Loved, Supported, and Still Lonely: The Part of Having a Vision I’m Learning to Explain

A friend called me the other day just to ask, “How are you doing?”

That rarely happens. A call just to check on me. And I’m still thinking about how much it meant.

You would think that would be an easy question to answer. But I’m so used to saying, “I’m okay,” that sometimes the words come out before I’ve even stopped to ask myself whether that’s true.

Am I okay? Am I tired? Am I excited? Am I overwhelmed?

Sometimes I really don’t know.

And sometimes I’m lonely. I just don’t know how to get that out without it sounding like I’m saying something I don’t mean.

Because let me say this clearly: I have people who love me. I have people who support me, show up for me, and stand beside me every day. I appreciate those people. They matter to me.

This feeling exists right alongside that love and support. That’s the part I’ve been trying to find words for.

I can be sitting in a room full of people and still feel alone in my own head. And honestly? That is wild.

I have about 50 million thoughts going at any given time. An idea leads to a question. The question opens up another possibility. That possibility reminds me of something I need to do, somebody I need to talk to, or a decision I haven’t made yet.

By the time I try to explain the first thought, I’m already working through the fifth one.

Listen. Even I need a minute to catch up with me sometimes. 😂

I love having ideas. I love seeing what something could become. I can look at a problem, a conversation, or an experience and start imagining what we could do with it. How we could make it better. Who it could help. What it could grow into.

That part of me brings me joy. I don’t want to lose it.

But living with all of that moving around in my head can feel lonely, especially when I haven’t figured out how to let anybody else into it yet.

When I say “visionary,” I’m talking about that experience of seeing a possibility before I can fully explain it. Sometimes I can see the direction clearly while I’m still figuring out the steps. Sometimes I have pieces that feel connected, and putting that connection into words takes more work than I expect.

I’ll want to talk about it, then realize the person listening needs context. So now I’m explaining the background, the idea, why it matters, and where I think it could go. Meanwhile, another thought shows up.

It can turn into a whole presentation when what I wanted was a conversation.

And sometimes I don’t have the energy for the presentation.

So I sit with it. I think about it some more. I keep moving. From the outside, there may be nothing to suggest that I’m feeling disconnected in that moment.

That’s what makes this hard to explain. Somebody can be right there with me, showing up in all the ways they know how, and still have no idea how much is happening internally.

I can’t expect the people around me to understand thoughts I haven’t shared. I know that. I also know how frustrating it feels to want to share and struggle to find a starting point.

There’s a difference between being able to talk and being able to explain what you feel.

I can talk about an idea. I can talk through a plan. Give me a problem and I’ll start looking at what’s happening, what needs to change, and what we can do next.

Ask me how I’m doing when I haven’t sorted through my own feelings, and suddenly the words are harder to find.

“I’m okay” is familiar. It gets me through the question. It lets the conversation keep moving without requiring me to name something I’m still trying to understand.

But it also means someone who cares about me might never know there was more I wanted to say.

I’ve been thinking about what it would look like to leave a little more room in that conversation. To answer, “I’m glad you called. I don’t really know how I’m doing yet.”

Or, “There’s a lot going on in my head, and I’m having a hard time explaining it.”

That feels more honest. A little uncomfortable, too.

I’m used to being able to offer direction. Sitting in a conversation without a clear answer takes something different from me. It means letting somebody hear the thought before I’ve cleaned it up. Letting a pause happen. Trusting that I can take a minute.

And I want to make room for the people who are willing to sit there with me.

I don’t need somebody to understand every idea exactly the way I do. I don’t expect the people I love to spend their days trying to keep up with everything running through my mind. That would be a full-time job, and I have enough businesses already. 😂

But sometimes I want to be able to say, “Can I talk this out with you? It might take me a minute to get to what I mean.”

Sometimes I want company while I’m figuring it out.

There’s something vulnerable about admitting that when you’re used to being capable. Especially when you’re grateful for your life and the people in it. I can find myself wanting to explain all the good things first, almost to prove I have a right to name a hard feeling.

I’m working on allowing both to be true without making a case for it.

I can love what I’m building and feel tired. I can appreciate my people and want more moments of connection. I can feel supported and still experience an aloneness that I’m learning to explain.

Saying that gives the people who care about me a more honest picture of where I am.

That’s why that call stayed with me. Somebody wanted to know how I was doing. The question gave me a reason to stop long enough to think about the answer.

I don’t have a neat resolution to this. I’m still finding the words. I’m still figuring out how to invite people into a part of my experience that can be difficult to describe.

Maybe you know exactly what I mean. Maybe you’re surrounded by love, busy doing things you care about, and still sometimes feel like there’s a whole conversation happening inside you that nobody else can hear.

If that’s you, I’m curious what you say when somebody checks in. Do you know how to explain it? Do you need a minute? Does “I’m okay” come out before you’ve even considered another answer?

Because I have the vision. I have people who care about me. And sometimes I’m still sitting with a feeling I don’t know how to put into words.

Have you ever felt like this?