The Cocoon of Loneliness

Assuming that loneliness is an ineluctable predicament I must conquer to become an adult, I comfortably wrap myself in the cocoon of isolation and bottle up the need for companionship.

October 23rd, nine PM. Ho Chi Minh city. Outside, the sky groaned and crystal tears started to stream down the eyes of sombre clouds. As the gentle drizzle began to gain momentum, people scurried off to seek refuge from the melancholy of nature. Inside, the coffee shop was packed with students, couples, and groups blissfully wrapped in their own bubbles. The bittersweet aroma of freshly roasted coffee beans saturated the air, invading my nostrils. As I wrapped my ice-cold fingers around the ceramic mug, the heat of the coffee radiated into my fingertips and seeped into my soul. Savouring the warm beverage, I revelled in the warmth cascading down my throat like an affectionate embrace. With an extra shot of espresso, the caffeine concoction tasted pretty potent, and judging by the speed with which my fingers are flying across this notebook, it was. My table was a mess, with books, loose papers, highlighters and pens cluttering the cramped space. My open notebook was filled with random doodles and short scenes I jotted down for a new project that I probably would not follow through with.

The coffee shop was packed with students, couples, and groups blissfully wrapped in their own bubbles.

Since I began a new teaching job, this place has become my refuge after an arduous week of lesson planning, teaching and grading students’ essays. A cup of hazelnut latte at my favourite corner every Sunday evening has become part of my weekend ritual, another anchor in my routine that soothes my anxiety with a sense of normality and predictability. I enjoy the homey ambience of this place and how chaotic it can be on crowded days. Chairs scraping on the wooden floor. Spoons clinking against the side of coffee mugs. Dishes clattering as the waitress hastily cleaned up the tables. I used to find the jumble of sounds distracting, especially when I was trying to focus on important tasks, such as figuring out what hairstyle my protagonist should have or planning my reading list for the forthcoming month. However, I gradually came to find solace in these dissonant noises. Each sound represented a story and together they created a tapestry of the intricacies of a fleeting moment. At the table to my right, a couple was bickering about their plans for next weekend. At the far corner, a student hunched over his laptop and typed frantically; his eyes intently glued to the flickering screen. At the counter, the barista impatiently called out the orders, struggling to speak above all the hubbub in the shop… Amongst these mundane yet vibrant noises of this cafe, somehow I felt alive and connected. The coffee, the chattering or even the occasional glance across the room was a drop of elixir, a transient sense of companionship that satiated my primitive longing for connection.

For all my life, I have always associated loneliness with senility. To me, social isolation is a distant ache reserved for when I reach retirement and cats magically appear in my apartment. However, upon the cusp of adulthood, I realise that loneliness has started to wrap its wicked tentacles around my existence. Just like any fresh graduate, I immediately embarked on my quest for professional growth right after university. I was enthused to finally put into practice the theories that I have learned through years of academic training. The first few weeks at my first “big girl” job were immensely hectic as I tried to navigate the working culture of the centre. Suddenly my daily routine solely encompassed teaching at the centre and coming home to prepare teaching materials, grade students’ homework, answer emails or bury my nose in books. Despite my zeal for education, I could not help but crave the intense sociability of my university years. Long gone were the stolen conversations between lectures, strenuous club meetings on the weekends, impromptu trips to the bookstore, and all-night cram sessions with my nocturnal bestie. Whenever I started to feel lonely, I tended to regress to the ruinous habit of aimlessly scrolling through social media to fill in the void. I saw my friends posting exciting experiences, and I found myself comparing my life to theirs. As I fell down the fathomless ditch of self-deprecation, my Instagram feed morphed into an exhibition curated to glaringly remind me of my insecurities and shortcomings. Through the glamorised yet deceptive nature of social media, it appeared that every person in their 20s was partying, going on extravagant dates, embarking on exotic adventures, or living their lives to the fullest. At times it seemed that I was the only lonely person in this generation who wallowed in this pit of isolation, frustration, and uncertainty. This growing loneliness was a vice on my heart, a haze of darkness that had permeated into these ungodly walls of flesh, possessing my soul, and engulfing my mind. It gradually smothered the blooms of my heart and extinguished every glimmer of light until my soul remained nothing but a barren field.

Social isolation is a distant ache reserved for when I reach retirement and cats magically appear in my apartment.

It is presumed that loneliness is an inexorable facet of the human experience. It is a built-in feature, an ache that is hardwired into the complexities of a human brain. Yet, there is something deeply disheartening about feeling isolated during my 20s. For years, pop culture has romanticised youthfulness and tucked away the unglamorous side of being a young person in this maddening world. Popular shows such as Friends and Gossip Girl drill into my mind that thrilling excursions and regular coffee dates with friends are the norms for people in their early 20s. These immaculately stunning characters somehow manage to maintain a social life, excel in their professions, manage their finances wisely, take care of their mental well-being, keep a decent social media presence, and stay hydrated simultaneously. These alluring yet unrealistic portrayals eventually set unattainable expectations and engender the shame that accompanies loneliness for young people. How can I feel down during the prime era of my life? Does this nagging sensation imply that my life would only spiral downwards from here? These compulsive thoughts can be corrosive, inevitably begetting the internalisation of anxiety, self-doubt, and low self-esteem. Although early adulthood is indeed a wondrous journey as I get to explore my personal values and self-concept, it is also an onerous period with various pitfalls. My social life undergoes drastic changes as I leave the air-tight bubble of closely-connected relationships. My social network suddenly disperses as my friends in university either move back to their hometowns, go abroad, get married, or become inundated with work. It becomes nearly impossible to make plans or to organise spontaneous nights out like back in the wayward years of the past. With time, late-night video calls become less frequent, text messages become shorter, and the exchanges become more perfunctory. Assuming that loneliness is an ineluctable predicament I must conquer to become an adult, I comfortably wrap myself in the cocoon of isolation and bottle up the need for companionship. Unfortunately, too much time in my own company means I cannot distract myself from my rampant anxiety – and sometimes that can become quite unnerving. As my angst is blown out of proportion, millions of questions besiege my muddled brain. What am I going to do with my career? Am I a competent teacher? Is my handwriting illegible? Was that text professional enough? Is my perfume suffocating my students? Can a floral dress be deemed formal attire? Do I need to wear more make-up to not look like a literal child with the wardrobe of a grandma? Should I choose a different Zoom background for the next meeting?

This loneliness gradually smothered the blooms of my heart and extinguished every glimmer of light until my soul remained nothing but a barren field.

On the surface level, loneliness appears to be an easy problem to rectify: call your mom, facetime your friends, reach out to someone who cares or, as a last resort, find a romantic partner. Those are the ubiquitous pieces of advice I often come across in online articles and wellness blog posts. However, no one warns me of how strenuous it is to nurture meaningful relationships in my early 20s. Making friends as a young adult requires a sense of vulnerability I have never had to reveal before. Being lonely is not a prevalent topic of conversation amongst my social circle – and it definitely does not sound appealing or glamourous. No one wants to divulge that they only attend social gatherings because they cannot stand another evening alone or that they primarily go to coffee shops on the weekend so they can be around people and then end up splurging on fancy tea lattes they do not even enjoy. As young people become intent upon maintaining the mature facade, acknowledging my loneliness without shame or self-judgement turns into a demoralising uphill battle. Over time, I eventually accept these pangs of loneliness as my body’s natural alarm to signify that I need to emerge from my hibernation cave once in a while and seek out other humans. A few months ago, I bumped into an old friend with whom I took music classes. We have not been in touch for ages. In fact, if my memory serves me right, I still had a pixie cut the last time we met (which was probably over 7 years ago). Although we follow each other on social media and sometimes exchange mere pleasantries, it seems so strange to see each other in flesh and blood, especially in such serendipitous circumstances. We ended up spending the whole afternoon catching up on each other's lives, and reminiscing about the past. As I sat across from her at the table, I realised what a joy it was to reconnect with someone I have not seen in ages. Someone with whom coffee dates have been rearranged and postponed, seemingly in perpetuity. Someone with whom I once shared a deep connection. Someone who brings out certain sides of my personality. Nonetheless, I must admit that not all of my endeavours to reach out to the human species have been fruitful. After all, humans are perplexing creatures with convoluted thought processes and bizarre motives. Sometimes people may utter hurtful words, or fail to be there when I need them. Sometimes I become too socially awkward and ruin the interaction with my jittery demeanour. There is no guarantee that if I put in the effort and bare my soul to people, they will reciprocate my sentiments. Despite the reservoir of uncomfortable experiences I have garnered, I still believe that every leap of faith I take can potentially be the start of a meaningful connection I would cherish for life. So just simply by reaching out to others, I feel like I have already won.

After a stormy night, the sky had cleared out. Outside my window, the sunbeams danced wildly on the window panes. For a moment, my mind revelled in the noise of the city, the hustle and bustle of a restless lifestyle. I inhaled deeply. A new day had begun. Gently caressing the fabric, I suddenly noticed how the light penetrated through every open space between the fibres. The material was slightly warm beneath my fingertips, and when the sun flooded the room, drowning the space in golden rays, I could almost feel a fraction of that precious light seeping into my skin…