I Have Friends…and I’m Still Lonely Sometimes

Every day, after school, I ask my daughter the same questions.

“How was your day?”

“What was the best part?”

“Who did you play with?”

And every day, she gives me a full report—a recap that includes seven or eight names of classmates, all of whom she describes as kind. It’s honestly kind of incredible. And she doesn’t just say they’re kind—she tells me why.

“Susie helped me find Hamburger” and

“Molly shared the pink marker with me” and

“Bobby did puzzles with me and let me pick first”

Kindness is the gold standard in her world, and it’s so simple. Be kind. Share markers. Offer a puzzle. Boom—you have a friend.

When she’s sad at school, we’ve talked about what she can do to feel better. First, snuggle Hamburger (who, for those who don't know, is a French Bulldog Beanie Baby and my daughter's most faithful companion). But then? She can find a friend. Hug a friend. Play with a friend. It’s so straightforward. So lovely. She’ll just shy of three years old, and she already knows that social connection is part of comfort. That people—not just caregivers, but peers—can support her when she’s having a hard time.

It gives me pause.

Because then I think about myself. My 33-year-old self.

And I wonder…

Who do I turn to when I’m sad?

Who’s on my list of eight kind people who always show up for me?

Who’s my “hug a friend” person?

The truth is...I don’t always have an answer that comes easily. And honestly, saying “I don’t have friends”—or even just saying “I feel lonely”—feels almost taboo. It’s embarrassing, right? There’s something about admitting that as an adult that brings me straight back to the trauma of the ninth-grade lunchroom. That desperate scan for somewhere to sit or wondering if today will be the day your "friends" decide there isn't enough room at the table. That hollow feeling of maybe not being wanted.

But really—it's not that I don’t have friends. It’s that friendship now looks so, so different.

The Weird, Quiet Truth of Adult Loneliness

Here’s the part that feels hard to say out loud: I’m lonely.

Not all the time. Not in a “nobody loves me” way. But in a quiet, aching, low-grade kind of way—the kind that creeps in when life slows down for a second and you realize…wow, I’m kind of going through this alone.

It’s a weird thing to admit, especially when you’re surrounded by people. I have coworkers. I have my husband. I have my daughter. I have smattering of group texts, unread DMs, and probably 73 texts I forgot to respond to. My parents live 7 minutes straight down the road, with one right turn and one left turn. My sister and brother-in-law only live 2 minutes and 43 seconds from our driveway to their driveway—we've timed it. But sometimes it's not the same as that deep, soul-nourishing friendship. It's not the same as having someone you can call crying and say, “I don’t even know what’s wrong, but can you get over here?”

I think what makes adult loneliness especially painful is how hidden it is. No one talks about it. There’s no social script for saying, “Hey, I’m 33 and I'm really lonely. How do I make friends?”

We assume everyone else is busy having wine nights with their besties or taking group vacations or planning birthday parties with 18 people invited. We look at Instagram stories and think, “Oh, they have their people.” And we don’t question that maybe—just maybe—they are feeling the same ache we are.

There’s this shame baked into adult loneliness. Like we must have done something wrong. Like if we were more fun, more outgoing, more available, more likable, we’d have the friend group we crave.

But I don't think life is ever that simple. And neither is friendship.

So, instead of saying we’re lonely, we say we’re too tired.

We say we’re just in a busy season.

We say we’re introverts.

We joke that our therapist is our best friend.

Because admitting that we want connection—and that we’re not sure how to find it—is vulnerable in a way that feels almost too exposing to speak out loud.

Why Adult Friendships Are So Hard

So, why is it so hard?

Like…really. Why does something that used to be second nature—like breathing, like snack time—now feel like a mountain you need to mentally prepare to climb?

I’ve thought a lot about this. And I think it’s a mix of things that sneak up on us. Not all at once, but over time—they start to build walls between us and connection. Here are a few I’ve noticed:

1. Time. Or rather, the complete lack of it.

I know I joked before, but we really are so busy. Work, kids, marriage, more work, house stuff, exercise, family obligations, errands, the occasional attempt at self-care…it all adds up. We barely have enough time to sit down and breathe, let alone coordinate a brunch that works for five different people’s schedules.

Honestly, we’re constantly choosing between a nap and a phone call.

And let’s be real—sometimes the nap wins. (The nap always wins).

2. The emotional labor of vulnerability.

Remember in middle school when friendship meant sharing who you had a crush on and complaining about math class? That was the whole game. Now, friendship means maybe talking about your marriage. Your job. Your mental health. Your parenting struggles. Your finances. Your identity. Your self-worth. Woah.

That’s not light stuff. That's stuff you usually have to pay for someone to listen to. That’s deep. And deep means vulnerable. And vulnerable means scary.

3. We’re scared.

Scared of judgment.

Scared of being too much.

Scared of being not enough.

Scared of being the only one who’s struggling.

What if I open up and they think I’m weak?

What if I say something weird and they disappear?

It’s easier to keep it casual. To send a GIF and pretend we’re fine.

Because by this point in life, we’ve already felt the sting of rejection. We’ve been left out. Ghosted. Misunderstood. Dismissed. We’ve made ourselves small in relationships before, or we’ve been brave and gotten hurt.

So of course we don’t want to do anything that might invite that pain again. We know how much it can hurt—and we’ve learned to protect ourselves from it. But sometimes in that protection, we build walls so thick that even the good stuff can’t get in. And we don’t even realize it until we’re on the other side of another quiet night thinking, I wish I had someone to talk to about this.

4. We’re used to being alone.

This one hits.

Maybe we've spent so much time not asking for help, not reaching out, not leaning on anyone…that it starts to feel easier that way. More comfortable. We convince ourselves we like the silence. That solitude is strength.

And sometimes it is.

But sometimes, it’s just loneliness dressed up in self-sufficiency.

5. We have fewer opportunities.

We don’t have built-in social systems anymore. No dorms. No classes. No sports teams or extracurricular activities. No hallway hangouts or late-night food runs. Unless you actively put yourself out there, your paths don’t just cross with new people anymore. It takes real effort. And most of us don’t have the energy.

So we sit in the gap.

Wanting connection.

Wishing for ease.

And stuck somewhere between tired and unsure of how to begin again.

The Cruelty of Loneliness

Loneliness can be a slow burn.

It doesn’t always hit you all at once—sometimes it shows up in the tiny cracks of your day.

You realize you don’t know who to text when something really big happens.

Or something really bad.

Or something that isn’t even that big or bad—just something that feels like it deserves to be shared.

And it’s not always about the absence of people. It’s the absence of ease.

The comfort of being known.

The relief of not having to explain yourself.

The quiet magic of someone reaching out without you asking—just because they thought of you.

The hardest part about loneliness in adulthood is how much effort it takes to fix it. And the brutal irony?

You ended up lonely because you didn’t have the energy or time or courage to pour into relationships in the first place—and now you have to pour even more to dig your way out.

That’s the trap.

You’re tired.

You’re overwhelmed.

You’re unsure of how to start.

You tell yourself you’ll try again when you feel better…but the loneliness is part of what’s keeping you stuck.

And then there’s the shame. The part that says, "You did this to yourself".

You were flaky. You were busy. You stopped replying. You canceled plans too many times.

You convinced yourself you liked being alone.

You waited for someone else to initiate.

And now you’re here.

It’s isolating. And it feels like no one else is talking about it.

And so here we are on the Candid Counselor.

Because I wonder if more of us are in this place than we realize.

Not without friends—but without connection. Without depth. Without support that feels safe and mutual and consistent.

And I don’t think it’s something we’re meant to just “power through.”

The Guilt of Having Friends, But Still Feeling Lonely

So here is the thing—I do have friends.

I do have people I love—deeply.

People who I keep up with.

People who have walked with me through hard seasons, who know my history, who have shown up for me in huge ways.

If you read through my texts, it’s obvious. I confide in them. I depend on them. I laugh with them. I love them to the ends of the earth.

So if this is true for you too, why do we still feel lonely sometimes?

It’s the weird guilt sandwich that no one warns you about.

I feel lonely…but I have my people…am I just ungrateful?

But here’s what I’m starting to believe: we can have wonderful friendships and still feel something missing.

Because maybe what’s missing isn’t a person—it’s the timing and a type of connection.

A rhythm. A closeness. An availability. A season of life that allowed for more togetherness than we have now.

Sometimes it’s about proximity—like when I moved away from my college friends, and then even farther away again when I came to Wisconsin in 2017. I miss the ease of those relationships. The drop-ins. The literal sharing of space. The comfort of knowing someone was just down the hall if we needed each other.

Other times, it’s about a stage of life—I had a baby in 2022, and that changed everything. Time, energy, identity, priorities. The things I needed from friends shifted—and not everyone shifted with me.

Sometimes it’s about the way we split ourselves in two.

We don’t want to burden the people we love.

We don’t want to overshare.

We think maybe this struggle—this sadness, this fear, this identity crisis—is too much for even our closest people.

So we hold it in.

We smile.

We say, “I’m good!”

And we feel lonely anyway.

For me, there’s also the tricky thing of having your sister be your best friend (hi, Lauren). I joke about it, but it’s true—and also complicated. Because while it’s beautiful to have a sibling you love that much, she didn’t sign up to be my best friend. She signed up to be my older sister. And those two roles don’t always blend easily. We do a really nice job most days, but sometimes we also argue like...sisters.

So no—this post isn’t me overlooking any of the amazing friends I have. It’s naming the truth that even with great friendships, there can still be a part of all of us in adulthood that feels a confusing pang of loneliness.

What If the Real Key Is Flexibility?

Somewhere in the midst of this spiral—questioning why friendship feels so hard and wondering what I’m doing wrong—I was (once again) listening to Mel Robbins. She was talking about adult friendships, and she described the best kind of friendship in a way that I really loved.

She said the best friendships are flexible.

Not needy. Not rigid. Not perfect. But flexible.

She talked about how the best friendships create room for growth—yours and theirs. That they’re built around energy, passion, mutual support, and what you both have to give in the season you’re in. That they come and go with life’s changing patterns and still feel safe and solid.

And something about that clicked.

Because yes.

That’s what I want.

That’s what I have had in moments—and what I think I’m craving now.

We grow.

We move.

We learn.

We become parents.

We stop being the friend who’s always available to talk on the phone during our commute, because now there’s a toddler screaming in the backseat asking for fruit snacks.

We change. And our friendships have to change too—or they’ll break under the pressure of staying the same.

I stopped drinking alcohol in 2023. It wasn’t anything dramatic—I just lost interest. But it changed my rhythm. Socializing looks a little different now.

I still want to go places. I still want to be invited.

But I also don’t always want social activities to revolve around alcohol.

I want options. I want intention. I want people who get that this version of me might do things differently.

That’s what flexible friendship offers.

When I think about my closest friends from college, I still feel a physical ache sometimes. I miss the days when we lived a hallway away from each other and could crawl into each other’s beds when life felt heavy. We could talk for hours. Sit in silence. Share everything.

Now, I’m lucky if I see them once every two years. And when I do, it’s like no time has passed—because we’ve given each other that space. That grace. That flexibility. And I love you guys for that—so, so much.

Because here’s what I really think friendship is about: It’s a mutual exchange of supportive energy—not always in the same moment, not always evenly, but mutual over time.

Sometimes one friend is in crisis and the other is showing up with everything they’ve got. Sometimes that flips. That doesn’t mean the friendship isn’t mutual—it means it’s human. What matters is that, when you zoom out and look across the timeline of the relationship, you can say: We support each other. We care. We show up for each other, in the ways we are each able to at this time in our lives.

And that word—supportive—it can mean a lot of different things.

Support doesn’t have to be deep heart-to-hearts every week.

It can be knowing someone sees you for who you are—and who you believe yourself to be. It’s someone who gets your values. Who knows where you’re headed and roots for you, even if they’re not walking next to you every step of the way.

Support might look like coming over to fold laundry and talk about nothing, cheering you on while you chase something scary or while you chase your dreams, sending GIFS when they know words won’t help, being your running/walking partner or your safe place to vent, helping you grow—or letting you rest.

It doesn’t always look like the movies. But when you feel it, you know. That’s the kind of friend I hope to be. It’s not about always being the same. It’s about knowing that just because you’re in different seasons doesn’t mean you’re on different teams.

Where Do We Go From Here?

I don’t have a neat, five-step solution for how to make friends as an adult.

I wish I did. I wish it were as easy as it is for my daughter—to just walk up to someone with Hamburger in hand and say, “Wanna build something with me?”

But it’s not. Not for me, and probably not for you either.

What I do know is this:

We’re allowed to name the ache.

We’re allowed to miss what we used to have.

We’re allowed to want simplicity.

And maybe we’re also allowed to change the rules a little.

To let friendship look different than it used to.

To lean into flexibility.

To give ourselves—and our people—a little more grace.

To not keeping score of who texted last and start thinking about how we want to show up, not how often.

To admit when we’re lonely and be brave enough to say, “Hey…I miss you.”

Maybe it starts with checking in on that friend you’ve been meaning to reach out to.

Or saying yes to that awkward invite.

Or inviting someone to go for a walk instead of drinks.

Or even just sending this post to someone with a “this made me think of us.”

And if you’re feeling lonely right now, I’m sending you the biggest hug.

If we were back in a ninth-grade lunchroom? I would do things differently—you could come sit with me.