Something As Small As a Hug

I’ve never been a particularly physical person. That’s just how I was raised. My parents weren’t affectionate. There weren’t hugs and kisses, there wasn’t much physical closeness, so I grew up without it and never really thought twice about it. Physical touch wasn’t something I expected or looked for, so I didn’t feel like anything was missing. It just wasn’t part of my life, so I didn’t know to notice the absence of it.

Title: Embrace Creator: Galanda, Mikuláš Date: 1930 Providing institution: Slovak national gallery Aggregator: Slovak national gallery Providing Country: Slovakia Public Domain Embrace by Galanda, Mikuláš - Slovak national gallery, Slovakia - Public Domain

I was in a relationship for ten years, and for the last four I can probably count on one hand the number of times I was touched. Not just hugs, I mean anything. No hand on my back, no sitting close, no small moments of contact, nothing consistent at all. Physical closeness just wasn’t part of the relationship. We talked about it, so the absence of touch wasn’t ignored, but it also never changed. There were many reasons why on both of our parts, that it just didn’t happen, but that’s not what this is about. Over time, the lack of physical connection stopped feeling temporary and started to feel like something that was just built into my life. The relationship itself ended recently for a lot of reasons, and the lack of physical closeness was one of them, even if it doesn’t sound like enough on its own.

Living without physical touch doesn’t feel dramatic. There isn’t one moment where the absence hits all at once. The feeling shows up in smaller ways. There’s an empty, restless feeling that’s hard to explain, like something is missing but there isn’t a clear place to point to. I notice it the most when I’m around other people or when I’m laying in bed at night. I have my dog with me, and that helps in its own way, but the difference between that and another person is obvious. There are nights where I catch myself thinking about what it would feel like for someone to just hold me while I fall asleep again after all these years. Even writing that out feels a little ridiculous, (and a slight bit cringy to say, if I might add) but the thought shows up anyway.

I’ve always been observant, so I notice how other people interact without thinking about it. Couples in public, friends leaning into each other, someone putting a hand on someone else’s shoulder mid-conversation. That kind of physical closeness is constant for most people, and seeing it over and over makes the absence of it in my own life more obvious. I don’t want anything extreme or over the top, and I don’t want someone attached to me constantly, but I do want some level of closeness. A hug, a casual kiss, someone reaching for me without thinking about it. Just a normal amount of connection to another person.

And then there’s the V.

I didn’t start going there for any deeper reason. I just needed somewhere to go, somewhere to be around people. Most nights are simple. Some version of the same group of people, weekdays a little quieter, weekends a little more full. A lot of them play pool, and I mostly just hang out, talk, watch, and exist in the space. Nothing about it feels like something that should matter as much as it does.

But the V is the only place where I experience any kind of physical connection now.

The hugs are small. Quick, casual hugs on the way out the door. A “goodbye, see you next time” kind of thing. The kind of interaction most people don’t think twice about. The first time someone went in for a hug, I remember it feeling awkward, not in a bad way, just unfamiliar. It had been long enough that I had to think about where to put my arms for a second. That feeling went away over time, and now those hugs are just part of leaving.

Those small moments stay with me more than anything else that happens there. Nobody is making a big deal out of them. Nobody is trying to turn them into something meaningful. It’s just part of saying goodbye. But those quick hugs are the only consistent physical contact I have, and that changes how they feel. Something that lasts a few seconds ends up carrying more weight than it probably should.

There’s a noticeable difference between leaving my house and leaving the V. Leaving my house just feels like going somewhere. Leaving the V feels different. I feel lighter. I feel happier. There’s a sense of relief that shows up without me really thinking about it. That feeling sticks around for a while, and then eventually I’m back home and everything goes quiet again.

Admitting that something this small matters this much feels embarrassing. I’m a private person, and talking about physical touch in general feels uncomfortable, especially in a space where other people are going to read it. A quick hug on the way out the door from people I’ve known less than a year shouldn’t feel like something significant. It shouldn’t be something I think about later or something that sticks with me the way it does.

But going years without physical touch changes the scale of what feels important.

The absence of physical connection builds slowly. It shows up in the things I stopped asking for, in the way I learned to live without it, and in the way I got used to feeling a little invisible even when someone else was in the room. Physical touch isn’t just about contact, it’s about being acknowledged, being included, and feeling like I exist in someone else’s space in a way that matters without having to ask for it.

The people at the V don’t know they’re doing any of that. Those hugs aren’t intentional in that way. They’re just part of leaving, part of the routine, something small and automatic. But those small interactions give me a sense of belonging, relief, and something that feels close to peace, even if I can’t fully explain why.

I didn’t think something as simple as a hug could matter this much. But now I notice every single one.