Loneliness in the Middle of Busy Lives

kendallbryantcc
Sep 15
4 min read

Field notes from the middle of everything.

The loneliest moments of my week don’t happen in empty rooms.They arrive mid-commute, mid-scroll, mid-sentence — right in the thick of errands, meetings, school runs, dinner prep. The calendar is full, the notifications are loud, the sink is auditioning for a sculpture prize… and still, there’s a small ache under the noise that whispers: Is anyone really with me in this?

I meet eyes with people all the time — at the grocery store, on the train platform, in the café queue — and yet I know how easy it is to remain strangers while standing side by side. Our lives run like train tracks: close, parallel, rarely touching. We trade information (“How are you?” “Busy!”), but not presence. We’re together, and also not.

This is the ache I want to name today: not isolation exactly, but unshared life.

What gets in the way (and why it’s not your fault)

Some of us are carrying plates piled high — work, caring for kids or parents, keeping a household vaguely upright, being everyone’s tech support. Others are carrying plates that feel scraped bare — the job ended, the friendship faded, the next thing hasn’t begun yet. Both kinds of plates are heavy in different ways.

Add to that:

Perfection pressure. We keep our messy middles out of sight, then wonder why nobody sees us.
Fragmented spaces. We live, work, and play in separate boxes; crossing between them takes courage.
Quiet thresholds. New to the area, new to a season of life, newly “not needed” in quite the same way. Thresholds are invisible from the outside, but you can feel them in your bones.

If you’ve been carrying any of this: you’re not broken. You’re human.

What belonging actually feels like (it’s small, not grand)

I used to think connection arrived with trumpets. These days it feels more like noticing — and being noticed — in the smallest of ways.

Someone remembers your name and uses it gently.
You finish a sentence that’s been stuck in your throat for months, and nobody rushes to tidy it.
A roomful of ordinary voices finds a shared note and laughs at the same wobble.
Your tiny mark — a scribble, a lyric, a cracked story — is received like a gift, not graded like a test.

Belonging isn’t a performance. It’s recognition.

How art helps us cross the

distance

Art, at its best, is a structured act of noticing. It gives us a reason to look again, to listen longer, to stay in the room while something tender unfolds. And crucially: it offers a way to participate without needing expertise.

That’s the heart of AFPS. We make low-barrier spaces where everyday people can show up, make a small mark, and see that mark join a larger story — a workshop, a choir, a gathering, a living artwork in a public place. Not art as a plinth you pass by, but art as a table you can sit at.

When people feel seen, creativity stirs. When creativity stirs, courage grows. When courage grows, communities breathe.

Practices for the week (a metaphorical snack)

If loneliness is the ache of unshared life, here are small ways to share it:

Name one true thing. With someone you trust, finish the sentence: “Today I’m carrying…” Keep it short and honest.
Make a tiny mark. Doodle the shape of your day on a receipt. Write three lines of a memory on a napkin. Sing the chorus you half-remember. Keep it small on purpose.
Offer a seat. Invite one person into ten minutes of your ordinary — a cup of tea, a walk, a bench in the sun. Presence over polish.

None of these require perfect circumstances. All of them create openings where recognition can find you.

A note about what we’re building

AFPS exists to turn ordinary places into sites of belonging. We do this through participatory projects that welcome beginners, rusty returners, and the creatively curious. In the coming weeks we’ll set a literal table in Box Hill — but the point is bigger than an event. It’s a way of seeing each other that doesn’t end when the chairs are stacked.

Whether you join a rehearsal, add a doodle to a communal piece, or simply show up and breathe with us for a while, your presence changes the room. Truly.

If this is your middle, you can sit with us

If you know the ache I’m naming, consider this your invitation: not to fix it, but to share it. Bring your full plate or your empty one. Bring your story or your silence. Bring your bad day and your best laugh. You don’t need to call yourself an artist. You don’t need to arrive with anything polished.

Just come as you are. We’ll make the rest together.

Question for you:

Where did you feel a flicker of recognition this week — even a small one?

Tell me a line in the comments. Let’s practice being seen.