Alone in Barcelona

It's hard to escape the loneliness sometimes.

I did not come to Barcelona hoping it would fix everything. (I secretly came to Barcelona hoping it would fix everything.) I haven’t been living in a bubble. (I worry I’ve spent the last four years living in a very strange bubble.)

I knew moving to yet another country – my daughter’s fourth – would be emotionally and physically taxing; it comes with the territory. As someone used to being on the move and who hasn’t found the transition to motherhood to be particularly “easy” anyway, I wasn’t overly concerned with the change.

I mentally prepared myself for the challenges that would certainly lie ahead, namely, immersing myself in a non-native language (so far, so good), adjusting to a new culture (the verdict’s still out on this one), and being away from close friends and family (cue the loneliness).

It’s the loneliness that gets me every time.

In my last article, Alive in Barcelona, I hit on some of the highs of living here, and what makes the simple day-to-day moments so special.

But did I mention the lows? There are always the lows.

There’s a certain kind of loneliness inherent to moving to a foreign country. Perhaps it hits differently depending on who you do it with, but I’ve experienced it both as a single, childfree woman, and now, as a single mom relocating with her child…and ex.

April 25, 2026

It’s a sunny Saturday morning, and I spend the first half of the day cruising around the city with my daughter. We hop on the metro and start at the Museu de la Música de Barcelona, which has a free event for babies and toddlers. I eventually grow tired of all the “music” (children banging on wooden instruments) and convince my daughter to go to the park instead. We venture to multiple playgrounds, go down countless slides, and have a grand ol’ time together.

After lunch, she is off to another part of the city with her father, and I’m left alone with nothing more than my thoughts and a good book.

Most days, I wouldn’t mind. I’d actually revel in the solitude. Today, however, my thoughts aren’t so kind, and I’d rather be back in the land of toddler chaos.

I really don’t want to be alone today.

The intrusive thoughts swoop in without warning and go something like this:
What are you doing in Spain?
Why are you choosing to live so far from your family?
You don’t have a support network here.
What if something goes wrong?
You have no friends here.
This living situation with your ex is not sustainable.
Do you think you’ll actually stay?
Again, what exactly do you think you’re doing here?

Usually, I’m able to shake these thoughts and move on.
Today is not one of those days, however.

Determined to change my state, I take a mental inventory of my life in Barcelona so far as counter evidence:
I went to two birthday parties in one weekend.
I was invited to two more.
I’m making new friends.
I have single mom friends.
I joined a women’s writers’ circle.
I’ve been on a few dates.
I have an apartment with a beautiful terrace.
My daughter is in a good school and was invited to her first birthday party.
I’m well-connected with my friends and family abroad.
I FaceTime my parents and know they will visit.
I schedule phone dates with friends and hope they will visit.
I’m speaking a language I love.
I’m excited about learning another one.
I think I can see myself building a life here…

And…

What if I’m making the “wrong” decision?
What if I want to move back to California (or elsewhere) one day?
What if it becomes “too late” to leave?

Being inside my head is exhausting.

I start a voice note to a friend in San Diego, hoping it will help. (She isn’t awake yet, thanks to a nine-hour time zone difference.) I speak freely and wander, finding myself on a charming street I hadn’t visited since last year. I spy a cute seafood restaurant tucked away in the trees and take in my surroundings. My mood starts to lift, and suddenly there’s a bit more balance to the mental tug-of-war happening inside my head.

My voice note, however, is something out of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. I venture back and forth between “It feels like I’m meant to be here” and “I don’t even know why I’m crying”.

I eventually delete said voice note and opt for a video message instead. I want her to see all of me. Also, the first voice note was a bit unhinged. (Not that there’s anything wrong with sending an unhinged voice note.) She hears about my coparenting and cohabitation challenges, my worries, my fears.

Once I’ve paced enough to make anyone exhausted, I hit send, wipe my eyes, and enter a coffee shop that always gives me good vibes. (With each drink arriving with a fortunate cookie, how could it not?) I order my cortado (which has quickly replaced my go-to cappuccino), sit at the communal table, and pull out my Kindle. On a day when I’m already feeling pretty low, it’s hard not to cry — again — when I sense my favorite character might actually die at the end.

Eventually, I pull myself away from the plot. I don’t quite feel like succumbing to tears in a place where everyone else seems to be enjoying themselves. (I also kind of wish I could join their conversations as I’m quite sick of the ones going on inside my head.) I decide to treat myself to some shopping instead, a luxury I rarely make time for now.

I enter a boutique I can only describe as high-end, hippie Parisian chic. After eyeing a 28 euro “kid-friendly” sunscreen, I decide I won’t be making any purchases here today, even if I want to buy half the store.

I continue to wander and stumble upon what has probably become my favorite type of shop since I’ve landed in Barcelona: a second-hand book store.

I spend over an hour in the English and Italian sections and wind up with six books for 12 euros. Most of them are for my daughter, but I throw in a couple of light, trashy beach reads for myself. No idea if I will ever actually read them, but it feels good to hold the physical weight of a book in my hands.

Heavy bag in tow, a crossroads: read on the beach or retreat to my terrace. The sanctuary of my terrace wins, and I continue to read on the metro as I make my way home, tears brimming as the end draws near for the protagonist I have come to know and love.

A thought: maybe that’s what’s happening to me, too. An ending.

Parts of my identity have been threatened since I set foot in Barcelona. This move has shaken things up, and I am faced with this stark reality every single day. As I strive to come to terms with how quickly things are changing, I desperately want someone to curl up on a couch with and talk it out over a glass of wine.

I don’t have that person here.
At least not yet.

I’ve let a couple of people in a bit – who’ve seen some tears and the occasional snort of laughter – but they haven’t yet seen all of me. This will come with time. For now, I draw on my relationships abroad and beg my friends to visit. (Shall I share more pictures of my terrace to entice you?)

I lie down on my terrace and start to read again. The brief escape feels nice.

And then…character drowned, book finished, and feeling lonelier than ever, another thought: I’ve been here before.

Even in Rome, the city of my highest highs, I experienced intense periods of loneliness. I pick up my phone and send a message to my closest friend from this chapter. (We met because I heard her speaking English in a bar on a boat, and I interjected to ask where she was from. And thus, a friendship was born.)

My Roman/American friend replies with the sweetest voice note, reassures me I will find my people, and connects me with another writer she knows in Barcelona. Messages from other friends start to roll in, which feel almost as satisfying as curling up on the couch together (but not quite, who am I kidding?) I’m grateful for my global support network and for the women who have seen me through my worst heartbreak.

Nighttime closes in. Dinner comes and goes. I’m halfway propped up in bed, writing and drinking a glass of crisp white wine from my local grocer. My daughter has taken over the couch and is watching Netflix on our new projector. My ex is in his room.

I try to separate myself and finally start to relax.

Tomorrow is a new day. I’m not sure where my mind will take me, but if it’s to another bout of loneliness and questioning my entire existence, I suppose that’s ok. I trust that it will pass, and I know that I’m not actually alone in it after all.

And in that knowingness, I sleep.

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