The Difference Between Alone and Lonely

How I learned to reclaim solitude as sacred space and found peace in being alone with myself. Alone doesn't mean lonely—it means freedom.

For most of my life, I felt a god-awful loneliness that hovered in my soul. As women, we're sort of programmed that being alone is a dreadful situation. Until one day, I experienced the oddest thing. I had just gone through a terrible break up with a guy I was dating. I sabotaged the relationship with a big dose of crazy because I fell head over heels in love and it scared me to death.

I was standing on the porch of the country home at the edge of town I lived in at the time watching a rainstorm make its way over the field across the road. I could feel the humidity on my skin and I could smell the scent of dirt from the field in the rain. I stood there hurting and feeling a god-awful loneliness in my soul. And then, it was as if a voice spoke to me. It said, "You are not alone. You have people who love you. You have daughters that love you. You have friends who love you. Most importantly, you have you."

I kid you not, I suddenly felt such a powerful release that I started to weep—but it wasn't tears of pain, it was tears of joy. The weight of suffocating loneliness lifted from me that day and I have not felt it since. Oh, I get a little lonely for company now and then, but never that paralyzing loneliness I used to carry around in my soul.

Avoiding loneliness will keep us in situations that are not good. I clung to people who hurt me. I made myself small in relationships just to avoid being by myself.

But here's what I learned: Alone and loneliness are not the same. Not even close.

Loneliness is a feeling. Alone is a state of being.

And one of the most powerful shifts in my healing journey was knowing the difference.

What Lonely Actually Feels Like

Lonely is the ache of disconnection. It's the feeling that no one sees you, understands you, or cares. You can be lonely in a crowded room. You can be lonely in a marriage. You can be lonely surrounded by people who claim to love you.

I was loneliest when I was not alone.

I was lonely in a church full of people who told me my questions were rebellion.

I was lonely in relationships where I had to perform to earn love.

I was lonely in my own home, pretending I was fine when I was breaking inside.

Loneliness isn't about being by yourself. It's about feeling unseen, unheard, and unknown—even when you're surrounded by others.

But when you learn to see yourself, when you hear your voice, when you truly know yourself, you realize 'alone' you are more than enough. Always.

Redefine Alone

Alone is different now. Alone is just me, with myself, without distraction or performance.

Alone is sitting in silence without needing to fill it.

Alone is having my own thoughts, my own space, my own presence.

Alone doesn't mean something is wrong. It doesn't mean I've failed or been abandoned. It just means I'm here—with me.

It wasn't until I was alone that I learned to face myself. The grief. The shame. The anger I'd been swallowing for decades. The parts of me I'd buried to survive. Being alone allowed me to feel everything I'd been running from.

I'm thankful life stripped away the distractions. The relationships ended. The roles I'd played no longer fit. And I was left with the one thing I'd been avoiding . . .

Myself.

The Moment Everything Shifted

I remember the day I stopped running.

I had gotten myself into a relationship that absolutely did me in. I knew going into it that it wasn't right for me but the guy I was dating wouldn't take no for an answer and I gave in. Once again, my voice was silenced and I did what I thought was expected of me to be loved.

For nearly 5 years, this man suffocated the life out of me with a bottomless pit of need. I found myself taking 10 steps back for every step I'd made forward in my personal growth. I had to fight for space to breathe. It became clear to me that I had to get out, or he would swallow me up and I'd lose myself forever.

Upon ending that relationship, I finally realized the last thing I needed was a relationship to be whole. I needed solitude. I needed space to connect with myself.

And for the first time, I didn't feel the pull to be in a relationship like I had in the past.

I felt... free.

I didn't have to perform. I didn't have to shrink. I didn't have to earn my right to exist. I could just be.

That's when I realized: Alone isn't the problem. Disconnection from myself was the problem. And I had been disconnected from myself for so long that I didn't even know who I was anymore.

Solitude became the space where I would finally find out.

How I Learned to Reclaim Solitude

Learning to be alone with myself wasn't easy. At first, it was uncomfortable. The silence felt heavy. My thoughts were loud and messy. The feelings I'd been avoiding came rushing in.

But I stayed. I didn't run. I didn't fill the space with noise or people or busyness. I just sat with it.

And slowly, something shifted.

Here's what helped me reclaim solitude as a sacred space:

1. I stopped equating alone with abandoned.

For years, being alone felt like proof that I wasn't worthy of love. If I was alone, it meant I'd been left—again. But that was a lie I believed because of what happened when I was two years old when my mother abandoned me.

I realized choosing to be alone is not the same as being abandoned. Solitude is not rejection. It's a choice. And reclaiming that choice gave me my power back.

2. I started listening instead of filling the silence.

When I finally stopped running from the quiet, I started reconnecting with things I'd been ignoring for years. My body. My intuition. My own voice—the one I'd silenced to please everyone else.

Solitude became the place where I could hear myself again.

3. I gave myself permission to simply be, not do.

I was so used to earning my worth through what I did for others that just being felt so unfamiliar. But in solitude, I didn't have to perform. There was no one to fix or please or impress.

I could just exist. And that was enough.

4. I learned that solitude is where healing happens.

Healing doesn't happen in the noise. It doesn't happen when you're performing for others or avoiding yourself. It happens in the quiet. In the stillness. In the moments when you're brave enough to sit with what hurts, hold it with compassion, and honor it.

Solitude became my sanctuary. The place where I could grieve, rage, rest, and rebuild.

5. I discovered that I actually like myself.

This was the biggest surprise. For so long, I thought being alone was unbearable because I believed I was unbearable. But when I finally spent time with myself—really spent time, without judgment or performance, I realized something,

I'm actually good company.

I'm interesting. I'm thoughtful. I'm kind. I'm funny. I'm genuine. I'm worthy of my own attention and care.

And once I knew that I stopped being afraid of being alone.

Alone as Freedom

Here's what I know now that I didn't know before,

Alone doesn't mean lonely. Alone means freedom.

Freedom from performance. Freedom from people-pleasing. Freedom from needing someone else to validate my existence.

When you can be alone without feeling lonely, you're no longer dependent on others to fill the void. You've learned to fill it yourself—with presence, with compassion, with truth.

You stop settling for relationships that hurt you just to avoid being by yourself. You stop saying yes when you mean no. You stop shrinking to fit into someone else's life.

Because you've learned that your own company is enough. That you are enough.

Solitude isn't isolation. It's coming home to yourself.

What About You?

If you're afraid of being alone, I understand. I was too. For a very long time.

But I want you to know: The person you're avoiding in silence, that person is worth knowing, worth listening to, and worth loving.

Solitude is not an enemy. It's medicine.

It's the place where you can finally stop performing and start healing. Where you can listen to your own voice instead of everyone else's. Where you can discover that you're not broken—you've just been disconnected from yourself, from your wholeness.

And when you reconnect, everything changes.

You stop needing others to complete you. You stop fearing abandonment because you know you'll never abandon yourself. You stop confusing alone with loneliness because you've learned that solitude is a sacred space.

And in that space, you find peace.

The Quiet Path Home isn't about finding someone else to save you. It's about learning that you were never lost — you were just looking in the wrong places.

Come home to yourself. The quiet is waiting.

If this resonates with you, I invite you to explore solitude—not as punishment, but as practice. Start with 5 minutes. Sit in silence. Breathe. Be with yourself. Notice what comes up. Don't run from it. Simply notice with curiosity, with compassion.

And if you need support on this journey, The Quiet Path Home offers the tools, practices, and guidance to help you reclaim solitude as sacred space.

I'd love it if you'd join me in the Quiet Path Community. It would be an honor to support you, as you discover a definition for alone.