The Silence Between Us
A Note: This piece began with a line I read from Carl Jung, which surfaced something I hadn’t yet put into words: “Loneliness does not come from having no people around you, but from being unable to communicate the things that seem important to you.” Based on my reading in Stoicism, it seemed to fit with the thoughts of some of the Stoics.
I’ve been thinking about what it means to remain engaged, to keep doing meaningful work, and still feel a growing distance from close friendships. Some of this may have begun during the pandemic, but it seems a bit more acute for me lately. This is a quiet reflection on that kind of loneliness, not isolation exactly, but a thinning of connection. A longing for the kind of relationships where nothing important has to be explained.
The Silence Between Us
Some friendships end with a disagreement. Others disappear without a single argument. Perhaps it’s nothing more than a few declined invitations, an empty seat at the table, and a quiet agreement to stop asking. Sometimes we don’t even realize it’s happening. We make small choices that become habits. We stay home. We let others drift. And then, one day, we can’t remember the last time we laughed with someone who truly knows us.
Carl Jung wrote, “Loneliness does not come from having no people around you, but from being unable to communicate the things that seem important to you.” It’s not always about being cut off or forgotten. Sometimes it’s just a quiet drift. A distance that grows when we no longer have space to say what we mean, or when the people we used to share with feel a little further away than before. We’re still in the world, still working, still contributing, but not quite in touch.
This isn’t always the result of a single moment. Often, it’s more gradual. You step back a little, then a little more. Conversations that used to come naturally now seem a little harder to begin. Nothing’s broken. Just quieter than it used to be. I wrote about this back in 2013 in an essay called “The Last Great Day,” after hearing a brief remark on an NPR program while running an errand. “You don’t know when the last time of something happening is. You don’t know what the last great day you’ll spend with your best friend is. You’ll just know when you’ve never had that day again.”
The Stoics didn’t speak of loneliness the way we do, but they understood disconnection. They wrote about exile, about the loss of shared understanding, about keeping their own thoughts in order when those around them misunderstood or misjudged them. Marcus Aurelius wrote, “Nowhere you can go is more peaceful, more free of interruptions, than your own soul.” That was a reminder, not a retreat. A way of holding steady when the outward connections loosen.
Still, we’re not meant to live entirely in our own heads. Even the most composed person needs a place to speak freely, a companion who knows the history behind the pauses, someone who doesn’t need the whole backstory. That kind of trust takes time, and when it fades, something essential goes quiet with it.
There are seasons when those relationships slip out of reach. One person retreats. The other adapts. Maybe nothing is said aloud, but there is a shift. So you keep things light, or stop reaching out.
At first, it doesn’t seem like a loss, just “different.” You’re still active, still doing work that matters. You attend meetings, serve on committees, and interact with people. But underneath the routine, there’s a quiet recognition that what’s missing isn’t conversation. It’s closeness.
Journaling can be a way to stay connected. It wasn’t sentimental for the Stoics. It was a way to trace the outlines of their lives when the external structure felt unstable. When you feel uncomfortable expressing your thoughts, writing them down affirms they still matter. It reminds us that our inner life deserves attention.
Still, even the best work and deepest self-reflection can’t fully replace relationships. There’s a difference between being connected to a mission and being connected to a person. You can be deeply involved and still feel alone if there’s no one with whom to share the parts that don’t fit neatly into a project or a meeting. The personal joy. The private sorrow. The thing that happened today that made you laugh but wouldn’t make sense to a stranger.
Jung’s insight lives in that gap between being present and being known. It’s not the absence of people that isolates us, but the absence of a place to speak freely about the things that matter most.
And yet, even in that space, not everything is lost. The desire for connection is itself a signal. It means something in you remains soft, available, unclosed. A part that still believes in the value of closeness. Maybe it’s been quiet for a while. Maybe you’ve stopped reaching out. But the desire itself is still there.
Not every relationship can or should be restored. Some distance is part of growth. But often, there’s someone whose absence you still feel. Someone you want to text, or write, or walk with again, without needing to explain why it’s been so long. And sometimes, even sitting in a coffee shop full of strangers reminds you that you haven’t lost the ability to be around people. Only the habit of connecting more deeply.
The Stoics taught that our well-being depends not on how others respond to us, but on how we respond to the world. However, that doesn’t mean we should close ourselves off. It means living in a way that honors both reason and relationship. We find strength in our solitude and healing in the courage to reconnect.
Disconnection doesn’t mean something is broken beyond repair. It just means we’ve been quiet longer than we meant to. The first word back doesn’t have to be profound. It just has to be real.
We’re not as far away as we sometimes feel. The capacity for closeness, for shared joy, for honest companionship hasn’t vanished. It’s waiting, quietly, just beyond the silence.
