Grieving A Connection Never Found

Alone in the world, so cold and bleak

Isolation’s grip upon my soul, it seeks

To fracture my spirit and devour my peace

Loneliness whispers in the silence, it never does cease

Aching for connection, for a soul to embrace

But in this vast empty space, I find no trace

Of comfort or solace, just the echo of my own sigh

Loneliness and isolation, my constant ally

The days stretch on, endless and void

No friendly face, no tender word to avoid

Trapped in this twilight of solitary confinement

Loneliness and isolation, my constant torment

Oh, how I long for a hand to hold

For a heart to share the burdens I’ve told

But in this desolate world, I am cast aside

Loneliness and isolation, my only guide

Yet in the darkness, a flicker off hope ignites

A longing for companionship, for warmer nights

Perhaps in this solitude, I’ll find my way

And loneliness and isolation will fade to gray

For in the depths of despair, I find strength anew

To reach out and break free from the solitude that once grew

And as I step into the light, I leave behind the pain

Loneliness and isolation, no longer my bane

I wrote this poem over a year ago, when loneliness felt like it was suffocating me from the inside out. And tonight, as I sit with myself—again—I realize that so little has changed. Or maybe too much has. Maybe I’ve grown more aware of just how empty things can feel when you give and give and no one meets you in return. Maybe I’m grieving a love lost... not a love that ended, but one that never began.

Almost 40, and I still haven’t found the connection I ache for. That deep, soul-level bond. The kind of love that sees you in your fullness and stays. I’ve looked for it. I’ve poured it into other people, hoping someone would reflect it back. But the truth I’ve been quietly learning—and tonight, painfully reminded of—is that I still haven’t found in someone else what I so freely offer to others.

There’s a part of me that genuinely believes I was put here to heal. That maybe my role in this world is to be a light for others, to show up when no one else does, to hold the hands of those who are unraveling. And I’ve done that. I still do. But it’s starting to cost me more than I can afford. Because when I ask for help—rare as that is—it's met with silence. Or brushed off. Or ignored entirely. I’ve said I’m not okay. I’ve said I’m struggling. That I’m coming out of survival mode after a battle I can’t even talk about yet. And still, nothing.

I don’t need someone to fix me. I just need someone to sit with me. To care. To notice.

But the more I speak up and get met with indifference, the more I feel like I am too much. And the more I start to pull away. Not out of spite, but out of self-preservation. I'm slowly, painfully learning to stop being the person who shows up for everyone. To see who, if anyone, will show up for me.

Tonight, I broke down. Completely. I reached out to five people—five people who know my history of depression, of self-harm, of suicidal thoughts—and no one came. No one asked if I was okay. And somehow, that didn’t surprise me. It just deepened the wound I already carry. The one that whispers, you’re alone, and you always will be.

I don’t say this to guilt anyone. I say it because I need to say it. Because this reflection isn’t just about loneliness—it’s about grieving the love I’ve spent my life searching for and still haven’t found. It’s about making peace with the idea that maybe I won’t. That maybe God is shaping me to walk this path alone. And somehow, I’m learning to live with that.

But on nights like this, it still hurts like hell.

If you’re reading this and you feel any of what I’ve written—please know you're not the only one. And if no one has told you today: your pain matters. Your voice matters. You deserve to be held and heard, not just when you’re strong, but especially when you’re not.

I may be grieving a connection never found, and I may be alone tonight, but I’m still here. That has to count for something.