There's a kind of loneliness that doesn't make sense on paper.
You have people who love you. You have a partner, maybe. You have family — even if they're far away. You have a life that, from the outside, looks full enough. And yet there are moments — quiet, unexpected ones — where the loneliness hits so hard it takes your breath away.
It's not the loneliness of having no one. It's the loneliness of being somewhere where no one fully knows you. Where your history, your context, the version of you that exists without explanation — that person lives on the other side of the world. And no amount of videocall can close that gap.
Nobody talks about this kind of loneliness. Not properly. Because it doesn't look like isolation. It looks like a normal life. And that's what makes it so hard to name.
When it hit me
I moved to Australia to be with my husband. It wasn't a desperate decision or a reckless one — it was love. Real, intentional love. But what nobody tells you about starting a new life in a new country is that love doesn't cancel out loss. You can be exactly where you want to be and still grieve what you left behind.
The first few months, it was small things. The time difference making it hard to call my sisters at the right moment. Walking through a grocery store and not recognising half the brands. Hearing people talk about things — places, shows, cultural references — that meant nothing to me. Feeling like a visitor in a life that was supposed to be mine.
Christmas, New Year, my birthday — all three felt completely different from how we celebrate them back home. Christmas and New Year are huge celebrations in the Philippines. Same with birthdays. But here, it just feels different — the culture, the energy, the way Aussies do things. It's not bad. It's just not the same. But I'm still grateful for where I am right now.
And then it was the bigger things. Not being there when something happened at home. Missing milestones. Knowing that my younger sisters were growing up and I was watching it through a screen. The guilt of choosing a life that took me away from the people I'd spent my whole life protecting.
The different shapes of loneliness
Loneliness in your late twenties isn't one thing. It shifts. It wears different faces depending on the day.
The homesickness loneliness. This is the one that lives in your stomach. The craving for a meal nobody here makes the right way. The sound of your language being spoken in a crowd and turning around instinctively. The ache for a place that doesn't just feel familiar — it feels like yours. Homesickness hits me hardest when my husband and I have an argument. Because in those moments, I feel like I have no one to run to — not even just to talk, but a place to go. You know when you're in the heat of the moment and you just want to remove yourself from the situation? A place where you can think, but also feel safe — feel home? If you know what I mean. That's when it hits the most.
The social loneliness. Your circle gets smaller in your late twenties — that's normal everywhere. But when you've moved countries, you're not just dealing with a shrinking circle. You're starting from zero. Making friends as an adult is already hard. Making friends as an adult in a new country where you don't share the same references, the same humour, the same way of being — that's a whole other level.
The identity loneliness. This one's subtle. It's the feeling of not being fully known. Your husband knows you. Your sisters know you. But the people you interact with daily — the cashier, neighbours, acquaintances — they know the version of you that exists here. Not the version that grew up in the Philippines with seven siblings. Not the version that slept on a yoga mat and bought a fridge within three months. There's a whole history of you that nobody around you has access to, and carrying that invisibly is its own kind of lonely.
The "I chose this" loneliness. This might be the hardest one. Because you can't fully grieve something you chose. You chose love. You chose Australia. You chose this life. So when the loneliness comes, it arrives with guilt attached — like you don't have the right to feel it. But you do. Choosing something doesn't mean it comes without cost.
What it's not
I want to be clear about something: loneliness is not the same as being unhappy.
I love my life here. I love my husband. I love what I'm building. I'm not lonely because something is wrong. I'm lonely because something is missing — and that something is the proximity to the people and the place that made me who I am.
You can be grateful and lonely at the same time. You can love where you are and miss where you came from in the same breath. Those two things aren't contradictions. They're just the reality of a life that spans more than one country.
The things that help (and the things that don't)
What doesn't help:
Pretending you're fine. Telling yourself you should be over it by now. Comparing your loneliness to someone who "has it worse." Staying busy so you don't have to feel it. Numbing it with your phone. None of that makes it smaller — it just makes it quieter until it gets loud again.
What actually helps:
Letting yourself feel it. Not every day. Not dramatically. But when the loneliness shows up, let it sit for a minute instead of shoving it away. Name it. "I'm lonely today." Naming it is the first step to sitting with it.
Cooking food from home. I know it sounds small, but the smell of adobo or sinigang filling my kitchen does something that nothing else can. It's not just food. It's a portal. For thirty minutes, my kitchen smells like home, and that's enough to carry me through the week. Cooking Filipino food helps me feel less lonely — especially eating that meal while watching Four Sisters and a Wedding. That's my comfort Filipino movie, because I see myself in it.
Calling at weird hours. The time difference is brutal. But a 6am call with my sisters before their day starts — even for ten minutes — resets something in me. It's not the length of the conversation. It's hearing their voices and remembering that I still belong somewhere.
Building something here. The Daily Ally isn't just a project. It's proof that I exist here — that I'm putting something into this country, this life, this version of me. Creating something gives loneliness less room to spread.
Making peace, not war. I stopped fighting the loneliness. I stopped treating it like a problem to solve. Some days I'm lonely. Some days I'm not. Both are fine. The loneliness doesn't mean I made the wrong choice. It just means I'm a person who loves deeply, and the people I love are far away. It's just a feeling. And feelings pass.
When I need comfort, I go to the botanical garden. Or sometimes just a walk — to clear my head and be mindful for a while. And sometimes my husband and I will watch White Chicks — that's our go-to movie when I'm feeling down. When I just want to feel light and happy, we rewatch entire seasons of The Big Bang Theory. It never gets old. The punchlines still make me laugh and giggle every time.
Making peace with it
I used to think loneliness was something you fix. That one day, if I made enough friends or stayed busy enough or visited home often enough, it would go away completely.
It doesn't. And I've stopped waiting for it to.
Instead, I've made peace with the fact that loneliness is part of the deal. It's the price of a life that stretches across two countries, two cultures, two versions of home. And honestly? I'd rather feel lonely sometimes in a life I chose than feel nothing in a life I didn't.
The loneliness doesn't define me. It just visits. And when it does, I let it in, sit with it for a while, and then get back to building the life I came here for.
If you're in your late twenties and feeling a loneliness you can't explain — you're not broken. You're just living a bigger life than one place can hold. And honestly? That's proof you've been brave enough to grow.
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