The Emptiness of Not Connecting
There’s a kind of isolation that doesn’t come from being alone — it comes from being somewhere you chose, living a life you worked for, and still feeling like you’re standing just outside the firelight.
It’s not dramatic. It’s not cinematic. It’s quieter, heavier, more personal.
It’s waking up in paradise and wondering why your soul feels like it’s sitting one seat away from the table.
The sun hits the ocean right. Salt on skin feels familiar. The wind carries laughter, engines, music from passing golf carts. Life here is alive.
And yet there’s a part of me hovering — almost like my spirit hasn’t fully landed where my body is.
That’s where I am.
I’m on a Caribbean island. Warm water, trade winds, sunsets most people would pay to see once in their life. A place that should be connection-rich, community-forward, magnetic and alive.
And I’m grateful — I truly am. I know beauty when I see it. I know privilege when I live it. Yet here I am… feeling more disconnected than I ever have.
Not lonely because I don’t like people. Not isolated because I shut myself off. But because somewhere along the road — I stopped fitting into the world the way I used to. It feels like nobody wants to be my friend.
There’s no moment I can point to. No dramatic pivot. No big loss of identity. It was slower — subtle — like erosion. Like the tide pulling sand from underfoot until the earth beneath you changes shape.
And the truth is, I don’t know when that happened. But I feel it every single day — in my heart, in my soul.
I Chose This Distance — and It Still Surprises Me
The truth is, I’m not a victim of circumstance here. I chose this life.
I left my tribe — not because I didn’t love them, not because I didn’t want their companionship, but because adventure felt necessary. Growth felt necessary. Freedom called louder than familiarity ever did. From an early age.
First Toronto to LA. Then LA back to Canada. Then here to Isla.
Each move a leap. Each chapter a reinvention. Each goodbye a little tear in the fabric, even if I didn’t feel it fully at the time.
Some relationships held — the lifers, the ones who know my layers. Shannon, Renee, Gina, Shann and Erica.
Some became friendly digital echoes — Facebook updates and “miss you” messages that keep history alive without ever touching the present.
And others stayed behind in memory… chapters closed, not bitter, just finished. Life’s just foolish like that.
I’ve slowly realized that choosing a bigger life sometimes means choosing solitude as well.
And for the most part, I’ve embraced that and sought out new tribe mates. I like being different. I like that I built my world on my terms.
But this loneliness? This quiet? This sense of being emotionally unmoored? This territory feels new — and I won’t pretend it doesn’t sting.
Coming back to Isla after COVID, after the isolation of Toronto’s lockdown still stuck to my bones — heartache imminent on the horizon and grief in my pockets —
I wanted to fall back into something familiar here. To reconnect with the spark I once felt on this island. Maybe even save the relationship.
But life doesn’t rewind just because we remember the past fondly. People change. Places shift. Energies evolve.
Maybe the version of me who fit here before belonged to a world that doesn’t exist anymore — not on this island, and not inside me. Though I clung to it.
And so I’m learning what it means to choose solitude, only to realise solitude chose me right back.
That’s the part no one warns you about — that even intention has consequences. Even courage can echo.
Isolation That Doesn’t Ask Permission
This wasn’t chosen solitude. I wasn’t seeking stillness. I wasn’t craving quiet. I needed something different — and yet here it is.
It isn’t dramatic. It isn’t glamorous. It doesn’t feel like the “hero wandering alone” trope.
It feels like waking up and thinking, I used to know where I fit. I used to feel tethered. What changed?
It feels like trying — really trying — to connect and realizing intention doesn’t always equal connection.
It feels like being seen, but not met. A gentle ache, not a wound. An awareness, not despair. A pause, not a collapse. But real nonetheless.
There’s a humility in admitting that. A soft surrender. Not to defeat — but to truth.
A Storm No One Saw
People talk about COVID like a logistics event. Masks. Travel rules. Supply chains. But the real pandemic happened inside people — in the fault lines we didn’t know existed.
During those early months, my relationship unraveled slowly — not with explosions, but with quiet erosion. A year of dissolving, piece by piece, understanding that love doesn’t always equal longevity.
There was pain, yes, but also truth in letting go. She never loved me, never wanted our connection — our friendship — the relationship I felt in my heart.
And then — in the middle of that emotional exhaustion — my brother passed away.
Not a distant loss. Not a chapter you can close politely. A loss that leaves you feeling more alone despite the complicated lack of knowing each other deeply.
I carried those losses into everything that came next. Living here, what I wanted for my life, and how my heart shut down.
There is a version of grief where you don’t collapse — you keep moving because stillness is too sharp.
You build. You distract. You plan. You try to outpace the ache. Grief waits. It always does.
And when borders opened and flights resumed and I stepped back onto Isla, I didn’t just arrive with luggage —
I arrived with heartbreak and absence stitched into my bones. I thought the ocean would hold me. I thought sunlight could knit me back together. I thought the place that once felt right would feel right again. I thought I’d find her again and she would save me.
I was wrong.
Grief doesn’t obey geography. And belonging doesn’t always come back just because we remember it fondly.
Some pain follows you. Some lessons unpack slowly.
Some seasons don’t end where you expect them to.
The Return That Didn’t Click
I expected to reconnect with the rhythm I once had here. To fall back into easy friendships, new creative energy, conversations that felt like possibility.
Instead, I walked back into a familiar room where all the furniture had been moved. Same walls, same sky, same ocean. Different frequency….
The island didn’t reject me. But it didn’t catch me either.
There’s a particular ache in being somewhere beautiful and feeling a step removed from it. Not ungrateful — just unanchored. Not unhappy — just unheld.
I tried. I showed up. I invited, reached out, joined in, stepped forward.
I didn’t hide. I didn’t isolate. Connection just… didn’t land. The energy that once found me here didn’t recognize me this time. Or maybe I didn’t recognize myself enough to be found.
Sometimes we outgrow spaces before we realize we’ve evolved.
The Work Is Still Here, Even If the Noise Isn’t
Here’s the thing — I haven’t stopped working. I won’t. I’ve just shifted focus.
I’m building: ShiverMedia. Salty Blue. My personal brand. Projects. Templates. Content. Helping Tammy build her platform. Client work when it comes. New systems. New strategies.
Foundation work. Deep work. Work people don’t see until it blooms. I don’t resist effort. Effort built me. Discipline never intimidated me — silence does.
Because work fills time, but connection fuels spirit. And right now, the work is happening — but the world around it feels thin. That’s not failure. That’s… in-between.
The season where seeds grow roots before they break the surface. The quiet phase. The internal muscle building before momentum arrives.
Distance in Love, Distance in Life
Two years ago, I met Tammy, from Indiana, travels regularly to a Isla. Tammy live currently in Vegas.
Life placed her there — responsibility, family, health, timing. Not conflict — circumstance. Loss. Duty.
We are solid. We are committed. We are building in parallel. But distance changes the sound of days.
When your life already feels a bit unanchored, being physically apart from the person who sees you most clearly sharpens the quiet.
Love holds. But distance leaves room. And the room echoes.Not doubt — just longing. Stretched across time, flight routes, and ocean. I don’t resent it. I just feel it.
Maybe this island was meant to be a sacred pause — a place to grieve, to shed, to face truth, and then to launch toward the next horizon.
Sometimes stillness is not stagnation — it’s alignment gathering strength.
When Solitude Stops Feeling Like Strength
I’m good alone — Solo Sam, always have been. I don’t need crowds or chaos or constant stimulation. I don’t chase noise.
But this isn’t chosen quiet — it’s quiet that lingers even when I reach for connection.
I’ve tried here. I’ve opened doors. I’ve said yes when I didn’t feel like it. I’ve shown up.
Yet connection… floats. Conversation lands politely but not deeply. People are kind; sometimes they feel performative — but ultimately, the fit simply isn’t here.
It’s like tuning a radio station that’s a half-second off the rhythm of your heartbeat.
And acknowledging that stings as much as it steadies me.
It’s not that I can’t belong. It’s that I won’t force belonging where resonance doesn’t live.
When Life Isn’t Aligned, It Lets You Know
I’ve lived long enough to know this: When I’m not on the right path, life resists. Not violently. Not as punishment. Just subtly, steadily — slightly off-axis.
Momentum stalls. Opportunities slip by. Energy drains. Even small tasks feel uphill.
Confidence flickers in ways it never did before.
That’s where I am — not broken, just out of sync with the life that fits me best.
This isn’t weakness. It’s awareness.
I am not fully where I’m meant to be — yet.
And when I’m off-path, I feel it in my bones. The world becomes friction instead of flow.
That’s why the search for work has been harder — not because I don’t have value or skill or drive, but because the right fit hasn’t appeared. I refuse to contort myself into misalignment just to ease discomfort.
Same with love.
No doubt, no regret — just the ache of knowing we belong together, just not like this, not here, not yet.
We aren’t broken.
We’re waiting for the right door to open — and building until it does.
I don’t force belonging — not in geography, not in career, not in love.
Out of sorts doesn’t mean off track — it means recalibrating.
This season isn’t collapse.
It’s compass-work.
The uncomfortable clarity that comes before the shift.
And when truth arrives, I don’t ignore it — I move.
Quiet Resolve
This isn’t a goodbye letter to the island. Though I am seeking other destinations, there is no resentment or regret. Just truth.
I expected belonging. Instead, I found introspection. TAnd maybe that’s exactly what this chapter needed to be.
I’m here. I’m breathing ocean air. I’m working. I’m healing. I’m relearning myself after grief, disruption, and loss.
And when the tide turns — whether here or elsewhere — I’ll move with it.
Not out of desperation, but alignment.
Because I trust myself. I trust the seasons. I trust truth. And I trust the ocean enough to know: the tide always returns something.
Until then — I will stand where I am, grounded and honest, eyes on the horizon, heart open, work steady, and spirit intact.
Trust in the tide while I find my bearings and my tribe.