Jesus chose the lonely places, so I’ve been trying the spiritual disciple of solitude

I remember sitting cross-legged at a youth camp, awkwardly trying to catch the eye of the girl I had a crush on. The young man on stage was trying to hold the attention of a room buzzing with teenage hormones. He knew he didn’t stand a chance. I was barely listening, distracted by my infatuation. Yet, one thing stuck with me. Holding up a diamond, he told us we were each unique, unlike anyone else who had ever lived.

I’m sure you’ve heard the same – and maybe, like me, you’ve said it to others. It’s true: we are wonderfully, incomparably unique. Just look at your fingertips, the swirls and ridges formed in the womb, as distinct as a zebra’s stripes or a leopard’s spots. But as I’ve grown older, I’ve realised there’s a shadow side to our uniqueness: aloneness. 

No one will ever see, feel or experience the world exactly as we do. We walk through life surrounded by people we love and who love us, yet often feel as lonely as a cloud — to borrow from Wordsworth.

It’s easy to distract ourselves from this loneliness. There’s always a friend to call, a screen to scroll or a job to lose ourselves in. Entertainment and information are endless, so much so that you could go a lifetime without having to wrestle with your own thoughts. Yet, loneliness has a way of catching us off guard sometimes, like when Netflix asks: “Are you still watching?” and the black screen reflects your face back at you, pulling you into a moment of self-awareness. You are, for a second, invited back into your one, precious life.

Carl Jung once treated a man plagued by anxiety, insecurity and misery. His advice was surprisingly simple: reduce your workday, go home and spend your evenings alone. The man returned weeks later, unchanged. Jung asked how he’d spent his time, and the man listed the books he’d read and the music he’d played. Jung replied: “But you didn’t understand. I wanted you to be completely alone.” Terrified, the man said: “I can’t think of worse company.” To which Jung responded: “Yet this is the self you inflict on others every day.”

I recently went on a 24-hour retreat, hoping to pray, write and catch up on sleep. But embracing intentional solitude was harder than I expected. Without the distractions of daily life, I was ambushed by grief, shame and worry. For the first hour, I wrestled with anxious thoughts before finally giving in, tears spilling onto my cheeks.

Henri Nouwen said: “The movement from loneliness to solitude is the beginning of any spiritual life.” It’s a shift from restless craving to restful searching, from fearful clinging to fearless play. Like the man Jung treated, I had to face myself in my aloneness – and believe that God would meet me there.

Jesus often withdrew to desolate and “lonely” places (Luke 5:16). He knew the risk of losing oneself in the crowd — whether that crowd is people, work or endless noise. In solitude, he met with God, finding nourishment for his soul. To stand before God without distraction or disguise, and know you are loved, is a profound realisation.

In my years as a pastor, people often asked: “Why doesn’t God speak to me?” I think the answer lies in this truth: God doesn’t speak to shadows. He seeks the real, present you – not the curated, performative version. Jesus told a story about two men who prayed in the temple. One boasted of his good deeds; the other simply said: “God, have mercy on me, a sinner” (Luke 18:13). It was the second man whom God heard. Solitude strips away our falsehoods, allowing grace to meet us as we are.