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Last week’s newsletter was one I was afraid to send out into the world, and initially, I didn’t.

Many people (women, mainly) wrote and urged me to share it.

Despite feeling extra vulnerable, I sent out: The Single Life: On Exclusion, Loneliness and Understanding.

The response was terrific. Single women weighed in via comments, some people sent me texts, and others sent me emails.

My piece is just one half of a larger conversation, and I’d like to share the side that weighed in to explain why their single friends often get shafted.

Some is expected, but certain things are unexpected.

A single mother friend whom I deeply adore texted to say that the weeks she’d been thinking about me turned into months because it was hard to find time to hang out and— this next part is important— she’s under the mistaken assumption that if she can’t offer time then she shouldn’t text, or respond to a text.

RELATABLE.

This is an understandable dilemma, and I’ve been there before. It was helpful, and as we advance, I’ll be mindful of that dilemma, and shift my own thwarted thinking that not hearing from her means she doesn’t want to see me, or be friends anymore.

Instead of being able to sit with uncertainty, we often spin a story to satisfy the sense of certainty we crave—and we believe the story despite this fact: the story is always fiction.

Another friend wrote to say that the sentiment flows both ways. Sometimes, she said, it’s single people who exclude couples because married people with kids are boring and mainstream.

I think this can be true, for sure.

At the same time, this can only be true if social focus is exclusively on family and kid life, topics in which single people can’t equally participate, instead of on more universal ideas and issues.

Another friend weighed in with a thoughtful email that, with permission, I will share. All emphasis is mine.

“Here's my personal experience with this:

I have two kids.

I love love love going out and seeing my non-parent friends, and I regret that I don't see them more. But I generally don't invite them to most things, because most things in my life involve having kids around, and...

When an activity involves kids, the activity revolves around kids.

Even if it's just a dinner party where the adults aspire to talk with each other, the kids require constant attention, will constantly interrupt, must be continuously engaged with, and will always make the event about themselves.

As a result, the adults don't actually get to talk that much.

I find this infuriating and demoralizing, truly.

The thing I love most — most! — is meeting and exchanging ideas with interesting people. And when kids are around, that's just literally not possible. You cannot have an extended conversation.

At all.

You have small, frustrating bursts of conversations, punctuated with breaking up fights, dealing with a kid who's crying or hurt or being mean or whatever, or just engaging the kids as they buzz around you, even though there's an entire house with other kids to play with but they insist on being RIGHT THERE in your face demanding your attention.

It makes it very hard to get to know people.

So I don't generally invite my non-parent friends to this stuff because...

a) I assume they'll hate it. (I mean, I would, if I didn't have kids.)

b) I'll barely be able to talk with them anyway.

Parents enter into these social moments with a different calculus: They're basically there because it entertains their kids, and they have no other choice.

If I could choose between an event with kids, or an event without kids, I would choose without kids EVERY SINGLE TIME. But that is not my life.

For this reason, when I'm with my friends who don't have kids, I also never talk about my kids — because I assume they find that boring.

Am I making an incorrect assumption? I guess maybe?

But also, I think it's boring to talk about kids... and I have kids!

I hate when parents get together and talk about their kids. That's the exact opposite of exchanging interesting ideas with interesting people.

Anyway, the point is, here's one thing to add to your otherwise very comprehensive and thoughtful analysis of how this social divide occurs: It's that, for parents, the experience of getting together is primarily an experience of managing children, and we just assume (rightly? wrongly?) that people without kids wouldn't enjoy that.

When I asked my friend if I could share this generous email, he sent me an eye-opening response:

Absolutely!

Feel free to use anything/everything I wrote, but please don't include my name.

Here's why — it's another thing about parenting, which you're welcome to share: People are INCREDIBLY judgmental about parenting. You cannot complain about parenting without someone thinking that you don't love your children, that you aren't engaged enough as a parent, that you're taking something for granted, or that you're somehow doing it wrong or missing some fundamental joy of life.

For that reason, I almost never talk truthfully about parenting in public — and as you know, I have a sizable platform.

This might also be one of the reasons that you don't get a lot of information about parenting from parents.

They're genuinely afraid of talking honestly about it. 

This blew my mind.

As someone preternaturally incapable of lying about how hard things are for me, I find “Andrew’s” existence as a parent also quite lonely. That particular loneliness isn’t something I’ve given much space to. I will now.

Single people can always complain to other single people about how much dating sucks, and while being single can be remarkably lovely (it really can) it can also be lonely. There is no shaming one another for these difficult truths.

All I can say about parents who fear being honest about the hardships of parenting is that almost every parent feels the same way you do. You have to test the waters a bit and find that one person.

And if you can’t find anyone, please tell me—I never judge anyone for being honest about their struggles.

Until next week, I will remain…

Cover image: karolinakoryl