A few nights ago, I went out for dinner with two friends. Nothing fancy — good food, the usual catching up. At some point, the conversation drifted into a familiar territory: loneliness.

As they talked about their feelings of loneliness — and how deeply they empathized with each other — I listened and realized something that surprised even me: I didn’t fully relate. Not because I don’t have moments of solitude — I do — but because I don’t experience loneliness in the same way.

And that’s when I started thinking about why.

Recently, while reading about Japanese culture and linguistics, I came across a concept called amae (甘え). It’s a word with no perfect translation in English, but it roughly describes the desire to depend on someone else’s kindness — the comfort of being able to lean on others, to be vulnerable, to trust that your needs will be met without having to ask too much or explain yourself.

• In many ways, amae goes completely against the Western ideal of independence. We are taught — implicitly and explicitly — that strength means self-sufficiency. That needing others is weakness. That adulthood is about handling things on your own. And for many reasons, including my childhood and past experiences, I realized how deeply I’ve internalized that idea.

Maybe because of that, I don’t fear loneliness — but I do struggle with intimacy.

I’m very good at being independent. I rarely ask for help. I don’t easily show vulnerability. I keep emotional doors half-open, just in case. And while this mindset has protected me in many ways, it has also kept people at a certain distance. That’s why amae stayed with me.

• Because embedded in that concept is a permission I rarely give myself: the permission to need. To rely. To soften. To let someone see the parts of you that don’t have it all figured out.

Of course, amae has its shadows too — dependency can become unhealthy, expectations can become heavy. But what struck me is how different the starting point is. Instead of glorifying emotional self-reliance, it acknowledges something very human: that we were never meant to do everything alone.

• Maybe that’s something we struggle with in the West. We know how to stand on our own feet, but not always how to lean — even when leaning wouldn’t mean falling.

I left that dinner thinking that maybe loneliness isn’t always about absence. For me, it’s about the distance we create ourselves. Emotional distance. Protective distance. The kind that keeps us safe, but also slightly isolated.

I’m not sure where the balance is yet — between being strong and being soft, between independence and connection. But lately, I’ve been wondering what would change if I allowed myself a little more amae.

With love,
Micael