At the age of eighteen, I made the decision to leave my hometown, viewing it as a straightforward step towards a promising future. I was set to attend college in Pune, a move typical for those whose aspirations outgrow their local surroundings. However, I was unaware that this choice would initiate a prolonged farewell, spanning years and various locations, ultimately altering my identity in substantial ways.
A decade has passed since that pivotal moment. I currently reside in Delhi, while my parents remain in Odisha. Throughout this period, I have never spent more than a month living at home with them, and each visit seems to diminish in duration and intensity, overshadowed by the impending return flight. Here, I have created a tangible life complete with a career and a sense of independence. Yet, this comes at a price, which I only began to acknowledge recently during a visit with my parents.
In your late twenties, feelings of loneliness can be subtle and often manifest around the periphery of an otherwise fulfilling day. It hits in moments like arriving home after receiving good news, only to realize there is no one to share it with. It is the experience of dining alone in front of a laptop, where silence can feel overwhelming, or requiring background noise to drift into sleep. Celebrating birthdays via a WhatsApp call, with loved ones waving from a small screen, has become the norm.
Although I have friends and colleagues, and my calendar is filled with activities, the sentiment of “I have friends, but no one to truly depend on” emerged in nearly every discussion I had for this article.
Maushmi Chawda, a 28-year-old public relations executive who relocated from Kolkata to Mumbai four years ago, articulated her feelings of loneliness as the need to turn on the television the moment she sits down to eat, filling the emptiness where conversations used to thrive. She remarked to indianexpress.com, “My notebook knows the version of me that Mumbai never sees.”
Anubha Sharma, a thirty-something founder and director who has lived in Mumbai for eight years, captured the essence of this experience: “It’s the absence of someone to share the mundane details of your day with—the small, seemingly insignificant moments that ultimately hold the most meaning.”
Damini Sharma, a journalist who spent nearly seven years living alone before briefly having family nearby and then losing that connection again due to her husband’s job relocation, reflected, “The second time is harder. You can no longer pretend. You know what it’s like to have companionship.”
Kashish Saxena, another public relations executive living away from home, described her experience as a feeling of constriction. “Returning to an empty room each evening feels draining,” she shared. “It has made me more reserved. The desire to laugh diminishes with each passing day.” This small statement carries a profound sense of sadness—not a crisis, just a gradual fading of joy.
Dr. Sakshi Mandhyan, a psychologist and founder of Mandhyan Care, explains that loneliness is not merely about being surrounded by people; it centers on the lack of meaningful connections. “A person can be in a crowd and still feel isolated,” she notes. “This type of loneliness is particularly easy to overlook for women living away from home, as they often appear to be thriving.”
Dr. Chandni Tugnait, a psychotherapist and founder of Gateway of Healing, highlights the more subtle indicators: returning calls later than usual, not due to busyness but because conversation feels burdensome. She points out the relief that can come from canceled plans, or the tendency to overshare with strangers, as the intimacy feels safer when it is temporary. “You present as productive and sociable,” she says, “yet you struggle to recall the last time someone truly understood your week.”
A unique sense of guilt often accompanies women who have chosen to forge their lives far from their parents. This feeling is not constant but lingers, flaring up on significant occasions such as festivals, during times of parental illness, or when missing important family events.
I often contemplate my parents growing older in a home where I exist mainly as a voice on the other end of the phone. I realize there are simple moments I am missing that I can never reclaim—afternoon chai, the unique rhythm of shared living, and the comfort of having a loved one nearby. My pursuit of my own life, career, and independence has come at the cost of being present in theirs.
Maushmi echoed similar sentiments: “Instead of tying a thread around my brother’s wrist, I’m staring at a screen.” She recounted the guilt she feels hearing her mother’s voice grow weary over the phone, knowing she is miles away and unable to make her a cup of tea. “I attempt to bridge the distance with care packages and gifts,” she added, “but it’s an insufficient way to repay the debt of presence that cannot be measured in money.”
Zarana Baxi, 30, who migrated from Ahmedabad to Mumbai, candidly expressed a specific kind of heartache: missing her brother’s first day at work and his debut performance on stage. “It breaks my heart when my friends face challenges, and I can’t be there just to offer a comforting hug,” she lamented, recognizing that a video call can never replace the warmth of physical presence.
Last month, my air conditioning malfunctioned during the sweltering heat of April in Delhi, prompting me to contact customer service. I arranged for a technician, waited for hours while explaining the issue, only to be interrupted and misinformed before I finally had to assert myself firmly. The exhausting ordeal left me drained, not just from the heat but from the frustration of managing it all alone.
In that moment, standing in my overheated apartment, I felt an intense longing for my father—not because I couldn’t handle the situation, but because I was weary of having to do it all on my own. Service personnel often dismiss women attempting to manage things independently, and in that moment, I craved the support that only a loved one could provide.
