TEARS & TEFL : Loneliness & I

During a job interview, the interviewer asked me, “How will you deal with feelings of loneliness?”

I laughed, low, but noticeable. “I’ll be fine. I love being alone.”

‘I love being alone.’ It wasn’t a lie. I’ve always been the low-maintenance friend and the distant child. I was never eager to hang out. I didn’t mind last-minute cancellations or interrupted phone calls. I thrived in the calmness of solitude.

If I had a free house, I never thought to invite people over. Instead, I waved goodbye to my parents with a book in one hand and my crochet hook in the other. If you asked my friends, they’d tell you I’m no stranger to the Irish exit, and the one most likely to survive alone on a desert island. I love my own company.

I always found extreme comfort in my own space. My room. My flat. My personal sanctuary—or The Cave, as my brother called it. But really, we all had our caves. I grew up in a family of hermits, each of us retreating into our corners for an hour or two of controlled silence.

As a teenager, I pitied people who couldn’t stand being alone. Those who needed constant companionship, a room full of people, a hand attached to them at all times, and endless phone calls. I didn’t understand that dependence. I didn’t understand loneliness.

I craved time by myself. I didn’t really miss people when they were gone, because I knew I’d see them again. I often walked away from get-togethers drained, needing at least two more hours of quiet before I could sleep.

So when I said those words ‘I won’t get lonely’ I believed them. And shortly after, just shy of my 23rd birthday, I moved to Seoul.

I had a beautiful flat on the 22nd floor with gorgeous views of the city and mountains. I told my mum not to call too often because I’d be busy with school, work, friends, and life. I didn’t have time for long phone calls every night.

But life didn’t go to plan. Finding a tight-knit group of friends was harder than I’d imagined. I still had my flat, a nice job, and new experiences, but the days at work dragged, my phone stayed quiet most evenings, and suddenly it was just me. Me and my flat.

My supposed sanctuary became a mirror. Each night, I held onto the beauty of those sunsets until I blinked and caught my reflection in the glass—alone in a black box. I couldn’t escape it. Being hyper aware of my own loneliness was the worst part. I started to detest it.

Loneliness finds you wherever you are. With friends. On pillows. On commutes. Between hobbies. In conversations that end too soon. It creeps; it’s subtle, slowly weaving up your neck and into your mouth, until you find yourself saying words fit for a different tongue, words not fulfilling and damaging to your sanity.

Back home, I could always step out of my room and be wrapped in my mum’s arms or sit down to one of my dad’s meals. But in Seoul, time zones ruined long calls with friends, and co-workers had their own weekend plans while I had none.

My time in Seoul was an array of emotions. Some days were breath-taking, others dull, and some excruciating. Yet even the friends I made there admitted to feeling lonely too. Even the most extroverted, the loudest laughers, the constant party-goers, the ones I thought had endless social lives, confessed that the feeling had also attached itself to them. 

Maybe it was Seoul. How I was a stranger to the cold hands of a city that relished in my naivety and my shiny suburban gaze, choosing me as a victim of its freezing fingers that would wrap around my stomach and steal my breath, until I was left alone on a train platform being an anxious wreck.

It’s lonely living alone. Who would’ve thought?

And yet, that’s why community matters. Without it, loneliness creeps in, touches you even when you’re not reaching for it. It whispers in your ear, tunes your brain to a darker frequency, and makes you doubt yourself.

I kept asking: why now? Why at twenty-three was I suddenly experiencing something I’d never known? I loved being alone. I was the plan-canceller, the bookworm, the solo adventurer. I had chosen this life.

But that was the difference. Back then, I was always in control. I chose solitude. In Seoul, solitude chose me.

It wasn’t a nice feeling, but it was a necessary one. A reminder of what we all need: people. Conversation. A laugh over dinner or coffee. Even a mind-bending night out, knocking back too many double vodkas, and even making an Irish exit in the middle of it all. Because without connection, what are we? What is the point? 

But I don’t look at loneliness as a punishment, but a reminder. A quiet reminder. To be present. To reach out. To accept the dinner invite. To stay another hour. To call your mum.