I’m 35, Lonely, and Trapped in a Hotel Room...

I’m 35, and I’ve been living out of a suitcase for the past five months. My company put me in a hotel in western South Dakota, a place where the sky stretches forever and the nearest town has a population smaller than my high school graduating class. What was supposed to be a four-week gig is now halfway through its sixth month. The room hasn’t gotten smaller—but my world has.

What I’ve Been Through

My job is in construction. I spend my days on a crew, sweating under the sun, building things that will stand for decades. It’s hard work, but I love it. I get to see different parts of the country, meet people from all walks of life, and earn a decent living. The problem? I’m the only one on the team without a partner.

My two coworkers brought their spouses or girlfriends with them. They go out to dinner, watch movies, share quiet evenings. I’m not angry at them. I’m just… not part of it. At first, we hung out. But after a few weeks, I realized I was the fifth wheel. I’d sit at the corner of the bar, smiling politely, while they laughed and shared stories. I’d leave early, tired, and alone. Why can’t I just be part of this? Why do I feel like I’m always missing out?

The town has one bar, one diner, and a gas station with a sad-looking coffee machine. Twice a week, I drive an hour and a half to play hockey. It’s my escape. For one precious hour, I’m not just a guy in a hotel room. I’m someone who moves, who competes, who connects—however briefly—with others. After the game, I sometimes stop by the bar, where the regulars are in their 60s and 70s. They’re retired, content, living lives I’m desperate to have. I’m 35. They’ve already lived them. I look at them and wonder if I’ll ever feel that kind of peace.

Back home in Missouri, my friends are getting married, having kids, buying houses, planning vacations. Every social media post feels like a subtle reminder: you’re not where you’re supposed to be. I try to respond with a smile, a “sounds great!” But inside, I’m screaming. What’s wrong with me? Why can’t I build a life like theirs?

What’s Really Going On Inside

I’ve struggled with anxiety for years. Abandonment issues. A deep-rooted sense that I’m not enough. I’ve tried therapy, and I’ve tried medication, but nothing stuck. The pills made me feel worse, not better. And therapy? I can’t afford the time. My schedule is brutal—6 to 14-hour days, 10 hours every other Sunday. I’m not sure I even know how to articulate what’s wrong. I just know I’m empty.

My phone buzzes. It’s my friend, texting about her new job, her weekend plans, her dog. I want to reply, but I can’t. I don’t want to burden them. I don’t want to sound like I’m complaining. So I just say “Good for you!” and leave it at that. They’re happy. I’m not. And that’s enough to make me feel like a failure.

There’s a part of me that wants to scream, “I need a hug! I need someone to tell me I’m doing okay!” But I don’t know who to call. I don’t know how to ask. I’m scared that if I open up, I’ll unravel completely.

Why Kids Feel Like a Deadline

I want a family. I want to be a dad. I want to marry someone and build something real. But I’m 35. I’m not young. I know that if I wait for the “right” person, I might be 40 or 45 before I even start thinking about children. And I worry—what if I’m too old? What if I’m not the kind of dad I want to be?

I’ve seen parents in their 40s, 50s. They’re loving, engaged, present. But I still worry. I worry about being tired. I worry about not having the energy. I worry that I’ll miss my kids’ first steps, their first words, their first days of school—because I’m still working, still rebuilding my life. I don’t want to be a dad who’s always gone.

My dad was 41 when I was born. I never felt like he was too old. He was just… there.

That’s what one friend told me. It hit me. I don’t have to rush. I don’t have to panic. I just have to keep showing up. Age isn’t the enemy. Fear is.

What’s Helping Me Stay Alive

There are small things that keep me going. The hockey game. The drive through the quiet countryside. The smell of freshly cut wood when I try my hand at woodworking during breaks. I found a Reddit group about it. I don’t even know if I’m any good, but I love the focus. It’s quiet. It’s mine. It’s peace.

Another friend told me: “You’re not trapped. You’re just stuck in a very isolating temporary situation.” That made me cry. I’ve been telling myself I’m broken, flawed, doomed. But maybe I’m just… waiting. Waiting for the job to end. Waiting for the move to North Texas. Waiting for the chance to rebuild.

I’m not ready for a relationship. Not yet. But I’m learning to be kinder to myself. I’m learning to say, “It’s okay to feel this way.” I’m learning to treat myself like I’d treat a friend who’s struggling.

Advice That Actually Helped

• Don’t look for a woman to fix your loneliness. Become someone a woman would want to be with.
• Start small—go to the bar, say hi to someone, smile. Not to flirt. Just to connect.
• Find a hobby. It doesn’t have to be big. It just has to be yours.
• Write down what you’re grateful for. Even if it’s just “I had a hot shower today.”

One of the most powerful things I’ve heard?

Your life is worth living, even when the room (mental space) is small and difficult.

Looking Ahead

My job ends soon. I’m moving to North Texas, then maybe back to Missouri. I don’t know what’s waiting for me. But I know this: I’m not going to let this moment define me. I’m not going to let loneliness win. I’m going to keep building—not just structures, but myself.

I want to be a husband. A father. A man who shows up, who loves deeply, who doesn’t run from hard things. I’m not there yet. But I’m finally, slowly, starting to believe I can get there.

And maybe, just maybe, the next time someone asks me how I’m doing, I’ll say the truth: “It’s hard. I’m tired. But I’m still here. And that’s something.”