My husband and I slipped away to a cabin in Virginia for a couple of nights, without the kids and with no agenda except to ignore the news, read books, relax, and write songs together, and guess what! I’m never coming home!
Just kidding.
Honestly, though, I’m unsure whether it’s the current state of the world or the fact that I am now forty-three years old and leaning hard into my introverted tendencies, but a week does not go by that I don’t look out my kitchen window at the road stretching far beyond our property and sigh, muttering, “Maybe we should just sell everything and go live in the woods.”
The early desert mothers and fathers of the church did it, St. Benedict did it, Thomas Merton did it—why can’t I?!
A Long History of Being Lonely in a Crowded Room
Before 2020, I suffered from chronic FOMO (fear of missing out). If the girls from church were getting together, it didn’t matter how tired I was or what else I had going that week—I was in.
When I participated in larger group gatherings like those, a curious thing would happen. Sometime during the evening, I’d get the sense that everyone else had paired off into groups of two or three. Everyone else had their person, except me. I often left those groups feeling lonelier than when I arrived . . . not because anyone had intentionally left me out, but because I had grown self-conscious and quiet, assuming I was left out.
My husband asked me why I went if I came back lonelier than before I left.
But if I didn’t go, then what would happen? I’d be missing out.
Worse, if someone from my friend group posted a photo on Instagram doing things without me, that FOMO would turn into AMO—actual missing out—which would make me spiral into a sea of self-pity. Since they didn’t invite me, they must not like me. Maybe, I’d think to myself, gnawing at my fingernails and power walking around the neighborhood, I did something to offend them. Maybe I’m not enough—fun enough, pretty enough (Lord help me), enough of a Jesus follower, enough of a personality, whatever.
Then the pandemic happened. Suddenly, none of us could get together like we were prone to do.
In the wake of the shutdown, instead of feeling isolated and alone, my FOMO seemed to evaporate. No one was getting together, so there was nothing to miss out on anymore. My FOMO was NOMO. In all of that empty space, I discovered just how much I had turned social connections into the measure of my worth. I had made an idol out of acceptance.
It’s the very first commandment—“You shall have no other gods before me” (Exodus 20:3)—and yet how quickly other priorities can slip into that top spot in our heart, right? It didn’t matter that I had a core group of friends, I needed everyone to be my friend, and if they weren’t available or interested, I needed to know why. Why, why, why don’t you want to hang out with me?
Without that constant longing in my life in 2020, I felt set free. (My husband, on the other hand—a raging extrovert—turned into a caged animal. But that’s a story for another time.)
From Crowd-Seeking to Couch-Sitting: The Gift of Going Nowhere
During the long first year of the pandemic, I thought a lot about social isolation. It was a legitimate concern across our globe—what happens when people can’t people with other people? But for me, I found my vision shifting. Before, I couldn’t stop casting about to make eye contact with as many people as possible. Then, as if for the first time, I could clearly see the people living in my own home—my husband, my daughter, and my two sons.
As we sought to fill our days with board games and online learning and our nights with shared meals around the table, we came home to each other. Instead of trying to connect with dozens of acquaintances, we were able to share our joy and suffering with one another, plus a handful of close friends, whose friendships only deepened during that season.
It’s already been five years since that tragic and terrible time, and for the most part, the world has moved on, successfully returning to its pre-pandemic pace. But there’s something I learned that I will never let go: I am a high-functioning introvert. If given the choice, most nights I’d rather sit on the couch and read a book. I really, really like people, but spread out, in little groups, in relatively regular doses.
And most importantly, my God is not their acceptance. My God has loved me with an everlasting love (Jeremiah 31:3). My God has purchased me back from the grave (Hosea 13:14). My God has shown me that relationships matter, but that you don’t have to be constantly surrounded by people for your life to matter.
Not Lonely, Just Quiet: The Gift of Smaller Circles
The thing about the desert mothers and fathers, Benedict, Merton, and others is that they may have fled society, but they weren’t lonely, even if they were alone. They lived in an isolated community. They quieted down their lives and lived simply, with a few people who were also devoted to their walk with God, trusting that God’s grace is enough, that God’s love is abundant, and that God welcomes them home.
Jesus had his three close pals among the twelve, a couple siblings, a devoted mother, and constant communion with the Father.
Sometimes I need to go somewhere and be reminded of that—like the middle of nowhere. Maybe next week? The mountains? Shall we?
—Written by Sarah Wells. Used by permission from the author.
