by Amy Meyers | Apr 28, 2026 | Recent Posts
“The hours we spend with ourselves are the foundation of every true friendship; solitude is not absence, but preparation.” – May Sarton
We are living in a culture of loneliness. In fact, it is now referred to as the epidemic of loneliness experienced by approximately 80% of Americans. The number is staggering. Apparently, this began in the 2010’s and was certainly exacerbated by the isolation created by COVID-19. Even our Surgeon General has warned that loneliness can affect physical, mental and societal health. Gen Z is considered the loneliest of generations due to an increased reliance on social media. I deplore social media in some respects due to its propensity for competition for a better life, the proclivity for dis/misinformation, online bullying, and the breeding of an inability to communicate and connect. But that’s probably another blog. However, the response to loneliness seems to be an immersion in social media which ironically creates a false sense of kinship while avoiding true connection or as an attempt to resolve the feeling of loneliness. Another result of the access to social media either creates or rectifies an inability to be alone with oneself. The ability to be with one’s own company proves challenging, whether it’s in a doctor’s waiting room, public transportation, having a meal (sometimes even when with another person) or being at home. Just pick up your phone.
I consider myself to have the freedom to be alone and range from enjoying it, soliciting it, embracing it, or on some days, tolerating it. How about you? Do you seek it out? Do you actively enjoy it or simply accept it? Does it make you depressed? Do you need to be active most of the time? Do you want to be engaged with others most of the time? Perhaps there is a difference as to when it feels like a choice vs. imposed (ie: no one is available). When the latter occurs, I work towards accepting it and leaning into it.
One-night last week I was pleasantly aware of just how much I was enjoying some alone time in a way I may not have experienced before. What created this, I wondered? I craved it. After an extremely busy, non-stop period of work and personal obligations which rendered me both exhausted and surrounded by people all the time, I decided to take the East River ferry in Manhattan during daylight and return from the seaport at nighttime with city lights abound. The breeze on the ferry was delightful. I took a walk along the river and found myself seated on a wooden lounge chair, next to a couple. Only they didn’t seem like a couple. The woman had on an engagement ring, though the vibe between them was undetectable; it could have been a first date, a deep friendship, a looming marriage – somehow I couldn’t capture it. I was having fun trying to figure it out. They were happy to engage in conversation with me when I lightheartedly asked them about the nature of their relationship. Bold? Perhaps. Intrusive? Maybe. But I tend to have a style that works, she said in defense. I pride myself on my ability as a therapist to read people well, but something was amiss. Was it me? Was it them? It turned out that they were good friends who were completing their final semester of their MBA. We engaged in conversation and after a short while, the man left to attend a social event. The woman and I talked easily for another two hours. She was half my age, but we had much in common: the same humor, an immediate comfort, and an ease with reflection and sharing personal thoughts with depth.
Was I truly alone that night? I took a one-hour ferry ride each way. I sat by myself for a short while before engaging. But perhaps the “moral” of the story is 1)Being confident about being alone makes the time more enjoyable; 2) Enjoying one’s own company is essential to meeting others (how can others like us if we don’t like ourselves? If we’re anxious or sad, what are we projecting to others? If your internal voice is not kind, start replacing your voice with the kinder voice of others; 3) Being confident unconsciously attracts others. We all know the idea that we get what we put out. If we choose to remain anonymous, we will remain alone (whether at that moment in time, or as a general state); 4) Being alone allows opportunity. If I were with someone I knew, would I have made the effort to engage with someone else; someone new?
What steps can you take to address loneliness?
- Know when you’re ready to “put yourself out there”
- Take a risk: reach out to someone you would like to spend time with but hasn’t called you.
- This takes accepting vulnerability.
- Say yes to invites even if you’re not in the mood.
- Limit social media use.
- Consider what you like about yourself; if you’re stuck, ask friends.
- Find an organization or group with whom you have a shared interest.
- Join a support group.
If you’re really feeling stuck, have difficulty mobilizing towards efforts that may shift your feelings, and potential situation, reach out to a mental health professional. Loneliness makes people feel that they are flawed; and there is a lot of shame attached to it. That’s social media; that’s our society. You are NOT inadequate. You’re not a failure. You’re not unlikeable. And you’re certainly not alone in your loneliness (remember loneliness is experienced by 80% of Americans!). If you feel alone in your feeling of loneliness, consider that others may just be very good at concealing it, maybe even overcompensating by posting on social media. Work on shifting your perception of yourself. Take charge. Be tender to yourself. And know that you deserve to feel better.
Maria’s Response to “On Loneliness”
Amy’s recent blog on loneliness brought up more for me than I expected. Not in a dramatic way — more like a quiet recognition. A familiar tension I’ve been carrying lately without fully naming: the push and pull between craving connection and wanting to be alone.
For weeks now, I’ve felt this growing urge to connect. To be around people. To have conversations that don’t feel rushed or shallow. And I’ve been putting in the effort. I’ve been reaching out, saying yes, showing up. But the more I try, the more drained I feel. It’s confusing — doing the very thing I say I want, and still feeling like I need to retreat afterward. Like I’m overextending just to meet the baseline of connection.
And I think what I’m realizing is… connection takes energy. It’s not effortless, even when it’s good. And when you’ve spent years giving — to friends, to partners, to work, to family — you start to feel that cost more acutely. You become more careful. You start asking yourself: how do I keep showing up for others without disappearing in the process?
Over time, I’ve learned how to protect my peace. Not in a walled-off, “never let anyone in” kind of way — more like an internal recalibration. I know what it feels like to be around people and still feel lonely. I know what it feels like to keep giving until there’s nothing left. And now, I’m a little more selective. I listen for how I feel around people — if I’m energized or exhausted after. That tells me a lot.
Recently, I spent the day at the beach with a friend. It was simple — we swam, ate, talked, did nothing, did everything. And suddenly it was hours later. I didn’t check my phone once. I didn’t feel like I had to. I felt safe, present, unguarded. And it made me realize how rare that feeling has become.
We talked about how certain relationships — friendships, dating, family — have taken a toll. About how some people are takers, knowingly or not. And how we’ve both had to learn, sometimes painfully, to notice when we’re giving too much. At one point, I shared something I’d once heard: that life is like riding a train — people get on and off at different stops, but you’re searching for the ones who stay with you to your destination. It’s not always about who leaves, but about learning not to chase after the ones who weren’t meant to stay.
Amy’s reflections made me think about how we often glorify solitude — and I do think there’s power in being alone, in liking your own company. I’ve worked hard to get to that place. But sometimes I wonder… When does solitude become self-protection? When does it shift from restorative to isolating? And how do we know the difference?
That’s the space I’m in right now. Wanting connection, needing solitude. Trying not to swing too far in either direction. Still learning how to give without overgiving. Still learning that not every quiet spell is loneliness — and not every connection is worth the cost.
So if you’re in that in-between space too — not quite isolated, but not deeply connected either — I hope you know you’re not doing it wrong. It just means you’re being careful with your energy. It means you’ve probably been through enough to know what it feels like to be emptied out, and you’re trying not to let that happen again.
by Maria Sosa | Apr 26, 2026 | Recent Posts
“We must be willing to let go of the life we planned, so as to have the life that is waiting for us.” – Joseph Campbell
Looking back to when I first started college, I remember the constant pressure I put on myself to have everything figured out. I had this very specific vision of who I wanted to be and what my life should look like. I thought that if I could just stick to the plan, control all the variables, then everything would fall into place.
But as is often the case, life had other plans.
Nothing went exactly the way I imagined it would. And at first, that terrified me. The unknown felt like failure. Like I had somehow lost control. I struggled — still do, if I’m honest — with sitting in the grey space, the in-between, where things are unfolding but still unclear.
That discomfort with uncertainty has been one of my biggest personal challenges. There’s something deeply unsettling about not knowing what’s next. It makes us feel exposed, unanchored. And yet, I’ve started to see that this space — the unknown — is where most of life happens.
Why We Fear the Unknown
Fear of the unknown is deeply human. It’s wired into us — a survival instinct rooted in our need for safety and control. When we don’t know what’s coming, our minds often rush to worst-case scenarios. We imagine the risks, the disappointments, the things that might break us.
We also grow up in a world that teaches us to value clarity, direction, and progress. We’re taught to make plans, follow through, and stay ahead. So when the path suddenly shifts, or disappears altogether, it can feel like we’ve somehow fallen behind — or failed.
And yet, I’ve realized that the discomfort isn’t always a sign that something is wrong. Sometimes it’s a sign that something is shifting.
Soothing Through Uncertainty
When life throws curveballs, I’ve had to learn how to self-soothe — how to calm the internal panic and meet myself with patience.
Sometimes, this looks like taking a step back. Turning off the noise. Going for a walk. Taking a breath. Reminding myself that just because I don’t have the answers right now doesn’t mean I never will.
Other times, it’s about leaning into small acts of trust. Trusting that I’ve made it through uncertainty before. Trusting that even if I can’t see the full picture, I can still take the next step. Trusting that I don’t have to have it all figured out in order to be OK.
What Helps Me Now
I’ve learned (and am still learning) to make peace with the fact that control is often an illusion. I can plan, prepare, and hope — but at some point, I have to release the grip.
Instead of forcing clarity, I’ve started to ask different questions:
What can I actually control in this moment?
What would it look like to be kind to myself right now?
What’s the smallest next step I can take?
And more importantly: What do I need to feel safe within myself, even if nothing around me feels certain?
Alma’s Response to “Being OK with the Unknown”
Reading this felt like a deep breath I didn’t know I needed.
I really felt your words, especially the part about how we’re conditioned to believe that uncertainty automatically equals failure. That hit. I’ve definitely been in that place where the unknown didn’t just feel uncomfortable, it felt unbearable. I think it was because sometimes the unknown feels like proof that I am doing something wrong, or not trying hard enough, or falling behind everyone else who seemingly has their life all figured out (side note: no one has life figured out, no matter how well adjusted they seem).
I think that’s what makes uncertainty so sneaky. It doesn’t just shake our plans—it targets our self-worth. It makes us question our choices, our timing, even our identity because it compares us to others. And like you said, this is not just a personal fear we’re all destined to face, it’s been reinforced through societal norms. We’re raised to idolize and desire control. To pick a lane early and stay in it. To be “on track.” To follow your dreams and everything will work itself out. But life… rarely works like that.
What I love about your post is the shift in how you’re framing it—not as something to fear, but as something to be with. Something to expose yourself to, even if it still makes you uneasy. That in-between space you describe—the gray area—is so real, and so uncomfortable, but also strangely human.
Your section on soothing really stood out to me. Particularly when you said “just because I don’t have the answers right now doesn’t mean I never will.” That sentence alone was a comfort and very much-needed reminder. There’s so much pressure to know, to be sure, to feel settled. But sometimes the most important thing we can do for ourselves is to stay curious, even when it would be easier to shut down and force ourselves to come to some conclusion.
I also appreciated the way you wrote about trust—not the big, abstract kind, but the small, practiced kind. Trusting that we’ve made it through before. I like to think of this trust as the trust in taking that one next step, even when you can’t see the entirety of the staircase. That’s something I’ve been trying to work on too.
Thank you for putting words to something so many of us feel but rarely admit. There’s a kind of quiet courage in choosing not to force certainty; In choosing to stay soft in the unknown. And your reflection reminded me that we don’t need to wait until we “figure it all out” to be okay. Sometimes, okay just means showing up anyway—with shaky hands and an open mind.
by Alma Calderón | Apr 22, 2026 | Recent Posts
“If you feel pain, you are alive. If you feel other people’s pain, you are a human being.” – Leo Tolstoy
There’s something I’ve been sitting with lately that feels heavy, and I imagine I’m not the only one. As social workers (or future social workers), we’re trained to hold space for other people’s pain, but sometimes, we forget to mention how deeply jarring it can be when clients’ stories mirror your own. Alternatively, it can also look like when the issues you’re helping them navigate are the same ones you’re facing in your own life. I’m not yet a professional social worker. I’m still getting things together—learning policies, ethics, frameworks. Nevertheless, what no textbook can prepare me for is the emotional whiplash of holding someone’s trauma in one hand while your own sits unresolved in the other.
For me, that trauma is heightened due to the recent issues in the United States deeply tied to immigration and xenophobia. I work with immigrant clients, nearly all of whom are Latinx. I tell myself that their stories of fear, displacement, separation, racism, xenophobia, and survival should not feel this personal—and yet, they do. As a Latina woman, I don’t just listen to their stories; I feel them as if I have lived them. I see my family. I see my friends. I see myself. And in recent months, with the increase in deportations and the intensifying dehumanizing narrative in the name of “border security,” these conversations feel like they’re personal attacks.
There are days I leave work and go home just to talk about the same topics again with my mother and father over dinner—except this time, it’s not with a client. It’s personal. My loved ones are scared. My loved ones are suffering. And when I walk into work the next day, I find myself needing time before opening the door to meet with clients who are holding that same fear.
I’ve been taught about countertransference—how our personal history can sneak into the therapeutic space. And I know transference is a thing, too—how clients can project onto us, often without realizing it. But I’m not sure what to call it when it goes both ways. When a client reminds you of someone you love or of a story you just swear is taken straight from your life. When you find yourself fighting away sadness because you’re not just empathizing with the other person—you’re reliving. What do you do when a client’s story activates something in you that hasn’t healed yet?
I find myself questioning: Am I being “too much” if I feel so strongly? Am I fit for social work if I sometimes leave work rattled? I’ve even caught myself feeling shame—like I’m doing something wrong by being emotional. But the truth is, I’m human. And social work never asked me to be anything else. It only asked me to be aware of my reactions and to care enough to explore them.
I still think the line is blurry. When the world feels unsafe for people like me—and I don’t just mean the “people I serve”—where does the work end, and where do I begin? I’m starting to realize that the answer isn’t to draw a clear boundary between “self” and “social worker,” but rather to practice an ongoing self-attunement.
What I mean is this: I’ve been trying to notice when that barbed wire feeling in my throat occurs during sessions. When my shoulders rise. When my voice falters. I’m learning to name it. “I feel overwhelmed,” I might think. Or “This reminds me of people I love.” I don’t say it out loud during work, but acknowledging it to myself helps me stay grounded.
And outside of work? That’s the other half of social work—how do I care for myself when my community is hurting? When my people are hurting? To be transparent, I don’t have a complete answer. I’m still figuring it out. But here are a few things I’ve been practicing:
Unplugging from the news when it’s too much. I want to stay informed. I am committed to staying informed. But doomscrolling myself into panic or numbness doesn’t help anyone—not my clients, not my family, not me.
Letting myself feel without judgment. I’m allowed to grieve. To be angry. To be scared. I don’t need to be emotionless to help others. I need to be honest, and that starts with myself first.
Reaching out to social work students/professionals who get it. Sometimes, just hearing “me too” or “I feel similarly” from someone else in the field reminds me they’re human—as am I.
Making space for joy. This might sound strange in a blog about personal issues and emotional overload. However, being joyful is resistance and allows us to fight against injustice with a clearer mind.
Seeking supervision when something sticks. A major lesson I learned is that not everything needs to be processed alone. Sometimes, supervision isn’t just about learning how to “handle” clients—it’s also about mutual support and comradery.
I need to re-emphasize that there are no easy answers here. I’m not writing this blog as a “5 Steps to Save Yourself from Client Pain” checklist. I’m writing because maybe you’ve felt this too—especially if you share an identity, a background, or a trauma with the people you serve.
Maybe you’re also wondering how to separate your work from your life when the issues aren’t just concepts—they’re personal, persistent, and painful.
Maybe you’re also holding it all, the way so many of us do—quietly because it feels too complicated to explain. Or because you feel ashamed you’re struggling when you’re “supposed” to help people when they’re struggling.
Here’s what I’m starting to believe:
This work will keep asking us to show up—with our hearts, our stories, our boundaries, and our breath. But we are not machines. We are not containers for other people’s pain. We can’t just swallow the pain and completely dissolve it. We are human. And that humanness? It’s a gift.
So if you, like me, feel you’re in the thick of it right now—if you’re holding a pain that doesn’t just belong to your clients but to your family, your community, your own childhood—know that you are seen. I’m with you.
