A strange kind of loneliness creeps in when something breaks in the house and there’s no one else there to fix it.

This week, it was the washing machine, blocked, overflowing, relentless.

I stood there, wrench in hand, navigating the cold logic of appliance repair and the hot ache of doing it all alone. There was no one to delegate it to. Just me, in the quiet hum of responsibility.

But it wasn’t really about the machine.

It was about what the machine breaking stirred up in me: that deep, slow grief of holding everything together on your own. The longing, not just for someone to fix things, but for someone to say, “It’s okay. You don’t have to do this alone.”

The Cycle of Aloneness

Philosophers have long wrestled with the idea of being alone.

Heidegger spoke of being thrown into the world, dropped without explanation, expected to carve out meaning in a life that offers none by default. Sartre claimed we are condemned to be free because with freedom comes the full weight of responsibility for everything we do or don’t do.

But aren’t we wired for connection?

Simone de Beauvoir believed that while we are radically alone in an existential sense, we are also always in relation to others. We become ourselves through contact, through being seen, supported, and held. And yet, no matter how deep our love or connection, there is always a part of ourselves that no one else can fully reach. The private swirl of thoughts, sensations, memories, we are the only ones who ever fully live inside our own skin.

So when there’s no one to turn to, when roles once shared become yours alone, the world feels heavier.

The washing machine becomes more than a chore. It becomes a symbol of the quiet weight we carry. A mirror of what we’re missing.

Spinning in the Paradox

This is the paradox I live with daily. I’ve always valued my independence fiercely. I fix things. I make plans. I stand on my own two feet. And I am strong.

But still, sometimes, I ache to be looked after.

To be someone’s priority. Their soft place to land. My supporter, my champion, my personal carer. Not because I can’t do it, but because sometimes I’m tired of being the one who always can.

I want someone who chooses to carry part of this with me. Not out of obligation, but out of love.

Even when you’re not completely alone, even with people who care, there’s rarely anyone there right in that moment when the machine breaks, when the world spins off balance.

Most people are dealing with their own loads, their own tangled cycles of overwhelm, heartbreak, deadlines, and pain. No one’s really at anyone’s beck and call. Everyone’s just trying to keep things turning.

And that’s what makes the ache sharper.

Because it’s no one’s fault. But it still hurts.

The Inner Spin

There’s a whisper in these moments: I just want someone to make it okay.

It feels childish, indulgent even. I ask myself: Why do I want to be rescued?

But maybe that’s not the real question.

Maybe the real question is: Why do I feel ashamed of needing support?

The desire for rescue is often misunderstood. It’s not about helplessness, it’s about rest. It’s the longing to lay down the relentless burden of self-sufficiency, just for a little while. To be held, even if just in spirit.

And yet, in a world of fractured systems and performative strength, we rarely ask for help.

We don’t believe we can.

We fix the washing machine. We swallow the ache.

We spin on.

The Cycle Ends, But It Doesn’t Stay Still

Existential philosophy doesn’t offer comfort exactly, but it does offer clarity. No one is destined to come. But that doesn’t mean we are without value, or without meaning.

We are meaning-makers.

We are people who fix blocked washing machines while grieving the version of life where someone else might have said, “Don’t worry, I’ve got it.”

Sometimes, fixing the machine is the act of love.

Sometimes, it’s resistance.

Sometimes, it’s just what gets done because no one else will do it.

That doesn’t make the longing wrong.

It makes it human.

And like the washing machine, we keep going.

Through rinse, through spin, through pause.

Until everything stops. The final whirr. The quiet.

A breath before the door clicks open.

A breath before the next load is added.

A new cycle begins. And we begin again.

Because you’re still here.

And that matters.