Depth, Loneliness, and the Social Mask
Loneliness doesn't always mean something's wrong with us. It can be a sign of emotional depth, of someone who longs for reflection, honesty and inner connection. Not everyone is willing to go there, and that can feel isolating. But you're not strange for craving depth. You're just rare, and waiting, perhaps, for someone just as rare to recognise you.
When lovers first meet me, some of the first comments they share are: “You’re so easy to talk to, I feel like I’ve known you forever”, “I’m sure you were the popular one in school and still are in any social circle”, and “You’re clearly an extrovert”. But in reality, I am truly an introvert. I read somewhere that you’re considered an extrovert if you recharge around people, and an introvert if you need time alone to recharge. If this definition is correct, then I am a huge introvert.
I’m glad, though, that the first impression new lovers have of me is of someone who’s happy to be there (after all, it probably wouldn’t be the best first impression if I looked unhappy to be there, especially after charging several thousand to bring my peach-like perky bum to the date, right?).
And don’t get me wrong, it’s not acting or pretending. I genuinely am happy and excited to go on dates with you (yes, even as an introvert!). That’s because if you’re spending your hard-earned money on me, it usually means you’ve spent your sweet time “getting to know me” through my daily thoughts on X, my newsletter, my website, or my blog. I purposely make access to me not easy. Most companions can be easily contacted by email or even instantly by phone call or text (which I find crazy - I could never cope with that volume of inquiries). As for me, the only way to contact me is through my booking form, which, yes, I’m aware, is quite long and thorough - or, as some of you have honestly described it, “a pain”. For me, though, it serves its purpose.
I’m also aware that my rates are higher than “the UK market average”. That works well for me. Both my rates and the booking form as the only contact method serve one clear purpose: I want your booking to be intentional. I don’t want to receive text messages at 1am from random people on the internet who had one too many at the pub asking if I’m “avail now??”. By “forcing” you to be intentional if you want to choose me, I ensure that you’re truly invested - both in taking the time to fill out my booking form and in the significant expense (yes, I’m aware). This is what allows me to come out of my shell naturally. When I think “Wow, this person went through the “pain” of my booking form and is happy to pay more than “the UK market average” for me as a person, they must be genuinely interested in me - my stories, my adventures, how my mind works” - then yes, I want to open up.
That’s why I come across as - well, as you might recall from the feedback I mentioned at the start: “You’re so easy to talk to; I feel like I’ve known you forever”, “I’m sure you were the popular one in school and still are in any social circle”, “You’re clearly an extrovert”. You created the conditions for me to open up. You were intentional about me, and now I want to be intentional about you.
The reality is that outside this special dynamic, even though I seem very skilled in social interactions, events, and parties, I actually find them draining. If we were strangers at the same social gathering, you might see me from across the room, keeping the banter going with a group gathered around me, eager not to miss any details of my stories - but you would never imagine that deep down, in that moment, I’m probably feeling quite lonely because I crave deep connections, not frivolous exchanges.
This contrast - between how I appear and how I truly feel - is not just my story, but one shared by others with deep emotional sensitivity. We can seem socially adept and even outgoing, yet inside, a quiet loneliness lingers. This paradox of loneliness and social ease is what I want to explore here, because understanding it can help us embrace our emotional depth rather than feel isolated by it.
It might be seen as an embarrassing confession, but for a certain group among us, it’s fair to say that much of our lives is spent asking essentially the same question, with the same blend of frustration, despair, and puzzlement: Why do I feel the loneliest when I’m surrounded by people?
Why, in other words, despite being labeled a social butterfly, do I so often find myself at odds in social groups? Why don’t more people want to connect truly and deeply, beyond the surface and small talk? Why don’t I have more friends worthy of the name?
It’s tempting to jump to the darkest conclusion: because there is something wrong with me.
But the real answer is likely to be far less punitive and in its way far more logical: we, the emotionally isolated members of the tribe, often feel lonely when surrounded by people for a very firm and forgivable reason: because we are interested in introspection, and they - the others - for all their intelligence and wit and strength of mind, are not.
They may have many hobbies and passions and lots to say about a host of things, but they are simply not interested in looking deeply inside themselves. It is not their idea of fun to go into their childhoods, to trace the links between their emotions and their actions or to lie for a long time in a bath or a bed processing events in their interior lives. Introspection is not their thing. They haven’t told us this in so many words - and they never will; they don’t even realise it perhaps. We simply have to surmise that this is the case on the basis of external evidence: that we never feel we have much to say to them, even though - objectively - there might be so much to share.
It’s the lack of introspection that explains why conversation with them so often gets stuck in odd places: discussing “How was your weekend? Did you do anything fun?” or the weather or what so-and-so from university (whom we never really knew or liked) is now doing. It explains why, when we try to nudge the conversation onto something more intimate and vulnerable, we seem somehow never to manage and end up in yet more rounds of discussion about the traffic or the new gossip scandal.
They aren’t necessarily cold, but it can certainly seem that way because they aren’t interested in communicating what is really going on in their hearts. Sometimes we can be surprised when, out of the blue, they tell us that they consider us to be a close friend.
We should accept that most of our acquaintances - however much they might in theory want to be friendly - do not want to do so at the cost of looking inside their own minds.
And we for our part often feel lonely when surrounded by people because we are operating with a notion of intimacy that is far less common than we torture ourselves by imagining. We will be blessed if we meet just one or two people in a lifetime who want to play as we do. The rest of the time, we shouldn’t compound our problems by feeling lonely that we’re lonely. It’s painful but utterly understandable; our favourite pastime, however noble it might be, is a very unusual one indeed.
Emotional depth is uncommon. Are you one of the handful of kindred spirits I will meet in a lifetime? That would be a rare and beautiful thing. Want to find out?