Loneliness is no longer something strange for Afghan girls like me. Back home, I sometimes wished for silence, for space to breathe. I thought: God, let me face hardship, let me struggle, but let me study and be strong. At that time, I did not know how heavy loneliness could truly be. I thought being alone would mean peace, focus, or freedom. I never imagined it would mean a quiet emptiness that follows you everywhere.
Now, far from my family, I realize what I once asked for. There is no mother to wipe my tears, no father to remind me not to skip breakfast, no sister whose kindness warms me every day, no brother who tries to make me smile when I’m sad. In this place, I have only myself. And maybe this is the first lesson of exile: no one will stay forever, except yourself. You must become your own safe place.
The days pass quickly but feel empty. I sit in the library for hours—not always to study but just to be around people. I choose the same corner, the same table, because it feels like my little world inside something huge. Sometimes I wish I had never left home, never grown into this age where I had to carry all this weight on my own shoulders.
Loneliness is not always about being physically alone. It is about the fears you carry with you. When I go somewhere by myself, I sometimes feel afraid because I was a girl who had never been alone before. I won’t say I have become very strong yet, but slowly I am learning. Yes, I have cried—many times, maybe too much. But each time I fall, I stand up again. That is what life in exile teaches you: to rebuild yourself, again and again.
Sometimes loneliness is not the absence of people but the absence of someone who truly sees you. Maybe you will feel it too: it takes only one person asking, “How are you?” for all your strength to break and your tears to fall without control. Sometimes all you need is one embrace, one safe place where you can cry and feel less alone. And when you don’t have it, you learn to hold yourself.
For myself, I keep repeating: one day, far from here, I will be strong enough that I will no longer cry in front of anyone. I will learn to keep my tears for myself and carry only my strength outside. I’m not there yet, but I’m on the way. And maybe strength is not about never crying. Maybe it is about crying but still continuing.
Still, there are fears that haunt me. In Afghanistan, the internet is now limited. I wonder: what if one day I can no longer hear my family’s voices, no longer see their faces, no longer send a simple “I miss you”? Will my life be reduced to pictures on my phone screen?
Loneliness teaches you strange lessons. It teaches you to eat alone, to walk alone. It teaches you to face the mirror and say: this is who I have—myself.
To the Afghan girls who are living the same story in different corners of the world, I want to say: do not be ashamed if you feel weak. Do not blame yourself if you cry. Being far from home, carrying the memories of a broken country, missing the ones you love—this weight is too heavy for anyone. You are not weak because you feel it. You are human.
Maybe one day, you too will feel what I feel: the silence of your room will not defeat you anymore. Instead, you will use it. You will study, write, dream, and build yourself in that silence. The same loneliness that once scared you will one day make you powerful.
For now, I walk through my days with hope. I wake up, I carry my laptop, I sit in the library, I write my thoughts. Sometimes I feel tired, I feel broken. But then I remind myself: I’m walking toward something. This is not the end of my story.
Maybe you will have days when you say enough, when you feel you cannot take another step. But you will. Somehow you will. And when you look back, you will realize how far you have come.
Loneliness in exile is hard. It is heavy. But it is also a teacher. It will teach you how to rely on yourself, how to hold your heart, how to find strength in your own company. And when the day comes that you are no longer alone, you will be grateful for the strength you built in these quiet, painful, lonely nights.
I am still learning. I am still struggling. But I am also growing. And maybe, just maybe, that is enough for now.
