Friendless and Fine? Rethinking Loneliness

When we hear the word “friendless,” it’s hard not to imagine a person consumed by loneliness—isolated, and lacking something essential in their lives. But does being without friends really mean being lonely?

New research suggests otherwise.

A recent study published in the Canadian Review of Sociology by Laura Eramian, Peter Mallory, and Morgan Herbert complicates our understanding of what it means to be disconnected. Drawing from interviews with 21 people in an Atlantic Canadian city—men and women, ranging from 18 to 75, with diverse life stories, income levels, and gender identities—the researchers examined how people who have few or no friends experience their lives. Some were students, others were tradespeople, artists, retirees, or service workers. Many lived alone. Some had once been socially active and then pulled away. Others had always been on the margins of social life. The researchers uncovered something surprising: many participants were not suffering from chronic loneliness. Some expressed contentment with their solitude, especially when it aligned with other life priorities like career, personal independence, or emotional safety.

This research challenges a common cultural assumption: that friendlessness must be both involuntary and emotionally painful. As the authors point out, societal narratives often frame friendlessness as a kind of personal failing—a signal that someone is awkward, unlikeable, or unable to form relationships. But for some people, friendlessness is neither tragic nor temporary.

While some participants did describe their friendlessness as painful—Audrey, for instance, a 26-year-old student, said with a breaking voice, “It is really, really lonely; not having that connection. It’s a pervasive feeling.” Many others offered a surprisingly different narrative: they were fulfilled.

Take Mike, a 72-year-old retired police officer. “I’m my own best friend,” he said. “I know that I’m a good person… I have a lot of hobbies that interest me… that other stuff [friendlessness] is over there on the back burner.” His sense of identity wasn’t defined by social ties, but rather anchored in autonomy.

Sam, a 32-year-old tradesman, had gone through a difficult divorce in his twenties. For a time, he described himself as a “sad sack.” But he transformed his friendless life into one of productivity and self-growth. “Instead of trying to have people around me, I put my time into building skills or working on hobbies. Honestly, I think it made me a better person.”

Friendlessness, the study shows, doesn’t always stem from rejection. Sometimes, it stems from choice or life’s shifting seasons. One participant, Harold, a photographer in his seventies, explained that while he didn’t have close friends, he preferred solitude over “being around people who don’t have enough intellectual horsepower.” Others, like Sean, a 32-year-old lawyer, said they focused on “other metrics” of a good life—career success, family, and personal fulfillment.

Importantly, our judgments about friendlessness are shaped by cultural scripts. In North American society, autonomy is often celebrated until it looks like disconnection, and working long hours can earn either admiration or pity. Perhaps the same can be said about friendlessness: In the absence of friends, we read the person as either admirably independent or tragically isolated. Rarely do we allow for a more complex middle ground.

This research is especially important during times when cultural emphasis on connection— holidays, weddings —can heighten the pressure to be socially active. It reminds us to pause before making assumptions. Someone who appears “alone” may be entirely at peace.

Friendlessness does not always equal loneliness. Sometimes, it’s a deliberate choice, not a sign of social worth: If we see someone who’s alone, we needn’t assume they’re unhappy. And if we find ourselves in a season of solitude, we needn’t assume we’re doing something, or that we simply are “wrong.” Perhaps what matters more than the presence or absence of friendship is how we interpret it—and whether we leave room for others, and ourselves, to find meaning in the solitude of life.