Danielle Nelson is a practicing therapist and Licensed Clinical Social Worker (LCSW) who focuses on sexual health and wellness, trauma and recovery, self-esteem and resilience building, and general mental health concerns. Though Danielle is a trained professional, this column is not a substitute for advice or care provided by your licensed medical or health care professional.
May is Mental Health Awareness Month and before I launch into a well-worn monologue about half-baked marketing campaigns and short-term corporate “wellness” initiatives, I’m forcing myself to slow down and focus on what works rather than the shortcomings. Visibility works. When we share our own mental health struggles with others, we open the door for deeper connection and chip away at the stigmas that keep us isolated. Talking about the ways in which we experience the world can help make our experiences with mental health feel more human. I can assure you there are more people feeling exactly the way you are than you’ve been led to believe.
I think my loneliness might be the death of me. I’m not sure why I’m writing this in like the advice can differ from “make plans or form friendships, get out of your house, etc.”—but it’s been weighing down on me lately. I’ve got my little handful of helpful and yummy diagnoses that I can whip out and spread out behind me like my very own peacock spread. I’m thinking maybe I am just a peacock and everyone else here is a different type of bird. But I’m not sure how or where to find the right ones. I’m at a point in recovery where I can find and be confident in the fact that I have intrinsic worth as a human being, but I find myself asking why nobody else can see it? I know that’s not fully the case, and it’s just my OCD throwing as much as it can on the table, but maybe I’m tired of constantly clearing the table. I’m starting to think I should live in a house with no flat surfaces.
This inquiry has so much depth and self-reflection. I first want to gently name this: When you write, “I think my loneliness might be the death of me,” that’s not casual language. Even if part of you knows it’s an expression of the heaviness you’re carrying rather than a literal plan, it deserves to be taken seriously. In short, I’m not going to brush you off with “get out more.”
Loneliness is often framed as a socialization problem, when it’s more frequently about internal experience than social contact alone. The advice-driven antidote to loneliness is usually rooted in toxic positivity and self-determination: If you just put in the effort to socialize, you’ll meet your people. If only. The hard truth is that it doesn’t matter if you make plans, go out, and socialize. Doing all the “right” things won’t make a bit of difference if you feel like you’re surrounded by people who don’t understand you.
It shouldn’t be a surprise, but I feel obliged to point out that loneliness is an accelerant for depression. Feelings of isolation encourage negative thoughts and social withdrawal, which in turn fuels feelings of despair. The cycle can feel endless. However, there’s an upside: Loneliness isn’t permanent and it doesn’t define you. The feedback loop is lying—you aren’t stuck.
So let’s remove one burden: You don’t have to solve this by pushing yourself to be more social. Instead, let’s focus on making your time alone feel less heavy. A few thoughts, grounded in what you’ve named: Your well-chosen imagery of peacock feathers is a perfect illustration of how we tend to use diagnoses as short-hand for communicating who we are. Fanning out the diagnostic feathers is a way of saying, this is how I work, this is what it costs me to be here. But they’re not always a language other people are fluent in. And sometimes things get lost in translation. That doesn’t mean your method of display is wrong. In fact, I wonder if it’s not so much that you’re the wrong bird, as you might be in the wrong ecosystem.
When you feel like a peacock among different birds, that might be a sign that it’s time to seek connections that don’t require recognition. For example, find the people who think adjacent to you and read their work. Listen to the voices of people who feel like they’re speaking in your frequency. This allows your nervous system to experience the feeling of being met—even if indirectly.
OCD fatigue is real. The metaphor of clearing the table communicates the strain of setting down thoughts, checking them, and clearing them away again. There’s also a distinct kind of loneliness in being the person who struggles, then manages the struggle over and over again. Of course you’re tired. Who wouldn’t be?
So when the thoughts start filling the table, maybe the goal isn’t to clear it. Instead, a new goal might be to simply name what’s on the table. Acknowledging, oh, this is the OCD again, without rushing to clean it up right away may loosen its grip. We’re not going for a pristine tablescape, just less time spent working on it.
You mention knowing you have intrinsic worth, but asking why others don’t see it. That is a painful gap. And sure, external recognition matters, but it’s often inconsistent, unreliable, and poorly communicated. So, we must face ourselves for the answer. I know. Totally unfair, but the question (for all of us) remains: How do you let your worth feel real if it isn’t being mirrored back?
A good place to start is by choosing places where you don’t feel the need to perform or translate yourself. Try to start noticing the moments and places where you feel most like yourself. Where do you feel safe? It isn’t your job to prove yourself until someone confirms it. Your job is to build a life that makes your worth easier to feel, even when no one is reflecting it back.
Loneliness can be loud, but remember: It isn’t permanent. You’re not the only bird of your kind. You’re in the early stages of finding a flock where you can feel understood without giving an explanation.
If you need to speak to someone right away, call 504-269-COPE (2673). The COPE crisis line provides free, confidential crisis counseling, suicide prevention and information, and mental health referral services 24 hours a day, 7 days a week.
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illustrations by Romey Petite
