Existential Exchanges 4: Loneliness

 

Sapira Cahana is a New York-based mental health counsellor (MHC-LP) at Authentically Living Psychological Services and is an interfaith chaplain-in-training specializing in existential and relational therapy. 

In this interview, Scott Douglas Jacobsen and Cahana explore the nuances of loneliness, aloneness, and relational identity. Cahana emphasizes that absolute aloneness does not exist—human beings are always born into relational contexts and networks of meaning. Loneliness, she explains, arises when subjectivity is denied, echoing thinkers like Simone de Beauvoir, Julia Kristeva, and bell hooks. Together they discuss solitude, dissociation, trauma, spiritual framings of alienation, and the role of authentic dialogue in healing. Cahana argues that slowing down, embracing reflection, and reclaiming subjecthood transform loneliness from a painful condition into an opportunity for recognition and growth.

Scott Douglas Jacobsen: Two things always come to mind when people talk about loneliness. The first is loneliness as a state of mind, and the second is aloneness as a state of being. How do you separate those two, and why is it essential to make that distinction?

Sapira Cahana: The first thing I want to say is that there is no such thing as absolute aloneness. We are all born about others and in dynamics with the broader world. Every human birth occurs through another person, usually as the result of two people. Even with scientific interventions such as in vitro fertilization, surrogacy, or neonatal incubators, human beings always emerge within a network of relationships and dependencies. We are never truly isolated in origin. So, while there are experiences of feeling alone or being lonely, no person exists as a complete island outside of humanity.

Yet, despite this, people can withdraw or become isolated. That experience of isolation can create loneliness. In the end, though, human existence is always embedded in relationships—with others, with the world, and with cultural and social structures. That is an important point, because in a highly atomized modern society, we often prize individuation and separation from others. Individuation is essential, but if it comes at the cost of denying our relational nature or cutting ties with our communities, roots, and shared world, it can foster loneliness.

I would define loneliness as the experience of being cut off from one’s subjectivity, agency, and autonomy, while also feeling disconnected from others and one’s inner life. Simone de Beauvoir, the French existentialist philosopher, described loneliness in part as the denial of subjectivity—the condition in which a person is treated as an object, unable to have their subjecthood recognized. This reduction to objecthood and the struggle to reclaim one’s autonomy and voice capture an essential dimension of loneliness.

Other thinkers expand on this theme. Julia Kristeva, a French-Bulgarian psychoanalyst and philosopher, has written about loneliness in terms of mourning and melancholy, framing it as a kind of ineffable grief—something deeply felt but difficult to articulate. Bell Hooks, the American cultural critic and feminist, addressed loneliness in her book All About Love. She argued that love is the highest form of human connection and that loneliness often arises from systems of domination. For hooks, loneliness is a byproduct of domination and suppression: the suppression of self, the blocking of authentic connection, and the obstruction of love.

Many other profound thinkers have explored this subject, but these feminist and psychoanalytic perspectives are particularly illuminating.

Jacobsen: Are there ways in which people can almost put life on pause, to look at it from different angles and gain insight into themselves, their place in the world, and their lives? Sometimes that may feel like loneliness, but in reality, it is not.

Cahana: Are you talking about therapy? 

Jacobsen: Yes, that would fall into that category. 

Cahana: Of course, people can choose solitude deliberately. There is no question that there are times when separating oneself is valuable. For example, being alone in nature can offer immense insight. The Romantics often reflected on this kind of solitude. It is essential to distinguish this intentional solitude—which can be restorative—from the alienation of loneliness, which is often experienced as painful disconnection.

That was their whole ethos. They would go into nature and experience awe on their own or in small communities. So, of course, there are ways to be alone. Instead of being a doer, you become a being, of course.

But, ultimately, the larger truth is that we are in a kinship relationship with the world—that there is no such thing as true aloneness. There are experiences of deep loneliness, which are intrinsic to being human. No one is impervious to that experience—from the Dalai Lama to anyone else. We all encounter moments of profound alienation from the self, from the world, and from others.

We all ask ourselves at times: “Am I the worst person to exist on this planet? Do I deserve a place?” And we also have moments of deep aggrandizement where we think, “Is this world completely mine? Am I indomitable?”

So, there’s this complex that we all carry, and we can each vacillate between the two states. Ultimately, the central piece is that we are selves capable of accessing both deep self-alienation and deep self-aggrandizement. That is the existential lens on loneliness and alienation. Of course, there are other lenses as well.

Jacobsen: What about people who frame it supernaturalistically, saying that the sense of loneliness is a sense of being distant from God? What insights can those traditions potentially provide—whether from Judaism or others?

Cahana: Interestingly, you frame it that way. From a religious perspective, that experience is completely translatable as alienation. It is a sense of removal. And the antidote to loneliness is indeed closeness—coming into proximity, into relationship, into kinship with the self, with others, with the world, and with the divine. Religious and mystical traditions certainly have insights into loneliness.

For example, Jewish, Christian, and Islamic thinkers often describe loneliness as separation from God. Mystical traditions, such as Sufism, speak of God as the Beloved, a proximate figure of intimacy. Sufi poets like Rumi frame divine relationship as closeness to the Beloved, countering loneliness with intimacy with the divine.

This is not dissimilar to what Julia Kristeva described as unspeakable grief, what Simone de Beauvoir understood as the denial of subjectivity, or what bell hooks (Gloria Jean Watkins) called the domination that suppresses authentic love and connection. So, even across traditions, there is a common recognition of loneliness as alienation, and of the need for proximity and relationship as its response.

Jacobsen: What about the feminist lens of being with someone but apart? Alone together, in terms of connection. People must often report that when they show up at couples therapy, for instance.

Cahana: Absolutely. That dynamic of being with someone but still profoundly alone is a common report in relational therapy. It highlights that loneliness is not merely about the presence or absence of people, but about the quality of connection and recognition within relationships.

Indeed, the relationship with others can produce loneliness. What that looks like, of course, is the desire for another person to mirror us in a congruent way—and the pain of feeling as though the mirror is not reflecting what we want to be seen. These dynamics often play out between the innate self and the external self when those two do not align. And because the other is also a subject with both an innate and an external self, their misalignment can clash with ours. Through the relationship, these selves may fail to match—and so, yes, you can be alone with another person. There is no question about that.

The construct of being alone can also take form in anonymity—for example, being in Mumbai, surrounded by millions of people yet known by no one. That can produce experiences of profound isolation and alienation, or it can stir feelings of awe and reverence for the immensity of life. The experience itself is not inherently pejorative. Loneliness is only one possible outcome.

Once we acknowledge the denial of subjecthood, the next step is reclaiming one’s subjectivity. It means working through and realizing that these dynamics are systemic—rooted in the interaction between subject and other, subject and object. In that realization, a deep sense of power can emerge, as one insists on being recognized as a subject.

Jacobsen: What about cases of trauma along that spectrum? Situations where a person is not only alienated from their subjecthood but is dissociated—perhaps only half-conscious of it unless they are in a therapeutic space where it can be brought into fuller awareness?

Cahana: Yes, that is also a form of alienation—from the self. In dissociation, the self becomes fragmented and incongruent, not holding its parts together. The result is an inner disconnection: a lack of congruence between self and world, and even within the self itself. This fragmentation leaves portions of the self inaccessible, creating a profoundly alienating experience.

In therapy, we often distinguish between “capital-T” Traumas—major, life-altering events—and “small-t” traumas, the cumulative, usually less visible disruptions that shape identity and relational patterns. Both can generate dissociation, fragmentation, and alienation. It is, indeed, a profoundly complex and painful condition that many people suffer from regularly.

When we speak about it, the biggest problem is the ineffability of the experience. How do you describe being alienated from yourself while still speaking as yourself? It is an awful feeling. But I’ve also read research and engaged with thinkers who note that dissociation is not always pathological. The dissociative state can also be the flow state. In flow, there is still a central self-directing experience. It does not feel alienating, but somewhat fluid and integrated.

By contrast, traumatic dissociation involves not having a grasp on what is occurring—perceiving reality through a foggy lens and not feeling connected. That is the key difference: flow is absorbing, while trauma-induced dissociation is fragmenting.

Jacobsen: What about anticipation, future projections, or even idealizations? For example, when someone says they are going to “find themselves” at Burning Man for the first time. They’re projecting forward, imagining a deeper connection with themselves in community—almost as if community itself is part of their identity.

Cahana: That’s the idea: becoming more at one with oneself through projection into a transformative experience. Why do we seek out such experiences? When we remain stuck in routine and the perfunctory, it becomes difficult to perceive differences. Contrast becomes the teacher.

This is what Simone de Beauvoir illuminated in her analysis of the subject–object dynamic, and it echoes the Hegelian dialectic. There is always a tension between subject and other, each claiming recognition. When we become conscious of this dynamic, it is revealed as relational. When we remain unconscious, it is harder to articulate our thoughts.

Contrast makes things visible. It is the same with language. For instance, speakers of Arabic may note differences between Moroccan, Palestinian, and Syrian dialects—each saying the same thing in slightly different ways. That comparison produces awareness.

The same happens when we travel to places where we do not speak the language at all. Suddenly, we cannot ask for our most basic needs. No one knows us, and we do not know how to express ourselves. People seek that experience of dislocation and contrast, precisely because it reveals what is usually invisible in everyday routine.

People are looking for a taste of contrast—a taste of loneliness where we are both somewhat in control and at the same time completely releasing control. We actively seek this out. Why would we seek it unless it offers something meaningful to produce, to think through, to work through, and ultimately to encounter the self?

Jacobsen: In that sense, is the self an alignment of different selves—a linguistic self, a sensory self, an emotional self? When those selves are mostly in sync, we feel aligned, present, and able to act effectively and authentically in the world.

Cahana: That brings me back to a philosophy class where we discussed the diachronic self and the debates of John Locke and David Hume. Are there different theories of how the self is constructed? Is there a grand unifier, some essential self at the core?

Maybe, maybe not. I do not have a perfect answer. But we all have different relationships to that very question. So when we seek out experiences of loneliness—or encounter them without seeking them—the relationship to either a unified self or a multiplicity of selves becomes a question each individual must reckon with.

Jacobsen: What about dreams—when someone becomes lucid, waking up inside the dream? That seems like a version of the self that belongs partly to waking life and partly to the dreamscape, where things are less rule-bound. Does that tell us something about self and loneliness?

Cahana: Perhaps, though it says much about loneliness specifically. It does, however, remind us that the self is something to be encountered. That’s the only answer I can offer here. I want to think about it more.

Jacobsen: There’s a saying: the opposite of love is not hate but indifference. Is there something similar to loneliness?

Cahana: Yes. The opposite of loneliness is an authentic relationship. And yet it is so challenging to create a truly phenomenological relationship—one of genuine presence and recognition. Eye contact that sees the other is rare. So often we perceive one another through fragments, through pre-digested, habitual responses.

Much of daily life reflects this. You can speak to many people, spend the entire day in meetings, and have pleasant conversations. But at the end of the day, when you reflect, you may realize that what occurred was moving through interactions—not truly being with others. That absence of authentic relation is its form of loneliness.

The relationship to not being mirrored, or not being seen, comes down to the dissonance between the ideal self, the authentic self, the external world, and the inner world—all while we sift through vast amounts of information daily. With technology, this has only intensified. We consume endlessly, but are rarely reflected to ourselves.

We live in an era of horoscopes and memes, where people say, “That’s so me,” and adopt quotes as guiding principles. But these are snippets, banter—not real dialogue. What is missing is sustained conversation and presence. That is why my therapeutic approach is so practical, though often dismissed. People say, “I talk all the time. Why do I need a therapist? I don’t need someone to listen.” Yet, if they truly reflect, they realize how few people listen to them, and how rarely they listen to others. That is profound alienation.

The antidote to loneliness is slowing down. It requires entering into the well of loneliness itself and then emerging into subjecthood—into recognition.

I think of Sara Ahmed, who frames emotions as political. I cannot recall her exact phrasing on loneliness, but she suggests it can be an experience of resistance—feeling something is not quite right, and pushing against it.

Jacobsen: In a sense, are we living in the era of soliloquies? If people are not being heard and not listening, dialogues collapse into monologues. Monologues, when extended, become soliloquies. 

Cahana: The existential therapist Emmy van Deurzen speaks to this. She distinguishes between dialogue, duologue, and monologue. A genuine dialogue is the authentic encounter—the eye-gazing, phenomenological relationship. A duologue is a conversation between two people, where they trade anecdotes. For example: “I have a cat.” “You have a cat.” “Here’s my cat photo.” “Here’s yours.” That is pleasant, but not deeply connecting.

She also speaks of monologues or soliloquies—where no listening occurs at all. A person may come to a therapy session, recount their entire day, and leave. That can be cathartic, and I do not judge it. But as a relational therapist, I feel responsible for ensuring that the “sacred third”—the shared relational space—is upheld. I depend on the client to hold it with me, but I also have that responsibility.

Jacobsen: Any favourite quotes? What comes to mind for you? And your final thoughts?

Cahana: My final thought is this: we all experience loneliness. It is intrinsic to being human. And it can also be the most powerful experience once we claim our subjecthood from within it.

Jacobsen: Thank you once more for your time and expertise, Sapira.

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Scott Douglas Jacobsen is the publisher of In-Sight Publishing (ISBN: 978-1-0692343) and Editor-in-Chief of In-Sight: Interviews (ISSN: 2369-6885). He writes for The Good Men Project, International Policy Digest (ISSN: 2332–9416), The Humanist (Print: ISSN 0018-7399; Online: ISSN 2163-3576), Basic Income Earth Network (UK Registered Charity 1177066), A Further Inquiry, and other media. He is a member in good standing of numerous media organizations.

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Photo by Jeffrey Allee on Unsplash

 

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