When You Feel Alone and Like You Don’t Matter

Some Days I’m Just Trying to Make It Through the Day

Today is one of those days when I wish I could tell you I knew exactly how to make myself feel better.

I don't.

I've cried more than I want to cry.

I'm tired in a way sleep doesn't seem to fix.

My mind keeps going places I don't want it to go, and every time I think I've pulled myself together, something small can start the tears all over again.

I feel sad.

Really sad.

And underneath the sadness is something that hurts even more.

I feel invisible.

I feel like I've spent so much of my life trying to be kind to people.

Trying to understand.

Trying to listen.

Trying to show up.

Trying to be the person who notices when somebody else isn't okay.

And today I find myself wondering something I hate admitting.

“Who notices me?”

Who wonders how I'm doing?

Who thinks about whether I'm okay?

Who would know that I've been sitting here crying?

That's a hard thing to admit because there is something almost embarrassing about wanting someone to notice that you're hurting.

We tell ourselves we're grown women.

We should be able to handle ourselves.

And technically, yes.

I can take care of myself.

I can pay bills.

Make decisions.

Go to work.

Feed myself.

Handle problems.

Figure things out.

But being capable of taking care of yourself doesn't mean you stop wanting to feel cared about.

There is a difference.

And right now, I feel that difference everywhere.

I Think What Hurts Most Is Feeling Like I Don't Matter

Being alone is one thing.

Feeling like you don't matter is another.

I've had days when I can enjoy being alone.

I can watch what I want, eat what I want, leave dishes in the sink without anyone filing a complaint, and enjoy the quiet.

This isn't that.

This is the kind of alone where the quiet starts talking back.

Where you look at your phone even though nobody has called.

Where you think about sending somebody a message and then stop yourself because you don't want to feel like you're bothering them.

Where you start wondering whether anybody would reach out if you stopped being the one who reached out first.

That's a different kind of loneliness.

And sometimes I think that's what I'm really struggling with.

I don't necessarily need a room full of people.

I need to feel like I matter to somebody in the room.

I need to feel like my absence would be noticed.

I need to know somebody cares about how my day went even when I have nothing exciting to report.

I need the kind of connection where I don't have to perform, help, fix, give, listen, or be useful before I deserve a place in somebody's life.

Maybe that's part of what hurts so much.

Because I've spent years being there for other people.

And there are days when I look around and think, “How did I become the woman who was there for everybody and still ended up feeling this alone?”

I don't have a pretty answer for that.

My Birthday Is Coming

Maybe this is making everything feel heavier too.

My birthday is coming.

And instead of feeling excited, I'm already thinking about what that day might look like.

Just me.

No family gathering.

No group of friends making plans.

No phone ringing all day.

No long list of messages coming through.

Maybe no messages at all.

There is something about a birthday that can make loneliness feel louder.

It's supposed to be the day people remember you.

So, what happens emotionally when you're afraid nobody will?

I wish I could say it doesn't bother me.

It does.

I can buy myself dinner.

I can buy myself a cake.

I can take myself somewhere.

I can tell myself that I don't need anybody else to make the day special.

And I may do all of those things.

But none of that changes the truth that sometimes I want someone else to care that I was born.

There.

I said it.

Sometimes I don't want another lesson about being enough for myself.

Sometimes I want somebody to call.

Sometimes I want somebody to say, "I was thinking about you."

Sometimes I want to know I crossed someone's mind without having to remind them I exist.

I don't think that makes me needy.

I think it makes me human.

The Internet Can Make It Feel Even Worse

Then there's this strange world we're living in where even being seen online can start feeling like another popularity contest.

Post the right thing.

Use the right words.

Catch the algorithm at the right time.

Be interesting enough.

Pretty enough.

Funny enough.

Controversial enough.

Useful enough.

And maybe people will see you.

Maybe.

It's strange when you already feel invisible in your actual life and then a computer system basically says, "Yeah, we're not showing you to anybody today either."

Wonderful.

Thanks.

Exactly what my self-esteem needed.

But underneath the joke, I think it gets to me because it can start feeling like the same story everywhere.

In friendships.

In relationships.

At work.

Online.

I keep wondering what a woman has to do to be seen.

And lately I've been asking myself an even harder question.

“Why does being seen matter so much to me right now?”

I think part of the answer is because I am tired.

I'm tired of feeling like I have to prove I deserve space in people's lives.

I'm tired of feeling disposable.

I'm tired of being strong because there isn't another option.

I'm tired of figuring things out by myself.

Sometimes I don't want to be inspiring.

Sometimes I want somebody to sit beside me while I fall apart for a minute.

My Mind Is Not Very Kind to Me on Days Like This

When I get this low, my mind starts collecting evidence.

See?

Nobody called.

Nobody cares.

Look at your life.

What have you even accomplished?

Everybody else has somebody.

You're going to be alone forever.

Nobody is ever going to think you're important.

And if I stay inside those thoughts long enough, one hard day can suddenly become a prediction about my entire life.

That's where I have to catch myself.

Not because I suddenly believe everything is wonderful.

I don't.

Some things in my life are genuinely hard right now.

There are things I wish were different.

There are people I wish were here.

There are relationships I can't replace with positive thinking.

There are losses that still hurt.

There are things I'm carrying that I am tired of carrying.

I won't lie to myself about any of that.

But there is one thing I'm trying not to do anymore.

I'm trying not to let “today's pain tell me what the rest of my life will be.”

Because when I'm hurting, everything feels permanent.

"I feel alone today" turns into "I will always be alone."

"I feel forgotten" turns into "I don't matter."

"My life doesn't look the way I hoped it would" turns into "I have accomplished nothing."

Those aren't the same statements.

The first ones describe pain.

The second ones turn pain into a verdict.

And maybe today I don't need to give myself a verdict.

I'm Trying to Stop Fixing My Whole Life in One Day

When I feel like this, my instinct is to figure everything out.

What needs to change?

Who needs to go?

What am I doing wrong?

What should I do next?

How am I going to fix my life?

Meanwhile I haven't eaten lunch.

Maybe that's where I have to start.

Not with my five year plan.

With lunch.

Not with figuring out who I'll have in my life ten years from now.

With getting through this afternoon.

Not with reinventing myself.

With taking a shower.

I have learned through the years that sometimes the things that help are embarrassingly ordinary.

Opening the blinds.

Changing clothes.

Eating something.

Walking outside.

Going somewhere instead of sitting alone in the house all day.

Putting my phone down when scrolling starts turning everybody else's life into evidence that mine is terrible.

Watching something stupid enough to make me laugh.

Getting into bed early.

Sometimes those things help.

Sometimes they barely touch it.

I think that's important to admit too.

There isn't always a magic combination of shower, sunshine, water, journaling, and positive thoughts that makes sadness disappear.

Sometimes I do everything I'm "supposed" to do and I'm still sad.

That's when I try to stop fighting myself on top of everything else.

Today hurts.

Okay.

What do I need to get through today?

Sometimes I Want Someone Else to Carry Five Pounds of It

I think one of the hardest things about being alone when life gets heavy is knowing that everything still belongs to you.

The decisions.

The bills.

The worries.

The future.

The things going wrong.

The things you're afraid might go wrong.

Nobody walks through the door and says, "Give me some of that. You don't have to carry all of it tonight."

Sometimes that's what I want.

I don't need somebody to fix my life.

I would just like somebody to share it with or help me carry five pounds of it.

Talk to me.

Sit with me.

Ask me how I'm really doing and stay long enough to hear the real answer.

That kind of connection matters.

And I'm beginning to think I've spent too much time counting how many people are around me instead of asking whether I feel safe being real with the people who are there.

More people wouldn't necessarily fix this.

Better connection might.

One person I don't have to pretend with might mean more than twenty people who only know the version of me who is doing fine.

I'm Also Being Careful Not to Call Everything "Just a Funk"

I know myself well enough to know that sometimes I have bad days.

Sometimes I'm overwhelmed.

Sometimes I'm lonely.

Sometimes I'm grieving things that don't have funerals.

Sometimes I'm worried about money, my future, relationships, family, work, or ten things at the same time.

And sometimes I'm just tired.

But I also know there is a point where I can't keep telling myself to push through.

If I'm crying constantly, feeling hopeless or worthless, pulling away from everything, unable to enjoy anything, struggling to sleep or get out of bed, or finding everyday life harder and harder for weeks, I need to take that seriously.

I can be strong and still need help.

Those two things can exist in the same woman.

And when my thoughts get darker, when "I'm lonely" starts turning into "Why am I even here?", I don't want to pretend that's nothing either.

There have been moments in my life when I've had to take things one second at a time.

Not one day.

A second.

Sometimes that's where a person is.

And if I'm ever afraid I might hurt myself or I'm not sure I can keep myself safe, that's the moment to get immediate help and not try to carry it quietly.

I want us to be honest enough with ourselves to know when we need someone else in the room.

So, What Am I Doing Today?

I'm still sad.

That's probably the most honest ending I can give you.

Writing this didn't magically make everything okay.

My life didn't rearrange itself while I typed.

The people who aren't here didn't suddenly appear.

My birthday is still coming.

Some of the things I'm worried about are still uncertain.

And I still wish somebody would look at me sometimes and say, "You matter to me."

But I'm here.

Today I'm here.

Maybe right now that needs to be enough.

I'm going to try to eat something.

I'm going to get out of the house.

I'm going to stop asking myself to know what the rest of the week will look like.

I'm going to try to remember that feeling invisible isn't the same as being worthless.

And I'm going to keep reminding myself of something I have had to learn more than once:

I have lived through days that I thought would swallow me whole.

They didn't.

I can't promise myself that tomorrow will suddenly feel easy.

I can't promise that every lonely place in my life will be filled.

I can't promise that the people I wish cared will someday care the way I needed them to.

What I can do is refuse to decide the value of my entire life while I'm sitting in one of its saddest rooms.

So, if today is one of those days for me, I will make today smaller.

This hour.

This meal.

This shower.

This walk.

This breath.

And then the next one.

I don't need to know exactly where my life is going tonight.

For now, I just need to stay long enough to find out.

#EvolvingWomanhood