I’m Not Lonely, I Just Miss My Friends

Words by Cristina Afonso

For some reason, my nostalgia lives in a McDonald's parking lot. When I think back on the months leading up to my move to Canada, it's hard to exclude the underground red and yellow spot where I would park my car after a night out. Lukewarm drink in hand, the radio stuttering from the poor signal, and my best friend in the passenger seat–someone I would talk to for hours. It felt easy back then. I was at the peak of twenty-two, surrounded by art and people, and I always had something to talk about. 

Leaving was hard, as I suppose it always is. The one-year gap between deciding to emigrate and doing so was when I felt the most like myself. Something about knowing I was about to leave gave me a sense of freedom that allowed me to enjoy things differently, connect with people deeply, and express myself to the fullest. By the time I finally boarded the plane, I was no longer the same person who had made the decision to go. 

And so, when I landed in Canada, I had to relearn what it meant to be alone. 

Not alone in a literal sense, which is what made it so hard. I had my roommates, people in my classes, and friendships forming slowly. But being far from the people who shaped me made me feel lost. It meant I had to redefine what independence looked like for me. It wasn’t just about paying rent or learning how to navigate a new country. It was about rebuilding a sense of self in a place where no one had a reference point for who I used to be. I had to construct a new version of myself from the ground up, without the scaffolding of my old support system, and that kind of solitude felt heavier than I ever expected. 

Back home, I could drive to a friend's house on a random day and take them for ice cream, spend hours gossiping, and not feel like I was wasting time. But, being a first-gen immigrant gives a new weight to the way I choose to spend my hours. There's an expectation I put on myself to be productive at all times, like I owe it to myself–and the sacrifices it took me to get here–to make it count. No moment of rest, softness, or longing comes without guilt. Still, while I feel this pressure to do things that will push me forward, it's hard not to let my mind wander back.

And I'm fully aware of how tricky nostalgia can be... I know that when I romanticise the past, I can only think about it with warmth. Many times, when it felt especially hard to be away, I would scroll through old photos and messages with rose-tinted glasses to feel a little closer to that moment in my life. It's not about wanting to go back, but about holding on to a moment where everything felt more certain. Missing people, places, and versions of myself doesn't mean I regret leaving–it just means I haven't fully learned how to exist without them yet. 

Lately, I've been trying to give myself some more grace when it comes to figuring things out. Although I still have moments where this version of independence feels overwhelming, I allow myself to feel it instead of resisting it. I call my friends and family–everything is different, but also it's all the same. And there's comfort in that, too. 

That comfort reminds me that connection doesn't have to be loud or constant to be real. Some of the people I miss are still part of my life in quieter ways–a message sent at the right time, a birthday voice note, a shared meme. Even if we're not part of each other's daily lives, they're still the ones who remember my favorite coffee shop, or what internet niche I'd be obsessed with right now. 

In many ways, this chapter of my life has asked me to stretch—to hold space for who I was, who I miss, and who I’m becoming all at once. It’s not always graceful. Sometimes it’s messy and soft and full of contradictions. But there’s something quietly powerful about realizing I can carry old versions of myself with me while still making room for the new ones. Maybe I’ll always long for that McDonald’s parking lot version of myself, laughing with my best friend over melting ice cream and static-filled music—but maybe missing her just means I’m still learning how to honor her here, too.