Silence, Presence, and Longing

Silence, Presence, and Longing

Day After Day

Pocatello is a lonely place for me. Not in the way most people imagine loneliness—a quiet apartment, a few empty streets. It’s a loneliness that presses, that fills every corner, every hour, every thought. A loneliness measured not in empty rooms, but in the absence of connection, the absence of being chosen.

Most days, my phone does not ring. My messages go unanswered. Notifications do not come. On 95% of days, it is silent. The silence isn’t peaceful. It isn’t restorative. It’s a reminder. A reminder that if I want a human presence in my life, I must make it happen. I must reach out. I must call, text, invite. But rarely, if ever, is it offered to me. No one asks me to join. No one thinks to include me. And I know, in my rational mind, that it’s not malicious—it’s just the world as it exists here. But that knowledge doesn’t soothe the ache.

I have been here almost two years. Two years of silence, two years of absence, two years in which the idea of social life in Pocatello has been reduced to nearly nothing. Six moments, that is all. Six times I have left my own walls to meet another human in a truly social way. Six times in almost 730 days. Each time was a gift. Each time was fleeting. And yet, they remind me of what I am missing: not people in general, but people who long for me as I long for them, people who choose me first, above all others.

Reflections on Isolation

I know part of the responsibility lies with me. There was a season when I needed absolute isolation. There was a time when the weight of my loss—of what was no longer shared with me—was too heavy to bear in the presence of others. Every street, every store, every familiar face was a reminder of absence. Even in the smallest gestures, even in passing conversations, I felt the weight of what was no longer. Presence became painful because it reflected loss. Every interaction was a mirror, every absence a confirmation.

So I withdrew. I made a bubble of solitude. And I learned many truths in that bubble. I learned what it feels like to be utterly alone. I learned what it feels like when the world moves on without you. I learned that silence can teach, if you are willing to listen.

The Work That Fills the Hours

And yet, I am not idle. My days are spent in small, quiet service. Helping the family business—moving boxes, organizing inventory, grunt work that leaves my body tired but my mind mostly untested. Helping my roommate with her priorities. Tasks done, lives kept running, and yet rarely any personal interaction beyond the transactional. My presence is felt only in labor, in service, in things done, rather than shared.

It is not unworthy work. I do it gladly. I find value in it. And yet, when the work ends and the day’s labor is complete, I return to silence. To the emptiness of a life largely unseen. A dog at my side, my only companion in presence if not in consciousness, and a phone that does not ring, that does not vibrate, that does not affirm that I exist in the minds or hearts of anyone else.

The Quietness of Social Life

I am social, by nature. I crave sociality. But here, social life is scarce. Outside of work or volunteerism, it is almost nonexistent. I cannot count on spontaneous invitations, shared afternoons, or even fleeting moments of connection in a coffee shop or a park. The city offers me little beyond obligation, schedule, and necessity.

And yet, I long for it. I long for people who seek me, who choose me, who make it clear that I am valued first and foremost. I long for the shared laughter, the random meetings, the casual exchanges that build into belonging. I long for a world where my presence matters to someone simply because it does.

Moments of Hope

There are tiny flickers. Small gestures that remind me that connection is still possible. A friend who remembers me in a text, a neighbor who asks how my day is, a stranger who smiles when we pass on the street. These moments are few, but they are precious. They are proof that life is not wholly barren.

And I carry them like fire in my chest. They are reminders that the world can still include me. That even in this city of silence, even in this landscape of absence, I am not entirely invisible.

The Difference Between Being Kept and Being Chosen

Perhaps the most important lesson of this long, quiet chapter has been understanding the difference between being kept and being chosen. To be kept is to exist in someone’s life by circumstance, by convenience, by obligation. To be chosen is to exist because your presence is wanted, because your being matters, because your absence would leave a void.

I have been kept before, in ways subtle and not-so-subtle. I have been present, and yet ignored, required, but not desired. I have been someone’s obligation instead of someone’s choice. And I have learned that I will never accept that again. Not in this life, not in the next. I will only allow myself to be chosen.

The Hope of the Future

I will move soon. And though I do not expect a magical social awakening, I do expect change. I will be somewhere different, somewhere alive. Somewhere that aligns with my lifestyle, my values, my desire for connection. And I will continue to hold on to the hope that, one day, I will be seen. That my presence will matter. That my time, my devotion, my very being will be valued not out of duty, but because it is chosen.

Until then, I live in this quiet. I work. I serve. I care. I reflect. I long. And I love myself enough to know that silence, while heavy, is not the end. It is the space in which the heart can learn what it truly wants, the body can know its own resilience, and the soul can prepare for the world it has yet to enter.

The Company of Self and the Faithful Dog

In this quiet, I have learned the sacredness of presence without expectation. I have learned the companionship of a dog who waits, who loves without judgment, who offers attention without obligation. In these moments, I am reminded that connection can be simple, profound, and wholly sustaining—even when it comes in small, quiet packages.

For now, it is just me. My dog. My solitude. And the deep, unwavering hope that the next chapter will be richer, louder, and more alive than this one has been.

Closing Reflections

Pocatello will always be a chapter in my life. A chapter of silence, absence, reflection, and longing. A chapter that taught me the weight of being unseen, the ache of being kept rather than chosen, and the power of hope.

I will carry these lessons with me. And when I finally leave, when I step into the next city, the next life, I will do so with the understanding that being chosen is sacred, that connection is precious, and that even in silence, there is preparation, learning, and the quiet shaping of the soul.