I’m lonely, and I’m scared to talk about it

There’s something about having grown up and been socialized as a man that feels like being a magnet that repels other humans.

I’m lonely, and I’m scared to talk about it. I’m worried that people will think something is wrong with me, that I’m extremely shy or have social anxiety.

I know the statistics. Nearly 1 in 4 adult Americans say they feel lonely. But when I’m feeling this way, I assume everyone else isn’t. They have tons of friends and get invited to tons of things. Or they just don’t ever feel lonely.

I know part of it has to do with our society, with capitalism.

The American Dream is more like a lonely nightmare. Sure, some of us can achieve material success, but there’s a cost. American workers work more hours than workers in other developed countries. We typically put in 400 more hours on the job every year compared to our counterparts in Germany. That’s 10 weeks more! And the way we live outside of work is particularly isolated. Nearly three-fourths of Americans describe their neighborhoods as suburban or rural. This would be impossible in many European countries, where people often live in densely packed neighborhoods with tons of shared space.

Sure, American individualism feels nice sometimes. We’re less tied down by tradition compared to someone in, say, Ghana or Peru. But it’s also so cold and empty. The strip malls, the fenced-in suburban yards, the car-centric transportation, the endless roads with no sidewalks, the focus on the nuclear family, the worship of productivity, the constant sense that more work needs to be done. This is a strange, backwards, heartless place to live. It makes sense that so many of us are lonely.

Another reason I feel lonely has to do with being a man—which is what I want to focus on for a moment.

Women and non-binary people can be lonely too, of course. There’s nothing exceptional about male loneliness. But there’s something about having grown up and been socialized as a man that feels like being a magnet that repels other humans. Especially when those other humans get vulnerable or show that they care.

I see it over and over again in things I do, things that just feel natural to me. My partner leaves town for the weekend, and I forget to reach out to friends ahead of time, so I end up spending most of it alone. I don’t follow-up with friends after hanging out to say I enjoyed it and plan the next time. I don’t spontaneously call anyone, because “I’d be bothering them.” I don’t pick up the phone when someone spontaneously calls me, because “They’re bothering me.” I let texts and emails backup for weeks. I often forget about birthdays and special occasions. I forget that a friend just had a baby, or their dad passed away. I justify all of this by thinking that I have too much work to do anyway. There’s always another thing I could be doing to market my therapy services or another thing to fix around the house. Or I just need to relax on the couch watching YouTube, because I’ve been working so hard for so long. Good luck to anyone who wants to get my attention when I’m vegging out. Sometimes, I even cross the street if I see a neighbor coming my way. I say to myself that I’m too busy to talk to anyone right now.

I wish the statistics made me feel less alone. At least 30 percent and possibly up to 75 percent of American men report chronic loneliness in any given year. That makes me hopeless. We’re up against something so big and entrenched that a few shifts and tweaks aren’t going to make a dent. And it’s getting worse. Over the past 30 years, the number of men who say they have at least six close friends dropped by half, to just 27 percent. Fifteen percent of men report having no close friends at all.

I know that not all men are the same.

I’ve got a one or two buddies who are great at keeping in touch. And I know plenty of women who struggle with communication in similar ways. But I know way more women who seem to be “natural” at relating with others. (I put natural in quotes because there’s nothing actually natural about women being more communicative and caring. This myth was literally invented a few hundred years ago during the early days of capitalism.) Research shows that more men struggle with connection and friendship. Men are more reliant on their partner for support, while women tend to build wider networks of family and friends. As

Joshua P. Hill

recently wrote about men and loneliness: “It can be so hard to reach out and connect to others when patriarchal norms get in the way.”

Those damn patriarchal norms. I hate them. They keep so many men locked inside of ourselves, relying on one person for deep connection—if we’re lucky enough to have a partner. Another name for these norms is “traditional masculinity,” the idea that men naturally struggle with communicating emotions and are competitive, dominant, and aggressive. I’ve written how traditional masculinity actually isn’t so traditional. Like ideas about femininity, these norms were manufactured to support the economic system of capitalism. Before a few hundred years ago, all kinds of gender roles and norms existed in different societies at different times in history. It wasn’t always fair or equal. Patriarchy existed before capitalism. But capitalism strengthened patriarchy and divided men and women perhaps more than ever before.

You might be wondering why I’m talking about economics in a post about loneliness. The “why” matters. By understanding why we’re this way, we can connect with the struggles of other people who might not look like us or have the same experience, but who are fighting their own battles. Women are lonely too. Research is revealing a loneliness epidemic among teenage girls. A recent study found that older women are significantly more often lonely than older men. Another study found that women are more likely than men to experience shame when feeling lonely. And this is to say nothing of the struggles that come with being even more marginalized based on skin color, immigration status, ability, and more.

What I’m getting at is the way we’ve organized our society is harming all of us.

Men are only going to solve our loneliness problem in the long run if we work together with others to change our political and economic systems, policies, and laws. We need to join political movements in our neighborhoods and workplaces fighting for things like shorter work weeks (for the same pay), paid family leave, publicly funded childcare, less police, and other changes that would shift society toward being organized to meet the needs of the majority of people rather than those of the rich and powerful.

I like how trans domestic violence researcher Lee Shevek (who has a great Twitter feed called Butch Anarchy) puts it: Men need to see loneliness “as a struggle they share in common with women and queer people—a point of solidarity—rather than trying to differentiate themselves by articulating their feelings as more special or profound.”

Yet, in the short run, men also need to help each other counter and deprogram the patriarchal norms in our heads (and bodies). We need to reach out and care for each other more, even if it feels like the last thing we want to do. We need to practice being vulnerable together. And we need to do it even if it’s not reciprocated. So many times I’ve reached out to a friend to plan to get together or at least catch up, and they say “yeah” but don’t put any effort in making it happen. I eventually give up because it requires too much effort, or I feel rejected. I’m lucky to have been around people (mostly women) who keep trying anyway. I now know it’s important—no, necessary—for me to have men in my life who I can be real with and connect at a deeper level than drinking and watching football together (though I need that too sometimes!).

Joshua P. Hill

nails exactly how I feel:

“I feel lucky, blessed, whatever you want to call it to have had friends and role models and family help me avoid the harmful and limiting mindset that tells men that showing care for other men in any way should be avoided because it could mark us as gay, queer, or less masculine in some way. Dodging that mindset has allowed me, and thankfully many friends of mine, to have more profound friendships, to be freer, and to live significantly happier lives.”

If you’re lonely right now, you’re not alone. If you’re embarrassed about it, you’re not alone. If you’re struggling to figure out what to do, you’re not alone. The only way to figure this thing out is together.

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Now, a question for the comments below (or email me: jeremy@jeremymohler.blog): How do you feel about your friendships?

(P.S. If you become a paid subscriber for $5/month, you’ll be able to comment and join our community call about this topic in early 2024. I’d love to have you there!)