The Opposite of Loneliness: How travel transforms the experience of solitude and staying home.
By Ellen Barone
Thirty-seven days into self-isolation, I asked my husband Hank: “Are you lonely?”
“Lonely?” He repeated without answering. “What makes you ask?”
After 29 years together, Hank has become accustomed to my habit of asking probing and personal questions out of the blue. He has also discerned that, often, lurking behind such a question is a hefty dose of fermented anxiety. Or perhaps, a scheme brewing. Either way, he’s learned to proceed with caution.
On this particular day, I had just returned from a long walk during which I’d listened to a podcast interview with Dr. Vivek Murthy, former US Surgeon General, about his book, Together: Why Social Connection Holds the Key to Better Health, Higher Performance, and Greater Happiness.
In the interview, I explained to Hank, Dr. Murthy reported that the impact of social isolation and loneliness on longevity equals that of smoking 15 cigarettes a day and exceeds the risks associated with obesity, excessive alcohol consumption, and lack of exercise.
What’s more, I added, according to a new report from the National Academies of Sciences, Engineering, and Medicine, social isolation is linked to a 50 percent increased risk of dementia, a 29 percent increased risk of heart disease, and a 32 percent increased risk of stroke.
These facts hit hard given that Hank and I, as much of the world’s population, are physical-distancing and staying home to help prevent the spread of the novel coronavirus COVID-19. Would that, I worried, equate to increased loneliness? And, in turn, a fate as deadly as the virus?
I thought about my 86-year-old mother, who was alone in a lockdown at a retirement community and restricted from the book club, afternoon games, and communal meals that had become a vital source of social connection after my dad‘s death.
I thought about the panic attack a young single friend had experienced after losing her job and income and the ability to travel home to the safety and support of her family.
That morning, like many these days, we’d heard from various friends across the globe—in Peru and Portugal, Mexico and Australia, along with my sister in North Carolina, and neighbors in New Mexico, where we are sheltering in place. Are you okay? How bad is it there? How can we help?
Neither fleeting nor frivolous, I find myself looking forward to these virtual conversations with people from different places and periods, and roles. And what I see so clearly in isolation is that these shared experiences and concerns, these global relationships, fill an essential space in me. Hank and I are solitary souls, we enjoy our own company, silence and stillness, but we crave these exchanges and connections with others because our lives are richer for it.
Not too long ago, a German friend, Ingrid, who I’d been corresponding with almost daily for the past year while she’d battled stomach cancer, died. I still catch myself ready to send her a photo or share a new Audible book or eagerly awaiting the ping of a WhatsApp message from her. Then, I remember, with a heavy heart, that she’s gone.
We first met Ingrid eight years ago in Peru, where she was living, and, as with so many we met in our travels, we’d enjoyed a friendship that survived continents and languages. When she returned to Germany for health care, we were in Portugal, but it always seemed that she was as nearby as she’d been when we lived in Cusco, and she was in her house in the Sacred Valley, about an hour’s drive away.
Earlier that day, I’d responded to a Facebook comment from a Scottish friend I’d met three decades ago when I’d lived for a year in Scotland. And, I’d updated the website of a Santa Fe friend who’d given me my first break as a professional photographer in 1998.
All this came pouring out in reply to Hank’s question.
“Is that all?” He asked, his eyes meeting mine with both concern and amusement.
By postponing his response, I suddenly perceived he’d caused me, gently and lovingly, to journey through my own question.
“No,” he finally answered. “I am not lonely. I have you. We have each other. And you have everyone else,” he teased. “That’s enough. That will always be enough.”
It has taken a lifetime of travel and, more recently, homelessness to teach me the wisdom of his perspective.
For the past nine years, we have lived as nomads, temporarily inhabiting different towns and houses and countries across Latin America and Europe for extended periods. Abroad, we are foreigners. Outsiders. Immigrants. During this time, I have been humbled by the ancestors who paid the price for our freedom of movement and felt gratitude for the openness of the cultures that have welcomed us. This way of life has inspired us to let go of the urge to call one place home. Let go of the belief that we need roots to form meaningful relationships or plans beyond our next visa expiration.
And in place of that, we found what we never expected—the opposite of loneliness—friendship.
That’s what being unmoored has revealed: A need to reach out, to ask questions, to learn a new language and way of life. The chance to meet people with whom we might never engage in a familiar place where we already know how life works—an opportunity to appreciate a friendly smile or generous offer of assistance.
In each place, there has been at least one person who made us feel at home. One person who opened their home and friendships and family to two strangers. Someone we carry in our hearts long after we’ve said goodbye. A cherished friend we now look forward to hearing from who takes us, in times of pandemic and periods of calm, beyond the routines and concerns of our own lives and into the shared celebrations and challenges of theirs.
And here’s the thing: Making that connection becomes more natural the more we do it. I have come to realize that a friend doesn’t have to be someone who has known me forever or a neighbor who looks and thinks and sounds just like me. And the gift I have given myself is to be more ease with myself and others.
Being a nomad hasn’t made me more alone or less of a human being. It’s made me a stronger and more connected one.
Ellen Barone is an American writer, wanderer and co-founder of YourLifeIsATrip.com. She is currently at work on her first book I Could Live Here.
