I’ve discovered the key to dealing with loneliness after a year of lockdowns

Loneliness is up by 40 per cent since last spring, according to the Office of National Statistics – and it’s young people who are most affected. In one respect, this is unsurprising. Even pre-pandemic, there was a trend of increasing loneliness among young people (in 2019, YouGov research found 75 per cent of 16-24-year-olds reported feeling lonely some or all of the time).

These stories come out on a cyclical basis. We raise an eyebrow, make sweeping statements about the shortcomings of social media, the government pays lip service with a nebulous “anti-loneliness” campaign and then we move on.

But this year has felt different, for me at least. Aged 29, I’m still young-ish, and I fall into several other of the “loneliest” demographics (single, living alone, female). Normally, I cherish moderate amounts of alone time – a phenomenon I’ve coined “alonement”, and last month, I published a book on positive solitude. Yet, after over a year of lockdowns, I’ve found myself able to identify as “lonely” for the first time in my life – and it’s liberating.

Why, only now, do I feel able to say “I’m lonely”? Like many others, I felt ashamed to admit it. Loneliness is a bit like having an STI: fairly common, yet no one wants to open up about it. I was also reluctant to admit the limitations of my living situation right now, particularly when I knew it was a privileged one (parent friends definitely envied my regular “me time”), and one I had freely chosen, and actively thrived in pre-pandemic.

Then there was the problem of expression. “Lonely” seemed to be the hardest word – I didn’t want to offend my friends or make them pity me. It takes strength – and practice – to be able to articulate loneliness.

But there was something about the sheer unnaturalness of the situation that lockdown put us in (three months without a hug is tough) that pushed me to the limit. I started to realise: yes, this is lonely. And you know what? It’s not my fault. I learnt that I had two choices: either save face or save myself. After months of doing the former, I decided to change tack. “I’m lonely”, I told a couple of close friends. I told my family. I told Twitter. Immediately, I felt lighter.

I realised that identifying my loneliness was the first step towards working my way out of it. I suspect many of us live with a low level of loneliness. Maybe it’s only in one area of your life, such as a lack of companionship at work or a relationship that’s not working out. Acknowledging your own loneliness – that you lack the connection you desire – paves the way for opportunity: to seek better connection.

After opening up, I was able to take an objective look at my situation. “Why am I feeling lonely?”, I wrote down on a piece of paper, listing the factors at play: little incidental social contact (face masks had marred even my usual, friendly morning exchange with the Costa barista); being single at a time when government restrictions prioritised those in couples or families; not being able to meet face-to-face with the bulk of my friendship circle; not going into an office day to day; not having colleagues (as a freelancer); public places (such as restaurants and cinemas) remaining shut. Seeing it all on paper, I realised it was no wonder that this had been one of the loneliest years of my life. Some factors were directly related to Covid; some pre-dated the pandemic but had been exacerbated by it.

Next, I wrote down: “What will change and what can I change?” I accepted that some things, such as lockdown restrictions, were outside my control –the government roadmap meant it would still take some time for public venues to go back to normal, for instance, or for it to be legal to meet friends indoors at their homes. But there was room for immediate intervention: I decided to join a Covid-secure co-working space, which would mean more social contact during the day. I also made some reservations at pub gardens and restaurant terraces to meet friends after 12 April.

Then, I tackled a deeper problem: namely, that I had few friends at a similar life stage to me (freelance, living alone, single). Loneliness isn’t simply a lack of others’ physical presence (sometimes you can feel loneliest around the people you love the most), often it’s a feeling of not being understood, which can happen when your life is markedly different from that of your peers.

With most of my long-term friends in serious relationships, I was the odd one out – and the pandemic had ramped up the differences in our lifestyles to the extreme. There was a stark empathy gap between us that probably created loneliness on both sides. At the height of lockdown, their weekends were defined by the claustrophobia of being with their partners 24 hours a day, while mine were more often defined by the lack of physical company. So part of my “exit loneliness” roadmap involved reaching out to friends and acquaintances at similar life stages to me and connecting over our experiences through the past year.

The process hasn’t immunised me from loneliness, but it has taught me the power of acknowledging this taboo-yet-common emotion. It’s only through identifying your individual loneliness – and the specific factors that cause it – that you can tackle the problem. Ironically, through sharing with others, I soon felt less “alone” in my loneliness, and I hope my coming out can inspire others to do the same.

Francesca Specter is a freelance journalist and author of Alonement: How to be alone & absolutely own it