What’s So Scary About Being Alone?

There was no dharma talk last Sunday, and there will be none again this upcoming Sunday at the LP Chalee Hermitage. I found myself missing this routine, this quiet space. Then, yesterday, someone asked me, “What’s so scary about being alone?”

I didn’t have an answer then, and I’m not sure I do now. But I was challenged to write about it, so here I am, trying my best.

This morning, driving to work while listening to K-pop music, I saw the wind lift a swirl of dry leaves across the road, tiny tornados spinning, lifting, scattering. I thought maybe that’s what life is: an infinity of small whirlwinds, some gentle, some storms that take your breath away.

Being alone feels like being one of those leaves, lifted, carried, never quite sure where you’ll land. Gravity will pull you down eventually, but where? On a quiet road, on a pile of others, or somewhere you never expected. Perhaps the unknown is the hardest part, not the fall.

Uncertainty asks us to take risks. I’m not afraid of all risks. Some are necessary, they push me forward, help me grow, remind me I’m alive. But some feel heavier. Too high a cost. I don’t know if I can bear it. I don’t know if being alone is fear of the unknown, fear of not being validated, or fear of the wrong risk. Perhaps it’s fear of losing control.

I can't deny that I love autonomy because I like freedom. Yet I need some degree of control, at least over my own life. Being alone, especially after being whole with someone, feels like losing part of that control. It’s not about controlling another person, it’s about trying to control the emptiness. When I’m no longer whole, uncertainty moves in quick. That’s when I feel small, afraid of the unknown.

But being alone also gives me something I can’t deny, freedom. I can do anything when I’m alone. I have full control of my life, no partner to share with, no partner to argue with. And yet, there’s no sounding board when I want to bounce my thoughts off someone. No gentle voice saying, “You’re okay,” no one to validate me, or to remind me I’m not just talking to myself.

Wholeness gives comfort, even if it was never perfect. It offered a sense of stability, a sense of something I could count on. However, it’s impermanent. The thought of being sick, of feeling sad and having no one to comfort me, those nights that keep me awake, worrying, thinking what if, make me realize what I fear most.

Maybe all these fears are connected. If they are, what binds them is attachment, the wish to know, to control, to be certain. But life doesn’t give me certainty. Life gives me movement, and I have to learn to sway with it without losing myself.

Sometimes, when the wind quiets, I hear a small voice inside me, the one that wants to be seen, to be held, to be embraced, to not have to be strong all the time. Maybe that’s what’s truly scary about being alone, meeting that voice without turning away.

When I think of my child, the wind softens. She’s my thread, my heart and soul, my reminder that love still exists, even when everything else is scattered. Her text, her voice, her smile, her being, they calm the storm for a while.

If she ever asks me what I’ve learned, I’ll tell her this:

We can forgive and love someone without expecting their love in return. The selfless love that Buddha taught. That’s how we begin to release our suffering. Not by fighting the wind, but by learning to float with compassion, even when we don’t know where we’ll land.

Some days the wind still scares me. But even in those moments, I can feel the thread of connection, to my child, to love, to my friends, to dharma, reminding me I’m never truly alone.