Why I Moved Back into a Shared Flat—and What It Taught Me About Loneliness

“Loneliness isn’t the physical absence of other people—it’s the sense that you’re not sharing anything that matters with anyone else.” — Johann Hari

‘You moved back into a shared flat after living on your own?’

My friend stirred his coffee, the milk foam circling like a slow question.

I nodded, watching it spin. I knew what was coming.

'I’m not sure I could do that,' he added.

‘Yeah,’ I said, still unsure what to reply. I’ve had this conversation countless times. People often look at me with wide eyes, sometimes not even waiting for my explanation before jumping to conclusions about why they could never live in a shared flat again.

One former colleague once told me, “Once you’ve lived on your own, it’s impossible to move back in with others.” It struck me as ironic: I had just done what he called impossible, and I was still breathing.

We carry a lot of assumptions about adulthood. That shared living is for students. That real grown-ups have solo leases, clean kitchens, privacy, control. But with housing getting rarer, more expensive, and emotionally disconnected, maybe it’s time to question what “being grown-up” really means.

I didn’t move back just because I had to. I moved back because I felt something missing—an ache for real connection. Not just friendships or planned catch-ups, but the quiet, daily companionship of sharing space with others. I missed the laughter from the next room, the surprise of an unplanned kitchen conversation. Living alone gave me peace, but also a growing sense of invisibility. I wanted to be witnessed again.

So I invite you to explore this messy, meaningful topic with me: What happens when we return to shared spaces after claiming one of our own?

The Loneliness We Don’t Talk About

Let’s begin with a fact: we are lonelier than ever.

Living with others can help ease that loneliness, but it’s no guarantee. You can feel utterly alone in a room full of people. In a house that’s chatty and full of life or one that’s quiet and efficient, if no one truly sees you, the ache only deepens.

Living with the wrong people doesn’t help either. I’ve been there, tiptoeing into the kitchen, waiting for certain housemates to leave just so I could make tea in peace. I’d rather sit alone and face my loneliness than feel like a stranger in my own home.

But loneliness isn’t just a private feeling. It has become a social epidemic. In Lost Connections, Johann Hari writes that we’ve built lives that prize autonomy over connection, performance over presence. And sometimes, the more perfect our private spaces become, the less room we have to be human inside them.

The Apartment That Defined Me

At 25, I moved to The Hague, worked full-time in healthcare, and rented an 80-square-meter apartment with wide windows overlooking the canal. It was beautiful. A dream come true.

For nearly two years, I adored it. I clung to it. When I quit my job, I scrambled to find something nearby—not because I loved the city, but because I couldn’t bear to lose that apartment.

The mornings there were delicious. No one to disturb me, no one to want too much from me. Silence. Rhythm. Rest.

And cooking in my own, clean kitchen? That made me feel truly grown-up.

But slowly, a new thought grew: I didn’t want to work in that city, nor could I picture myself working anywhere else. The seed of a solo backpacking trip through Asia had been planted—and it kept growing.

Letting go of the apartment turned out to be harder than quitting the job.

In Between Lives

For the next few years, I traveled. I moved back in with my parents for a while. I sublet rooms across cities and never signed another long-term contract.

Sure, housing in Berlin is hard to come by. But that wasn’t the whole story. I wasn’t ready to choose yet. I needed space. Space to experience different homes, different selves. To reflect. To reorient.

And something I had pushed down while living alone in The Hague started to surface again.

At the time, I spent many evenings watching Netflix and overeating. I didn’t like those habits, but I assumed they were just part of working life. What happened when you were tired after a full-time job.

But slowly, I began to see them for what they were: coping mechanisms.

They were protecting me from two truths:

1. I was bored and unsatisfied with my life. I wasn’t writing. I wasn’t singing. My job and my friends weren’t enough. A quiet void lingered beneath the surface.
2. I was deeply lonely.

The Return: Not a Step Backward

With time, I could hold these truths more gently. My time in The Hague now feels like a younger version of me, trying to understand life. Trying to architect an adulthood that looked proper, stable—something others could recognize as successful.

Owning my own apartment felt like a badge of arrival.

And I loved it. I wore it like a crown. Shiny, visible.

But was it truly good for me?

Now, I live with three women around my age. We share values and interests. Sometimes I come home and someone’s in the kitchen, and we talk. It grounds me. I feel less adrift.

If I’m honest, I didn’t move into a shared flat purely out of emotional wisdom. I couldn’t afford a place of my own in Berlin. The housing market here makes solo living nearly impossible unless you have a high income or serious luck. So yes, in many ways, this was a financial decision. But what’s surprised me is how much I actually like living this way—especially as someone new to the city. I expected compromise. Instead, I found connection.

A Pause for Perspective

Of course, I don’t want to romanticize shared living. My experience has been shaped by finding wonderful housemates and a bright, spacious flat with a big kitchen and living area. Things that make connection easier, and cleaning less of a fight.

I know it’s not always like that.

Sharing space depends on so many things: finding the right people, letting go of furniture and belongings, adapting to noise, rhythm, different needs. For many, it’s not practical or appealing—and for some, moving in with a partner or building a family home feels more aligned.

I understand that.

For me, it’s also worth naming: the usual path shaped by capitalism and patriarchy — solo lease, partner, mortgage, private everything — is not the only version of adulthood. Shared living in your thirties and beyond can be a conscious, creative choice. One that invites new forms of relationship, interdependence, and community. One that asks us to rethink what home really means, and who gets to define it.

The Edges of Shared Life

What I still struggle with in shared flats is this: I’m afraid of being a burden. I’m afraid of being too much.

I sing. Loudly, sometimes. Emotionally. Maybe even a bit dramatically. And other times, I come home completely drained—just hoping no one is there. Wanting to collapse on the couch, not explain myself, not perform emotional availability.

But here’s the thing. Those fears? They point right at the work I still have to do.

The first one—being afraid that I’m too noisy, too much? That’s the good girl in me. The one who always tries to please. The one afraid to take up space.

Well, f*ck that.

I want to take up space. I want to know that my voice matters. I’m learning to say, “I need this time to sing,” and then figure out how to make it work. With honesty and care, not apology.

The second fear—of always needing to be available or emotionally "fine"—that’s old people-pleasing, too. But shared living has shown me something different. More often than not, even when I dreaded the interaction, talking to my housemates left me lighter. Uplifted. Seen.

I’ve learned I can say: “I need quiet tonight.” And they get it. I don’t have to be cheerful all the time. I don’t have to make sure everyone’s okay.

They’ll still like me.

These are skills I wouldn’t have developed without shared living. The version of me who once shapeshifted to fit the mood of a household is learning to hold her shape. I know myself better now. And that makes sharing space feel less like performance and much more like home.

What Are We Really Afraid Of?

'I could never live in a shared flat again, the kitchens are always such a mess.'

I’ve heard this many times.

Guess what? Our kitchen is clean 90 percent of the time. We all care. We all clean.

So maybe it’s not the mess on the counters.

It could be the mess we bring home in our hearts, the grief we don’t know how to explain, the shame we’d rather bury in spotless routines.

What if the fear isn’t about the dirty dishes at all, but about being seen when we don’t have it all together?

Living alone gave me control. I could curate every surface of my life, right down to the lighting. But lately I’ve started to wonder if I was building a sanctuary—or a place to hide.

Now, I sometimes voice my sadness in front of a housemate while holding a tea towel. I laugh louder because someone hears me. I bump into someone at midnight in the kitchen, and we talk about nothing until it becomes something.

Maybe this isn’t regression. Maybe this is intimacy.

Not the kind that’s curated or earned, but the kind that just shows up in sweatpants and asks, Are you okay?

Maybe that’s not weakness.

Maybe that’s just life again: unfiltered, shared, and beautifully messy.

I’m always amazed anyone makes it to the end of a long, personal essay—so truly, thank you. Writing like this helps me make sense of the world, and the hope is always that it offers something back to whoever’s reading.

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