They’re surrounded by neighbors, community members, and acquaintances. So why does true friendship feel so out of reach?

A recent poll from the American Psychiatric Association found that 30 percent of adults report feelings of loneliness at least once a week. The numbers are much lower  when it comes to the frum sphere — our communal lives  tend to create more fulfilling, social atmospheres.

But within that, there are still so many lonely people, struggling to find their way out of an isolation they never would have chosen.

These are some of their stories. 

THE VIEW FROM THE TOP

I still remember that day, 17 years ago, when I first got the news — Eli had gotten the job, a chashuve position as the rav of an up-and-coming out-of-town community. I’d called my sister, flushed with enthusiasm at the possibilities to come, and gotten a dry, “Good luck making friends there, Ariella.”

It wasn’t that the community was unwelcoming. That first Shabbos alone, my new home was inundated with housewarming gifts and food from friendly neighbors. I was thrilled to slot myself in with the other women. After a childhood in a Midwest community, Lakewood had always felt too big and busy for me, and I was happy to return to a quieter, low-key environment.

The shift happened slowly. I found a job in a local seminary, mentoring girls from all over. Eli became Rav Eliezer Mermelstein, a respected, trusted leader of the community. I spoke to women at shul, came to their simchahs, and invited family after family for Shabbos. My kids were making friends and thriving at school.

When the first call came, I was bewildered. “Did you mean to call my husband?”

“No,” the woman on the phone assured me. “This is… I could really use your guidance.”

Guidance? I was 36, and until now, being Eli’s wife had mostly just meant helping with the N’shei back in Lakewood and moving across the country with him. I had no background in social work or greater wisdom that came with age. The most guidance I gave was to my students, not other adults with serious issues.

By the end of the call, I felt, for the first time, that I was a rebbetzin.

There were more calls after that, and I settled into my new role. More and more of my students sought me out for advice, and I gave shiurim for women and helped arrange shul events. My phone was an insistent buzz in my pocket, and rarely did a Shabbos pass without at least one meal together with another family.

And for 12 years, I was able to tell myself that I wasn’t lonely. How could I be lonely? I barely had a moment alone. There were weeks when I spent more time on the phone than Eli did. A new invitation appeared in the mail almost every day, and Purim was a constant stream of visitors.

Then my daughter, Miriam, went through a massive mental health crisis. Miriam had been a gentle, adorable toddler. A vivacious little girl, running through shul with her crew of followers. She transformed, as so many girls do, into a sullen preteen who thought her mother was “nerdy” and her friends were “socially off,” and I had taken it with grace, had thought that it was just a phase that Miriam would outgrow.

Instead, it snowballed, and by 16, Miriam was in serious trouble. Eli and I put her into an outpatient program, where she finally made some friends: non-Jewish teens who invited Miriam into their circles. Miriam was falling fast, and I was desperate to speak to someone about it, to share the exhaustion and fear and anxieties with a friend.

But what friends did I have? I was the Rebbetzin of the community. My house was full of people, but not one of them was someone with whom I had that kind of relationship. Isn’t there someone I can ask to brunch? I wondered, waiting up for Miriam one night. Don’t I have anyone?

When Eli broke his leg last winter, there were people banging down our door to help. When we had made a bar mitzvah, the shul was so packed that we had to set up the kiddush under a tent in the parking lot. Half the neighborhood had me on speed-dial, and yet, when I was drowning, there was no one to throw me a life preserver.

Over time, Miriam found herself again. She went to a seminary in Eretz Yisrael for girls who needed extra support, and she came home glowing and renewed, the shadows of her teenage years consigned to the dusty corners of her mind. I had endured the crisis alone, with only Eli by my side.

But the gaping absence of companionship remains. I can sit in a room full of strangers who all know my name, can give shiurim to women who are desperate to speak to me but would be uncomfortable if I ever tried to speak to them in return. I am held separate, beloved and revered, and would never be so disrespected as to be considered someone’s friend.

I am almost never alone. But I am desperately, endlessly lonely.