The Loneliness of Being Surrounded by People.

Growing up without a father is something that leaves a quiet, invisible space in your life—one that doesn’t always make itself obvious until you’re older. As a kid, you learn to cope, to normalize it. You watch your friends with their dads at football games or graduation ceremonies, and you pretend it doesn’t sting. You act like you’re fine. But as you get older, you begin to realize that the absence wasn’t just physical—it shaped how you carry your emotions, how you connect with people, how you handle hard days.

I’ve been in crowded rooms, at family functions, with friends who genuinely care about me—and still felt alone. That’s the strange thing about loneliness. It doesn’t always mean you’re isolated. Sometimes it just means you don’t feel understood. When you grow up without someone to teach you how to navigate life, especially a father figure, you carry that silence with you. There are things I wish I could’ve asked, guidance I wish I had, but there was no one to turn to. And when life gets heavy, I don’t always know how to share it with others.

People say, “Talk to someone,” or “You’re not alone,” and while that’s meant kindly, it’s not always that easy. There’s a kind of loneliness that isn’t about numbers—it’s about connection. It’s about having someone who just gets it. Someone who knows your story without you needing to explain every piece of it. For me, that person never existed. So, I learned to keep things in. I became the quiet fixer, the one who stays strong even when everything inside is falling apart.

The worst part is, the more you carry things on your own, the harder it becomes to open up. Vulnerability feels like weakness, even though deep down, I know it isn’t. I’ve had moments where I wanted to let someone in—wanted to break the silence—but the words didn’t come out. And so, the cycle continues. People around you laugh, joke, talk about life, and you smile along, but inside, there’s this ache. Not for company, but for connection. For someone to simply say, "I see you."

Over the years, I’ve started learning that healing doesn’t always come from someone else filling the gap. Sometimes, it’s about acknowledging the space and giving yourself permission to feel it. It’s about writing, praying, walking, whatever helps you release what you’ve held in for too long. And maybe, one day, it’s about becoming that presence for someone else—the kind of person you needed when you were younger. Until then, I carry my story quietly, hoping that by sharing even a piece of it, someone out there feels less alone.