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Loneliness
Mental Health
5 min read

What Bobby Brazier, Jo Marsh and Eleanor Rigby have in common

A public health campaign asks influencers if they are lonely.

Belle Tindall

Belle is the staff writer at Seen & Unseen and co-host of its Re-enchanting podcast.

a young man looks pensive as he answers a questuon while sitting in a fancy room.
Bobby Brazier at 10 Downing Street.
NHS.

‘Loneliness. It’s a part of life. Let’s talk about it’  

That’s the new slogan offered by the NHS in partnership with the Department for Culture, Media and Sport. As part of their campaign, they recently invited young influencers and TV personalities to Downing Street to do just that – to talk about loneliness.  

With those aged between 16 and 29 now twice as likely to report feeling lonely as those over 70, these celebrities were tasked with answering a few of the questions most asked by people within that age group. Their questions went along these heart-wrenching lines:  

Why am I so lonely?  

Is it normal to feel lonely?  

Will I always be this lonely?  

And while their answers to such questions were a little ‘meh’ (whose wouldn’t be? They were given seven seconds to answer some of humanity’s deepest questions), it doesn’t much matter, their answers weren’t really the point. Rather, viewers were presented with a handful of popular, successful, lovable (looking at you, Bobby Brazier) and happy looking people doing something notoriously difficult: admitting loneliness.  

And I think that may be the point.  

I am of the firm opinion that admitting to feeling lonely is one of the hardest things a person could do. I have certainly never had the bravery to do it.  

I remember watching Greta Gerwig’s 2019 adaptation of the beloved 1868 novel, Little Women, for the first time; I was always going to love it, I had decided as much before even stepping foot in the cinema. But there was one scene that felt as if it literally took my breath away. I was left winded in row C.  

It is toward the end of the film, and Jo Marsh, the feisty, strong and independent protagonist, is giving a feminist monologue  for the ages (albeit to her mum) as she stands in the attic of her childhood home. Jo speaks of women’s minds and souls, their ambitions and talents, she explains how sick she is of being underestimated, getting more impassioned with every word. That is, until she tearily ends her speech by declaring – ‘…but I’m so lonely.’ 

This isn’t in the book.  

This final line was written by Greta Gerwig specifically for this adaptation. And the only person who seemed to be more taken aback by Jo’s words than me (an owner of more editions of the novel than is cool to admit), was Jo herself, who instinctively clasped her hand to her mouth as if she couldn’t believe that she’d just said such words aloud.  

As far as filmmaking goes, it was genius. As far as human nature is concerned, it was, well, true. 

Not only do we find loneliness acutely painful, but we also tend to find it near impossible to admit to, so much so, the government currently feels the need to step in. Why is that, I wonder? Why does ‘lonely’ seem to be the hardest word? 

Those who admit to their own loneliness are wading into profoundly vulnerable waters. 

Part of it is certainly because there is a social stigma attached to feeling lonely. Ironic, isn’t it? How loneliness has social connotations. Nobody wants to be Eleanor Rigby, nor Father McKenzie, nor any of ‘the lonely people’ that Paul McCartney so pities, for that matter. It’s one of the only Beatles songs you wouldn’t want to have been written about you. Loneliness feels like a failure somehow, and so we struggle to admit it, even to ourselves. A failure because, we’re supposed to be self-sufficient, independent, free-thinking, emotionally-sturdy individuals (which is the operative word, of course). That’s what individualism has taught us, isn’t it? And so, how do we reconcile that with the piercing pain of isolation? How do we admit that there’s a deep crack within us that can’t be papered over by success, or wealth, or another episode of our favourite podcast? How do we go about admitting such a lack? A lack, which despite individualism’s best efforts, has us naturally wondering why it’s there in the first place; are we unpopular? Unattractive? Unlikable? Or worst of all, unlovable?  

Those who admit to their own loneliness are wading into profoundly vulnerable waters. And most of us are utterly unwilling to follow them there, lest we be spotted by a budding Paul McCartney and our loneliness be immortalised.  

And then, of course, there’s the other side of the coin: what does our loneliness say about the people who we are in relationship with? Nobody wants to unleash the panic and guilt tucked away in that can of worms (which, I must note, is unnecessary panic and guilt - there could be any number of reasons you’re feeling lonely, despite your very rich relationships).  

And so, we just don’t say the word. And that’s what appears to be making the NHS and, rather randomly now that I think about it, the Department for Culture, Media and Sport so nervous.  

We need to admit when we’re lonely. We have to pull a Jo Marsh and say it out loud. We must give language to the lack that we feel.  

To be known and loved is my deepest and truest need.

One of the things that I find myself most consistently thankful for when it comes to my Christian faith (you know, apart from the most obvious aspects…) is that it gives me such language. At the risk of sounding annoyingly self-centred, it dignifies the feelings that I find hard to even acknowledge. It offers explanation, and therefore, a comfort that I could never find anywhere else; a comfort rooted in truth.  

It may sound nuts, but I have come to understand the reality of loneliness, not through influencers on a sofa in Downing Street (although that’s great), and not even through Jo Marsh’s monologue (which is even greater), but through an ancient Hebrew poem. This poem tells me that to be alone is ‘not good’.  

Not good. Not right. Not as it should be.  

That’s God’s point of view at least – that to be alone, properly, completely and permanently alone, goes against the very fabric of the world. It is at odds with human flourishing. I’ve come to deeply value how concrete that is. I’ve also learnt to relax into the knowledge that not only is loneliness ‘normal’ (referring to one to the questions referenced at the beginning), it’s natural, in every possible sense of the word.  

To be known and loved is my deepest and truest need. I was designed for relationship, with God and with people. And therefore – with all the complex ways that life unfolds - to be lonely, is to be human.  

So, with all of this in mind, I’m tempted to end where we began, to come full circle and once again borrow the government’s words: 

‘Loneliness. It’s a part of life. Let’s talk about it.’  

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War & peace
7 min read

How to disagree agreeably

How do we converse passionately about controversial topics without falling out or falling into war? Jörg Friedrichs shares his insights after a difficult conversation with a colleague.
Two 1950's men un suits sit at a table dominated by a large hanging microphone. One points a raise hand and finger into the air. The other listens.
A 1951 BBC debate between Iorwerth Thomas MP and Gwynfor Evans Teitl.
Llyfrgell Genedlaethol Cymru / The National Library of Wales, vis Unsplash.

Last year in spring, I bumped into an academic colleague whom I had not seen for a long time. I mean, we had talked over screens but not seen each other in person. He is a valued colleague, yet we ended up having a difficult conversation about the Ukraine war where we could have easily fallen out. It was close but, fortunately, did not happen, so let me share how we had a productive discussion instead. Of course, we did not end up agreeing on everything, but we did let one another finish. Avoiding an escalation was not easy then and is never easy in situations of this kind, but it is worth trying because relationships are more important than asserting personal viewpoints. 

Differences of opinion escalate easily in so many situations, especially in war-like ones. We see this with the war in Ukraine, but also in the context of the so-called culture wars. How do we disagree agreeably when people hold strong and principled views about controversial issues? Gender and lifestyle? Religion and race? How do we express a nuanced view that might question strongly held opinions, without either being labelled as something nefarious - “racist”, “woke”. Or thus labelling somebody else? What I am going to share is applicable to many situations, from the culture wars to marital disputes, from conversations over football to a post-mortem between parents when their kids have had a meltdown in the playground.  

Difficult conversations

There is no question that conflict generates false moral certainties, and it is often good to question them. Just because Russia attacked Ukraine, is anything to punish Russia justified? Conversely, just because Ukraine has suffered an attack, is it a victim nation deserving unlimited and unconditional support regardless of its own actions? Is the West, because it supports Ukraine, unquestionably in the right? Is any support of Russia, or even an attitude of neutrality, totally objectionable?  

In a war situation, people tend to look at things in a black-and-white fashion, and even-handed views are unpopular. Expressing them requires courage because partisan observers will attack us when we fail to roundly condemn one side while exonerating the other.  

How are we going to react when they do so? We will certainly feel put on the spot, but this does not disqualify their arguments. We therefore must consider their accusations with humility.  

In my conversation with the colleague, he accused me of spreading “Kremlin propaganda” when I suggested that the West should be more sensitive to the concerns expressed by Russia as a humiliated great power. Spreading Kremlin propaganda is not a minor accusation these days, and I did not feel I deserved it. I therefore found that, in a situation like this, keeping one’s patience is challenging. I was tempted to counterattack, perhaps accusing the colleague of being prejudiced. Instead, I had to take a deep breath and explain to him, as calmly as I could, that my aim was not to side with Russia but to suggest something that might have enabled, and might still enable, diplomatic negotiations and peaceful change rather than replicating a conflict that is so hugely damaging.  

From my point of view, the colleague had accused me unjustly, and so I found it difficult to render justice to what he was saying. Yet, while spreading Kremlin propaganda was not my aim, I had to recognise that part of what I had said overlapped with what a Kremlin propagandist might say. It was uncomfortable to accept that, perhaps, my colleague had put his finger on a vulnerable spot and I should take greater care to distance myself. To make things worse for myself, my colleague also pointed me to a factual inaccuracy regarding a historical detail.  In all honesty, I found it challenging to accept any form of criticism from someone who had just accused me of spreading Kremlin propaganda. Yet, the intellectual virtue of docility demanded me to concede the inaccuracy of this particular historical claim and stand corrected. I had to remember that, ultimately, what unites us is a search for truth, and that the truth can only reveal itself in a discursive spirit of give-and-take. 

Disagreeing agreeably 

We then had a productive discussion where I was able to point out that, during the crisis preceding the attack, Russia had made it very clear that the casus belli (cause of the war) had been a dispute over whether Ukraine was entitled to join a military alliance perceived as hostile by Russia. The USA and its allies insisted that this was not negotiable. Was that, and is that, worth a conflict that is killing countless people and has dire consequences for global energy and food systems? Has everything been done to avoid the war, and is everything being done to end it? While it is easy to see that Putin’s Russia is wrong, are we sure that “we” are right?  

Since the end of the Cold War, “we” (that is, Washington and its allies) have been involved in a significant number of military interventions, from Kosovo to Afghanistan and from Iraq to Libya. By comparison, Moscow has hardly been involved in any out-of-area interventions. Where Russia has invaded an adjacent country or region, as in Crimea and South Ossetia, the trigger was always the fear of a neighbouring country turning hostile. While attacking a neighbouring country is unacceptable, it seems fair to ask if the USA would stand by idly if a hostile power were extending its reach into its own regional neighbourhood (Cuba, Nicaragua, Granada). While a US attack on a country in its regional neighbourhood seems unlikely under present circumstances, there is a need to understand Russia beyond condemning the invasion of Ukraine. 

Unfortunately, propaganda from both sides has become so intense that it is becoming difficult to gain an even-handed understanding. There has even been open debate about using nuclear weapons. 35 years ago, the Cold War ended with a consensus that a nuclear war cannot be won and must never be fought. Indeed, fear of a nuclear holocaust was one of the reasons why the Cold War remained, largely, “cold.” There was communication with Moscow even under Brezhnev. Today, some would see a dialogue with Putin as treason. How can fundamental lessons of diplomacy and deterrence be unlearned so quickly?

We must value and recognize not only those whom we find it easy to empathize with, such as the Ukrainian and Russian people, but also those whom we dread and whom we fear. 

While my colleague stood his ground and reminded me, repeatedly, that “we” must punish or even humiliate Putin’s Russia for its attack on a sovereign country, we were able to have a calm debate where he listened to my arguments as much as I listened to his.  

This was only possible because I had stuck, as best I could, to a series of intellectual virtues, highlighted above in bold: courage; humility; patience; justice; docility; and search for truth. The list goes back to Nigel Biggar, a moral theologian who has adapted Christian virtues for intellectual needs. Professing such virtues is easy in principle, but hard in the heat of a real encounter. In the exchange with my colleague, I passed the test by the skin of my teeth. At other times, I fall short.  

Now, for those familiar with the lore of Christian virtues, you will know that 'six' is a weird number. Everything should come in 'sevens'. So Nigel Bigger gives us a final, seventh intellectual virtue. Charity. Quite possibly the most important.

If only we could become like brothers and sisters who are able to carry out our disagreements in love, giving each other the benefit of the doubt in having sincere intentions and reasoning to the best of our abilities.  

Of course, virtue sounds like a very grand word. Perhaps there are saintly figures who “possess” virtues as personal qualities. For the rest of us, virtues are aims to which we should strive, however much we struggle to reach them. Centuries ago, even a child would have been able to enumerate the seven virtues of Christian morality. Today, some of us may still remember the three theological virtues (love, faith and hope), but what were again the four natural or cardinal virtues? Well, never mind.  

In a twist that encapsulates the best of the Christian tradition, the virtues are not about being virtuous in a self-righteous way. Contrary to the pagan tradition where virtue is something heroic, Christian virtues are about valuing and recognizing others while humbling and decentring ourselves. We must value and recognize not only those whom we find it easy to empathize with, such as the Ukrainian and Russian people, but also those whom we dread and whom we fear. Christian virtues equip us for the arduous task of entering a dialogue with Putin’s Russia, with the view to seeking peace. Having negotiated with everyone from Stalin to the Vietcong, from Gaddafi to the Taliban, we hear today that the idea of negotiating with Putin’s Russia is naïve at best and misguided at worst. Yes, it is going to be fiendishly difficult. Yet, it is necessary. Equipped with intellectual virtues, nothing should stop us from trying. Neither should we stop trying to have conversations across the trenches, even those of the culture wars.   

Note: this post uses material from an earlier post by the same author.  

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