The Distinction & Braiding of Grief, Loneliness, and Isolation in Friendships
A conversation between Rohit Doel & Senior Editor, Mikaela Brewer, for The 44 North
How are grief, isolation, and loneliness distinct but also braided together in friendships? And what do those distinctions/braiding look like specifically for disabled folks?
Mikaela Brewer (MB): I’d love to start with how grief has shown up for you recently?
Rohit Doel ( RD): For me, it shows up in flashbacks when I'm on a walk. I was on one the other day in this place, and I saw this spot which looked like a character, Mikasa, from an anime series called “Attack on Titan.” It brings back great memories of spending time with my close friends, and going to that spot reminds me of them. I do miss and grieve those times. That memory is there—and whether it'll reappear or happen again, I have no idea—and it [brought] a sense of grieving the past. I think of my friends when I pass by the park where we used to play on the swings or go to the seaside.
And then, sometimes when I’m looking at old text messages—especially from my [birth] mother who abandoned me—it brings out rough memories. In January, after watching a football match, I saw at least 10-15 missed private calls. I thought, “Who the heck is calling me at this time?” And it was her. She [spoke] in such an aggressive tone that it stunted me and brought me to tears. It was brutal.
Certain video games also bring up grief, especially The Last of Us, which I played with two friends—one of whom passed away. It’s interesting because they’re good memories from when we played together, but they have side effects. She’s no longer there, and that’s a memory, too. We’ll get to a location or a task in the game that she was with us for, and it’s like reliving her absence. Those hurts stick.
Wishing someone was still here when they’re not anymore affects you in strange ways, even if they’re still alive. My mom’s side of the family decided they didn’t want to talk to me again, and I don’t know why. It blew up as I tried to get in contact with them. Respecting a decision that isn’t yours is grief, too.
At the same time, I wonder, “What if?” What if it could be different? What if it wasn’t like this? Grief makes you look at memories, but it also makes you question them. When I go through grief, it’s a lot of reflecting and questioning, which can be a lot and quickly become a bit too much. It can stunt you and freeze you. Others might say to “Get over it,” but I generally think that grief isn’t something you get over—you get used to it over time. It'll stick with you regardless.
MB: Yes. In my own experience, [grief is] definitely something I've learned to carry. Maybe it takes a different shape or feels less sharp over time. But you're right: It will pop up in very simple moments. You’ll have a nice memory of someone, but there’s also the hole that they're not filling—that’s what hurts. And that can feel so isolating and lonely because there’s some truth in that feeling: Only we can feel the absence of somebody in the way that we had a relationship with them. At the same time, maybe we feel more ease about navigating grief when we’re in community. So I’m wondering if you’d like to talk about that too: Does grief feel isolating or lonely to you? And what barriers to community are there?
RD: You know, I’m very much on my own and in my own flat most of the time. The main thing that keeps me going is my two close friends; I’ve strengthened my relationship with them. But also the fact that I've met a few friends on Discord channels. I want to be honest: In real life, making a community or building any sort of friendship is very, very difficult. College was rough—I made one or two friends, but over time, they became distant. At this age, making friends is tricky, and for me, most of the time, I have one or two friends in real life and the rest online. We’re all close with each other in a unique way. My only wish is to live closer to them—it would make things much easier.
I think about my community as safe people because they're quite secure. I can be whoever I want to be around them. It's a nice, relaxing place to be where you're not going to be questioned or judged. If I find it, I find community and solace through the people I’ve met on Discord, the people on PlayStation, and sometimes through you. I don't know why I'm giggling now—I think it's just my way of coping with that fact. How is it for you?
MB: Well, one thing I love that you mentioned is mending relationships—and I know it was a tumultuous time when things were unravelling. But if part of community is safety, part of safety is conflict and how you remain a safe person for others and for yourself through it. I’ve been thinking about that a lot in my relationships. In what ways do we navigate disagreement, conflict, and the ways we’re hurt by the world in the context of grieving? Five or six people in my life have died since December 2025, which is a lot. Two of them I was quite close with. And what I've noticed in these past few months is that when I'm angry or when I don’t feel like my best self. I’m trying to ask: How do I maintain relationships with people or talk to them in that case? Or how can they be more patient/understanding? In terms of navigating grief, these elements are less “romanticized.” It’s a messy process, like you said. So often, when we're grieving, especially with other people, we’re angry or don't show up the way we'd like to.
RD: I agree. With grief, there are weird things that happen to your psyche. I feel happy one day, and another time soon after, I don’t know what the hell is going on. You fall out of control, not necessarily in a bad way, but in a way that you can't really question.
One thing I’ve learned about grief is that there’s no end point. I’m thinking about Stranger Things, particularly the final episode where Hopper is talking to Mike about Eleven’s death. It stuck with me. Hopper says something like: “You have two roads ahead of you. There’s one road where you can replay everything that happened, kick yourself, and keep blaming yourself. Or, there's the second road where you can accept what's happened even though you don't agree with it or like what happened. You can accept her decision, and you can accept that it wasn't your fault.” He doesn’t say to move on from it, which I liked. The grief will always stick with you, but at least there can be peace.
That scene hasn’t left me because there are things in my life that I wish had happened. I wish that I had most of my family with me, but I don’t. And sometimes I wonder, question, and reflect. I say, “Why, how?” Eventually I did accept what happened, even though I don't like the resolution. And sometimes that's what brings me a bit of comfort and peace. Grief doesn’t always offer closure. It annoys me when people can but don’t give closure. That might be one of the worst things you can do as a human being. Maybe some situations don’t deserve it, but I think we should consider closure because there’s a whole other person on the other end. We’re not AI or robots.
Ultimately, there's peace in that sense of accepting loss, but surrounding yourself with people you love remains the main thing. I really do miss people, in a lot of ways, all the time. Even with my close friends, soon after I hang up a call, I immediately miss them a lot. I don't know why, even though I know they’re just going to bed. I can’t get rid of the racing feeling of waiting for them to come online again. I quite literally tell myself: “What's going on? Whoa, slow down. We're going to meet again.”
MB: I feel that too, truthfully. And I wonder if it’s connected to how isolated and lonely we are in so many other parts of our lives. We're all craving that sort of connection, built into our day. Does that make sense?
RD: Yes, and the funny thing is, I do think our humanity, as we know it, has become more robotic in a way. Two weeks ago, I deleted my Twitter account because it felt too robotic. There are too many bots. The generative interaction that once existed is completely dead and feels over. But I do feel like a lot of this is tied to how much we work—the pure amount of time that people are working. It’s 40-, 50-, 60-hour work weeks with limited breaks. Socializing and interacting with people [outside of work] is a must, really. And sometimes, I do feel afraid of a future where I'm too isolated. And look, I don't mind spending time on my own, but sometimes not all the time. It's uncomfortable for a reason. That's why I spend time with people even as background noise, just so I know someone's there.
MB: Yeah. I wonder if we’re actually, in fact, grieving that absence of connection, without identifying it as such. It's grief. You're right: So many of our relationships are work-related, which have this particular performance attached to them. You perform in your job; you're not your most authentic self (as much as you can try to be). It's still “professional” in the sense that you're not as able to be as fully yourself as you might be with friends or family. So maybe we grieve that—the absence of that. And maybe that’s what we feel after we spend time with people. We feel a strange kind of hangover.
RD: Yeah, it’s a weird aftereffect, but so important to recognize.
MB: I’m grateful we're talking about it because I've never thought of it that way. You just opened my brain like the math meme. Thank you for this.
RD: Of course. Thank you. I enjoyed speaking with you!
Rohit Doel
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