Eating Alone

With the new school year already in full swing, I am waiting for my inevitable lapse into a routine I know all too well. It’s very simple, and it goes something like this: grab tray, load plate, find spot (separated by at least one seat on either side), sit down, laptop out, headphones in, eat. This is a series of motions I know many—if not all—of us have gone through at one point or another, but it’s a topic I’ve never once heard discussed aloud.

I suspect that my first time eating alone as a freshman was much less troubling for me than it was for many of my peers. In fact, I have no memory of the occasion. You see, I have long been a seasoned veteran in eating alone. I did exactly that in Annenberg every day for an entire summer as a student in the Harvard Secondary School Program a year before matriculating to the College a year ago. Hence, while I knew what invariably looms—the judging stares, each a target on on my back—they do not bother me one bit.

A disclaimer: I did not take most or even the majority of my meals in solitude last year, and I have yet to eat alone now as a sophomore. But when the time comes, as it certainly must, I know I will once more be keenly aware of my solitariness, especially if there are no other solo-diners in whom I can quietly take comfort and derive some sort of mental justification for our shared, sorry state.

What I find particularly sad about this recurring affair is not the fact that I dine alone more often than most or that I dine alone at all. Rather, I am troubled by the fact that I feel the need to justify my aloneness.

In our society, and perhaps even more so at this university, there is a stigma associated with eating alone. But on campus, I think the strain of this shame-inducing virus is particularly virulent.

For many of us, amidst the mess of our multicolored Google Calendars filled to the brim with classes and extracurricular commitments and—for the most methodical among us—study sessions, often the only blank spaces to be found are lunch and dinner. Consequently, we are forced to designate mealtimes as venues for social interaction and, in so doing, we ingenious Harvard students, always seeking the maximize the utility of every waking moment—we kill two birds with one stone.

To eat alone, then, is to stand in opposition to the social norm. And so, if you are going to dine solo, the guise of productivity or some other engagement at the very least—a laptop or phone or p-set or book—is essential.

I sense the reality of this unspoken yet pernicious expectation only adds insult to injury for those who eat alone because of very real issues of mental health. For a time last year, I would not have necessarily excluded myself from this category. Indeed, in the winter of my second semester, the burden of schoolwork and the fragmentation of what I had previously assumed to be a tight group of friends subjected me to a crippling mixture of anxiety and loneliness. Sometimes, rather than facing the prospect of dining by myself amidst the sea of smiling faces and excited hubbub that is characteristic of Annenberg, eating microwavable mac-n-cheese on my bed or, occasionally, skipping a meal entirely seemed a preferable alternative. I escaped my bout of isolation as the semester progressed, but I am sure others have not found themselves as lucky.

I find it necessary to dispel the myth that eating alone—aloneness in general, for that matter—is equivalent to being lonely. Truly, in that same period when I emerged from my dark cave of lonesomeness, I regularly ate alone, although for very different reasons than before. For while many feel compelled to fill every blank space in their calendar with socializing, I came to the realization that these same intervals often provide me a much needed opportunity for relaxation and reflection, luxuries afforded neither by a full day of classes and homework nor the company of friends.

The implications of my argument may seem contradictory. How are we as a community to disassociate eating alone and loneliness when the latter may or may not be at play? I do not pretend to have a definitive answer to this difficult question, but a good starting point may be to adopt a quality useful in all human interactions: empathy.

This is my challenge: The next time you see someone eating alone in the d-hall, eschew your judging gaze and instead, whether they’re lonely or just in need of some time alone, try to put yourself in their shoes. You don’t have to invite them over, but maybe strike up a conversation outside of the d-hall if their aloneness seems persistent. At the very least, give them a smile—that never hurt anyone.

Sebastian Reyes '19 lives in Adams House.