 75…
Alone
During high school and college, we hung out every night and partied every weekend. We promised to stay close, but the group chat grew quieter until by our thirties, we drifted apart completely. No fights, no goodbyes—just a slow fading of connection. Everyone’s busy with work and kids, leaving no time for anything else. Now, my friendships are mostly at work, and they feel surface-level. We don’t share a past or truly know each other. We just chat a bit at lunch or grab coffee after work, with no real plans beyond that.
Different
I grew up as an only child in a small apartment in a rundown building, yet I have many happy childhood memories. My parents would invite neighbors over—or we’d visit them—sharing meals or playing board games. We’d dance to rockabilly in one of the tiny living rooms. Dad would come home late after having a beer with friends, Mom would laugh with her colleague in the kitchen, or we’d head to the park with family friends where I’d climb on the playground with their kids.
Now, I’m in my thirties—like they were then—and my life is completely different. I’m a single mom who doesn’t even know her neighbors. I have no friends at work; I just go there to work. My parents are elderly and have moved to the countryside; we only visit during holidays with my child. I chat with other moms from kindergarten, but only about who’s bringing what to the party. I have no time, energy, or chance to make friends, even though I really want to.
Kodokushi
A few years ago, there was news about a woman who lay dead in her apartment for years before anyone noticed. Her family and friends hadn’t checked on her, and her bills were automatically paid, so her death went unnoticed for a long time. Reading about her made me wonder when someone would notice if the same happened to me. My mother passed away, and I rarely speak with my father. My friendships have faded and disappeared.
It’s clear that my landlord or employer would be the first to notice if I died, and that’s heartbreaking. It’s no comfort that in Japan, this is so common it’s had a name since the 1980s: kodokushi, meaning dying alone and unnoticed. On New Year’s Eve, loneliness hit me so hard I knocked on my neighbor’s door and toasted with him.
Strangers
Recently, I messaged my two best college friends on Facebook. We spent four months trying to schedule a meetup. If I hadn’t brought it up weekly, the chat probably would have died out, but I kept at it. Finally, we managed to meet up.
One could only stay an hour because she had to rush home to a sick child; the other arrived late, caught up with work. During that short time, we mostly exchanged updates (where we live, our jobs, partners, kids’ ages) and a bit of nostalgia. When we said goodbye, we promised to meet regularly, but guess how many times we’ve gotten together since? Probably never.
Far Away
Everyone envied me when I moved to Canada, and I thought it would be amazing too. Now, at 33, I can say I’d never move so far away if I could go back. Going home isn’t an option—or worth it—because I’ve built my career here, and back home I’d have to start from scratch. My family and friends have gotten used to my absence, and we rarely message each other on social media. I’m no longer part of their lives. I haven’t found close, true friends here and still feel like a "guest" in this country. I work alone, shop alone, eat dinner alone. I recently adopted a shelter cat because I thought I might go crazy from loneliness.
