Walls, Wounds, and the Slow Road Back to Connection

 

From Isolation to Connection: A Reluctant (and Slightly Bitter) Journey

I have spent an alarming amount of time in my own company. And honestly? I preferred it that way. If avoiding people were an Olympic sport, I’d have more gold medals than Michael Phelps. 

Wrapped in a blanket cape, clutching my coffee like a trophy, I was a champion of solitude.

For years, I convinced myself that isolation was just me being an introvert—except it wasn’t just that. It was self-preservation. Because, let’s be real, people disappoint. 

They lie

They leave

They take

They rarely give back what they borrow—whether it’s trust, kindness, or tangible things (still not over it, Janet, that was my favorite book).

So I withdrew. I built walls so high they could qualify as medieval fortifications. I stopped reaching out, stopped answering texts, stopped expecting people to be anything but disappointing. And for a while, it felt... safe.

Until it didn’t.

Why We Retreat

The descent into isolation isn’t a dramatic, overnight transformation. It doesn’t start with a bold declaration of "I hate people"—though, in my case, it might as well have. It starts small. You dodge a few plans, ignore a few calls, convince yourself that solitude is easier than dealing with human unpredictability. 

Then, one day, you realize you haven’t had a real conversation in weeks.

It’s social muscle atrophy—you don’t use it, you lose it. Suddenly, simple interactions feel like assembling cheap furniture without instructions. 

• You forget how to engage in small talk. 

• You overanalyze every text. 

• You rehearse basic conversations in the mirror, only to panic and blurt out nonsense when someone asks, "How’s your day going?" ("Oh, you know... existential! Haha. Unless...?")

Then comes the overthinking spiral. Did I say too much? Not enough? Did my "haha" sound unhinged? Before you know it, socializing feels like an anxiety-inducing game show where the only prize is exhaustion.

And let’s not even discuss eye contact. After prolonged isolation, making eye contact with another human feels like staring directly into the sun—too much, too overwhelming, and highly avoidable.

The Deeper Reasons Behind Isolation

Isolation isn’t just about avoiding others; it’s about protecting ourselves. But from what? Here are some common reasons people retreat:

• Betrayal and Broken Trust – When people let us down, it teaches us that connection isn’t always safe. Why risk another disappointment when solitude is predictable?

• Emotional Exhaustion – Some people energize us; others drain us like emotional vampires. Too many of the latter, and pulling away feels like self-preservation (garlic necklaces only do so much).

• Fear of Vulnerability – The more people know about us, the more they can hurt us. Keeping a distance feels like keeping control—because let’s be honest, handing someone the emotional equivalent of a grenade rarely ends well.

• Overstimulation & Anxiety – Crowds, small talk, social obligations—it can all feel overwhelming, making solitude the easier (and quieter) option. Who needs awkward conversations when you can debate life’s mysteries with your dog?

• The Illusion of Control – When we isolate, we dictate every interaction. No unexpected disappointments, no emotional turbulence—just quiet, predictable solitude, like being the director of your own indie film, minus the pretentious soundtrack.

Here’s the kicker: prolonged isolation doesn’t just affect your emotions—it rewires your brain. Increased stress hormones, weakened immunity, even shrinking parts of the brain responsible for connection. 

The cruel irony? 

The longer you stay isolated, the harder it becomes to leave. Your couch becomes an emotional support system, your favorite hoodie a security blanket, and the world outside a horror movie waiting to happen.

The Fine Line Between Solitude and Emotional Hibernation

At first, isolation felt like relief. No drama, no false promises, no exhausting small talk. Just me, my thoughts, and an ever-growing resentment for the outside world. But slowly, the things that made me, me, started fading:

• My social reflexes dulled. Someone asked me how I was, and I stared at them like they’d spoken in Morse code.

• I stopped caring about my appearance—not in a "self-love" way, but in a "who cares, no one sees me anyway" way.

• Conversations became exhausting. "How’s the weather?" felt like an existential crisis.

• Music lost its magic. Food tasted blander. Even the sunniest days felt muted, as if my environment was mirroring my emotional flatline.

I hated that. I hated that people had made me feel safer alone. 

But at some point, I had to ask myself: Am I actually protecting myself, or am I just punishing myself for their mistakes?

The Reluctant Return to Humanity (Or: Trust Issues on Parade)

Let’s be clear—I’m not saying I’m suddenly joining a book club and embracing humanity with open arms. Let’s not get carried away. But I am realizing that maybe, just maybe, cutting myself off completely isn’t the answer either.

Here’s what re-entry has looked like for me so far:

Step One: Leaving the House (With a Disguise, Just in Case)

A solo coffee shop visit. Low stakes. Minimal interaction. Easy.

Then the barista asked how my day was going, and my brain short-circuited. I overcompensated by giving them my life story. They didn’t ask for that. It was awkward for both of us.

Step Two: Responding to a Text (Without Deleting It First)

An old friend kept reaching out. They hadn’t betrayed me, they hadn’t done anything wrong. They just... kept trying. One day, instead of ignoring them, I replied with a simple "Hey."

They didn’t ask why I disappeared. They just picked up where we left off. And for the first time in a long time, I didn’t regret answering.

Step Three: Setting Boundaries Like a Pro

I used to think connection meant opening myself up to more disappointment. And maybe it still does, in some ways. But what if connection is also about choosing who gets access to me? What if it’s not about trusting everyone, but about finding the few worth trusting?

So now, I approach connection on my terms:

• No forced interactions. If I don’t want to go, I don’t go. No guilt.

• No ignoring red flags. The first sign of betrayal? I’m out.

• No more energy vampires. If they drain me, they don’t get my time.

• Emotional insurance. Expect the best but prepare for the worst. That way, when someone inevitably disappoints, I don’t spiral—I just delete their number and move on like a villain in a revenge movie.

Final Thoughts: Maybe (Just Maybe) It’s Worth Trying Again

Do I suddenly love people? 

No. Not even close. 

Do I trust easily? 

Absolutely not. 

But I do recognize that while isolation is safe, it’s also lonely. And I refuse to let the worst of humanity rob me of the chance to experience the best of it.

So if you, too, have been burned one too many times and find yourself retreating into solitude, just know this: Protecting yourself is smart. Cutting yourself off completely? Maybe not so much.

Consider this your gentle nudge—not to trust again, but to at least peek over the walls you’ve built. Because, as much as I hate to admit it, some people might actually be worth letting in.

👉 What about you? Are you ready to take a step back toward connection?