The Price of Loneliness
Perhaps if we put a dollar amount on loneliness, it’ll help us break out of our shells.
Once again, it’s the most wonderful time of the year — tax time. ‘Tiz the season to gather all the receipts, figure out what’s deductible, and shake our heads in disbelief at the amount of money we spent on stuff we don’t even remember.
For me, it’s the time of year when I’m confronted, once again, with my misaligned priorities. I look in disgust at the pile of receipts for various coaching programs and online courses. Over the years, I’ve spent tens of thousands of dollars on this category.
Some of this money was well spent — it taught me to be a better, more highly paid, and more organized freelancer. But when I’m brutally honest with myself, I know that the majority of the money was spent when I was feeling low and lonely. When I was buying encouragement and a shoulder to cry on. When I was in dire need of those mythical “communities” that every course creator promises and which more often than not turn out to be moribund Facebook groups or groups that devolve into a self-promotional shouting fest.
Perhaps you’re not like me and you don’t try to buy your way out of loneliness with courses and coaching. But what about with donuts and other pastries?
Have you ever gone to a coffee shop and filled the void with sugar and dough? Do you go online and buy something you don’t need when what you really want is conversation, but there is none to be had?
(And these are just the mildest forms of self-medication and numbing: some isolated people slip into substance dependence, for example).
How about joining a fancy gym in the hopes of meeting people there, except that you’re not good at meeting people on the fly, so all you get is … well… a place to exercise, which is not what you actually wanted (because you have a perfectly functional gym in your apartment building, for example).
And then there’s the cost of having to pay for the things friends — real-world, close-by friends — do for each other for free. Like drive you to the doctor instead of you having to take an Uber. Or coming over to help you build an IKEA shelf, then staying for pizza and beer and laughs, instead of you having to hire someone off TaskRabbit.
Well, I’m sick of paying this loneliness tax. I’ve had enough of blaming my social anxiety, my freelancing working-from-home arrangement, and my move to a place where I don’t know anyone (long story…family circumstances).
I can no longer pretend that trying to fix my real-world social isolation is not the main driver behind many of my spending decisions — from the aforementioned gym membership to the daily drip-drip-drip of the unnecessary muffin.
So, this year, I’m embracing my reality. I’m investing in improving my real-world social life and aligning my spending decisions with my real priority. I’m keeping at the forefront of my mind the fact that social relationships are a source of immense wealth — not in the glib sense of “your network is your net worth,” but in terms of all the intangible benefits of being surrounded by people you care about and who care about you. People who’ll notice your absence and whose absence will leave a void in your life, too.
What does that mean practically? It means canceling the gym membership and signing up for a yoga class where the teacher and students stay after class and drink coffee together. It means finding an improv community that goes out to eat after each improv session. It means donating money to local charities and volunteering with them, too.
My hypothesis is that by the end of 2024, not only will I be less socially isolated, but also have a fatter bank account. After all, coaching and online courses, and muffins, and random Amazon purchases do add up to real money.
