Queer women are statistically lonelier than straight people and often more than gay men — yet media narratives focus on the so-called male loneliness epidemic. Jessie Lewthwaite explores sapphic isolation and the best ways to make it better.
I was out at a bar with some friends (yes, I know a lot of my stories start this way) when I found myself in conversation with a straight man. Bro was quick to reassure me that he was fine with lesbians. What a gem. However, he did add a but… “I just want to know,” he said, pretending to enjoy the neat scotch he ordered, “what are lesbians doing about the male loneliness epidemic?!” I have to admit he had me there because I’m not doing a damn thing about it except maybe contributing to it. Straight men being lonely is like crypto: confusing, overhyped, and absolutely none of my business.
However, because of the way my brain works, the conversation stuck with me. Suddenly, every thinkpiece I see is a eulogy for “the lost young man,” as if loneliness was invented the moment a dude realised his group chat only replies with memes. The media is so quick to declare this an “epidemic” because straight men seemingly have the short end of the stick. I mean, I could say it’s the consequences of their own actions for being deplorable people… but the media doesn’t like holding men accountable, so here we are. I had to look into how actually real this was. And wouldn’t you know it, but men aren’t even the most affected group by loneliness! And since no one in the media wants to write about that, I felt compelled to.
Yes, that’s right, fellow sapphics, we get the gold medal in loneliness. We are statistically lonelier than straight people and often lonelier than our gay brothers, but you wouldn’t know it from the coverage. Unlike our cis gay brothers who’ve had decades of visible bar culture, many queer women still build community through small, fragile ecosystems: book clubs, sports teams, one chaotic share-house where six lesbians and an anxious dog attempt emotional communism. Those spaces are beautiful – and incredibly easy to lose. One breakup, one move back in with parents, one landlord selling the flat, and suddenly your “community” is an Instagram feed and the three exes you’re trying not to accidentally sleep with again.
So what can we do that isn’t just “touch grass” or download Tinder again, like a raccoon returning to an overflowing bin? The research on queer loneliness is pretty clear about one thing: chosen family matters. Even small, consistent connections – a fortnightly games night, a queer climbing crew, a sapphic walking group that mostly walks to the nearest bakery – are protective. They don’t fix the structural stuff, but they make it survivable. Mutual aid and group chats might not look like much, but they’re quietly doing more for queer mental health than half the government strategies with glossy PDFs.
I also want sapphic readers to give themselves permission to name what’s going on. If you’re lying on your couch scrolling through everyone else’s Pride photos and feeling like the last lesbian on Earth, that isn’t you “being dramatic”. It’s a rational response to being part of a community that is both hyper-visible as a culture war talking point, yet weirdly invisible in everyday life.
If you’re reading this and feeling the ache, consider this your formal diagnosis: you are not too needy, too intense, or too late. You are experiencing a political and social problem in a personal body. The cure won’t be found in a self-help reel; it will be in the slow, unsexy work of queer women continuing to find each other, again and again. If the world insists on making us lonely, the least we can do is refuse to be lonely alone.
