Loneliness is such an omnipotent and painful threat to many

Host: The evening air was thick with stillness, heavy with that in-between quiet that lives somewhere after dusk and before true night. The old garden café behind the art museum was nearly empty — just a few flickering candles, the smell of lavender from the flowerbeds, and the faint hum of the city beyond the stone wall.

Host: Jack sat with a cup of black coffee gone cold, his elbows resting on the rough table, fingers tapping absently on the rim. Jeeny was beside him, a sketchbook open but untouched, her pencil hovering over the page as if afraid to disturb the silence.

Jeeny: (softly) “Rollo May once said, ‘Loneliness is such an omnipotent and painful threat to many persons that they have little conception of the positive values of solitude and even, at times, are frightened at the prospect of being alone.’”
(She glances up, her voice tender, reflective.) “That line always feels like it’s speaking directly to me — like he’s describing the human condition in one breath.”

Jack: (half-smiling) “Yeah. He nailed it. Loneliness has become the new plague, and no one even knows they’re infected.”

Jeeny: “Because it hides so well.”

Jack: “Exactly. People wear smiles like masks, post pictures with friends, drown themselves in noise — but silence terrifies them. It’s like staring into a mirror that doesn’t lie.”

Jeeny: (nodding) “The moment you’re alone, everything you’ve buried comes crawling up. That’s why solitude feels dangerous. It’s not the absence of others — it’s the presence of yourself.”

Jack: “And for most people, that’s the scariest company.”

Host: The candle between them flickered, its flame bending in the soft wind. The shadows of the leaves danced across the table, swaying like memories. The world felt smaller, sharper, more intimate.

Jeeny: “You know, I used to think solitude and loneliness were the same thing. Now I see they’re opposites. Loneliness is hunger. Solitude is nourishment.”

Jack: “That’s beautiful.”

Jeeny: “Rollo May understood that. He was a psychologist, but he thought like a poet — he knew that being alone is where the soul heals. It’s where you stop reacting and start listening.”

Jack: “Yeah. But our whole world is built to drown that listening out. We treat stillness like it’s failure. If you’re not busy, people assume you’re lost.”

Jeeny: (sighing) “Maybe that’s why everyone’s so anxious. We’re starving for silence and mistaking noise for life.”

Jack: “And the worst part? We’ve forgotten how to sit in our own company without flinching.”

Host: The wind rustled the trees, scattering petals across the table like pale confetti. The night smelled faintly of rain and nostalgia.

Jeeny: (quietly) “Do you ever feel that way, Jack? Like solitude is the only time you’re honest — but also the only time you’re afraid?”

Jack: (after a pause) “Every day. Solitude’s the place where the masks fall off, but so does the armor. It’s like standing naked in front of the truth — and the truth doesn’t always like what it sees.”

Jeeny: “So we run.”

Jack: “Yeah. We run back into crowds, noise, distractions — anything that keeps us from having to face the quiet parts.”

Jeeny: (softly) “The parts that ache, and remember, and dream.”

Jack: “Exactly. The parts that make us human.”

Host: The candle sputtered, its flame shrinking, the wax pooling like time itself melting slowly. Jeeny drew a small curve in her sketchbook, a line that looked like a path winding toward nothing and everything.

Jeeny: “You think May was right — that people fear solitude because they don’t know what’s on the other side of it?”

Jack: “Yeah. They think it’s emptiness. But solitude isn’t empty — it’s full. It’s just quiet enough for the contents to echo.”

Jeeny: “You’re saying solitude isn’t the absence of life — it’s where life finally speaks.”

Jack: “Exactly. It’s the rehearsal room for the soul.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “You always make it sound poetic.”

Jack: (shrugs) “Truth usually is.”

Host: A few drops of rain began to fall, soft, almost hesitant. The sound mingled with the faint hum of crickets and the city’s distant breath. Jeeny didn’t move, and neither did Jack. They just watched the candle tremble, its flame refusing to die.

Jeeny: “You know, when I was younger, being alone felt like failure. Like I’d been left behind while everyone else moved on.”

Jack: “Yeah. Because the world teaches us that our value depends on being wanted. It never teaches us how to want ourselves.”

Jeeny: (whispering) “That’s the tragedy of loneliness — it convinces you that you’re unworthy of your own love.”

Jack: “And the miracle of solitude is realizing that you always were.”

Host: The rain picked up, drumming softly on the wooden awning above them. The candle finally flickered out, leaving only the faint glow of the nearby streetlight and the silver sheen of raindrops on glass.

Jeeny: “You know what I love about May’s words? The way he reminds us that fear of loneliness isn’t weakness — it’s a symptom. Of forgetting what solitude can give.”

Jack: “Perspective.”

Jeeny: “Peace.”

Jack: “And power. Solitude’s where you stop being an echo and start being a voice.”

Jeeny: “But to get there, you have to go through the pain — the emptiness, the ache.”

Jack: “The silence.”

Jeeny: “The silence that heals.”

Host: The rain softened, now just a gentle whisper over stone and leaves. The scent of wet earth rose like incense, grounding everything.

Jeeny: “You know what’s strange? The more I learn to enjoy solitude, the less I feel lonely — even when I am.”

Jack: “That’s because you’ve stopped mistaking company for connection.”

Jeeny: “And learned that peace doesn’t need witnesses.”

Jack: “Exactly.”

Host: The world around them blurred into the soft rhythm of rain and breathing. The café lights shimmered faintly through the mist, and the sound of water on metal became the evening’s quiet hymn.

And in that moment,
Rollo May’s words seemed to live and breathe between them:

that loneliness is not solitude,
but fear of it;
that those who run from silence
never learn the beauty of listening;
and that the courage to be alone
is the beginning of freedom —
the place where the heart meets itself
and finally says,
“I’m still here.”

Host: Jeeny closed her sketchbook, sliding it aside, her voice barely above the sound of rain.

Jeeny: “Maybe solitude isn’t something we find. Maybe it’s something we remember.”

Jack: (smiling softly) “Yeah. Like coming home to a place you built inside yourself.”

Host: The rain eased into mist, the night finally still. The two sat quietly, no words left to say — only the comfort of shared silence, the kind that didn’t need filling.

And above them, the darkness pressed gently — not heavy, but protective —
as if even the sky understood
that to be alone and unafraid
is to finally be whole.