Wandering in a Crowd of Strangers

This exploration of solitude begins with a personal journey—my first encounter with loneliness. Even though it happened so many years ago, it remains one of my earliest memories, and I find it almost amusing that, from the very beginning, loneliness was there. I didn’t know then that it would become a constant companion through different stages of my life.

I lived in a house on the outskirts of the city, in a neighborhood surrounded by industrial garages and closed doors. My parents worked tirelessly, hoping to give me everything they had lacked in their own lives, sacrificing their time and energy. Meanwhile, I waited in daycare until every other child had gone home, waiting for my parents to pick me up, just to have dinner, sleep, and repeat the routine.

My grandparents, who babysat me, were often busy with chores, so I explored the empty house and my imagination. I had a few scraps of paper, old clothes, a TV, and a handful of toys. The world was simple, empty, but still a marvel.

And yet, there was an unshakable feeling—an ache for something more, a yearning I couldn’t name.

When I turned seven, my family could finally afford to move to an apartment complex in a neighborhood full of families, small but beautiful houses, and parks.

On our first day there, a Saturday afternoon, I was amazed by the playground in the complex. It was alive with children—laughing, running, and playing together. As the shy kid who was used to playing alone after daycare, the playground seemed like a new world filled with the possibility… of belonging.

I grabbed a tricycle, a gift from a past Christmas, while my parents were busy unpacking. I rushed to the playground, eager to play, to laugh, to share with the kids I’d been watching from my apartment window. I circled around the park, observing the children in groups: playing soccer, jumping around, sliding down the slides.

At first, I was excited, but soon I started to feel intimidated. I realized I didn’t know how to approach these kids, how to talk to them, or how to join their games. I watched how effortlessly they engaged with one another—laughing, connecting, becoming friends. Each lap around the playground left me feeling more uncertain. The playground seemed to expand, and the groups of children appeared to drift further and further away.

Then suddenly, as if it were a sign, my tricycle broke. It snapped into two pieces. I stood there in the center of the playground, which had once been filled with colors and possibilities; now, everything suddenly felt gray.

I stood there, holding the broken pieces, watching the other children, so effortlessly connected, and wondered: What secret allowed them to belong? What did they have that I lacked?

And so I stood there, surrounded by a crowd of strangers, feeling small, broken, and incredibly alone.

I’m not sure if this is what people mean when they talk about the moment we first become conscious of ourselves. But there I was, wondering if the days once filled with wide halls of imagination, cartoons, and toys had been replaced by questions I couldn’t answer. Where was the class that taught you how to make friends? Did everyone feel this way? Was simply being surrounded by people never enough to fill that ache for connection?

I picked up my broken tricycle and walked back to my apartment—my new "home." With boxes everywhere, furniture still unassembled, and adults rushing around too busy to notice me, too busy to notice the broken toy or the broken heart.