It’s Not Just You: Why Loneliness Feels So Complicated Right Now

If you've been feeling lonely lately, you're not alone. And yet, that's exactly how loneliness works: it convinces us we are the only ones feeling this way. But in 2025, loneliness feels different. It's more layered, more personal, and frankly, more exhausting. For the LGBTQIA+ community in particular, it's tangled up in questions of visibility, safety, belonging, and how we define connection in a hyper-digital world.

We hear a lot about the "loneliness epidemic," and the statistics are certainly confronting. But what if the numbers only tell part of the story? One recent article pointed out that different loneliness measures often show just 7% overlap in responses — meaning that your experience of loneliness might be entirely different from mine, or even different from your own experience last month. That’s not a flaw in how we talk about loneliness—it’s a sign that we need to talk about it more honestly, and with more nuance.

For queer people, especially those who are introverted, chronically ill, ageing without children, or living outside major cities, loneliness has layers that rarely make it into mainstream discussion. One article explored how even introverts — those who gain energy from solitude—still benefit from regular social connection, even if they believe they won’t enjoy it in the moment. In fact, a 2023 study found that highly introverted people who assumed they’d hate socialising actually felt better after doing it than their extroverted counterparts.

So why don’t we do it more? For many LGBTQIA+ folks, it's not as simple as just showing up. We’ve been to the events where we didn’t feel safe. We’ve stood awkwardly by the drinks table at queer mixers, wondering if we were dressed wrong, spoke too little, or smiled too much. We’ve relied on dating apps hoping to build something real, only to be ghosted or reduced to a type. We crave genuine connection, but the paths to it are often littered with emotional potholes.

And for those living with chronic illness, loneliness often manifests as a kind of invisibility. People described feeling like spectators in their own lives, watching peers hit milestones — jobs, relationships, fitness goals — while they stood still. They worried about being a burden or being seen as too much, so they downplayed their struggles and missed out on real connection as a result.

This tracks with something I’ve seen — and felt — personally. At my lowest, I wasn’t just alone; I was unseen. Surrounded by people but not recognised. And when I tried to talk about it, I feared sounding self-indulgent or dramatic, so I kept it to myself. The silence of loneliness is not always about who’s around us — it’s about who really sees us.

And the stakes are high. One study recently found that queer men with strong social support networks were significantly less likely to contract STIs, even when they experienced internalised stigma. Social support didn’t just make them feel better — it literally protected their health. We often talk about connection in soft, emotional terms, but it’s worth remembering that community can also be a matter of life and death.

So where does that leave us? As ever, the solution isn’t just to “get out more.” It’s about redefining connection and making space for people to show up as they are. Some of us find connection in queer sporting clubs or crafting circles. Others in online forums where conversations go beyond memes and surface-level banter. Some find it at the local dog park, or in the same Sunday coffee shop booth each week.

Community doesn’t have to be loud or polished. A recent piece in Gay Times noted that LGBTQIA+ running clubs are helping queer people combat isolation through movement, creating space not just for fitness but for friendships that stick.

And sometimes, connection starts with simply reaching out. One article reminded us of the importance of knowing ourselves — not just our schedules or goals, but our actual emotional patterns, blind spots, and needs. “To know thyself,” it said, “can protect people from the damaging errors and biases that lead them into self-serving delusion”.

At Get Out, we’re building something that honours this complexity. A place where connection is the goal, not the side effect. Where you can bring your whole self — messy, introverted, recovering, hopeful. Where loneliness is not something we aim to fix in others, but something we understand in ourselves, together.

Because yes, loneliness is complicated. It’s different for everyone. But that doesn’t mean we can’t build something that welcomes all of us — wherever we’re starting from.

You deserve more than “not alone.” You deserve to be seen, to be held, to belong. And we’re building that with you.