The first stop on the van life tour took us to Flagler Beach, Florida. It was a campground we found by sheer luck last year. I returned with determination this year. To get a campsite for more than a handful of days and any weekends, I had to book that spot over ten months ago. At that point, I had no idea if I would keep the van, let alone be going on this adventure all over again. But I wanted to go there, dammit.

I still remember refreshing the page once a week as the beautiful shores popped into my mind. I never even put it on a to-do list. I just kept checking. Just in case. Just to see. Luckily enough, 12 days opened up, and I bought them. When I forwarded the confirmation email to my girlfriend, all it said was, “We’re living on the beach for two weeks next year.”

As life always does, what felt like forever from now became next week faster than I realized. Knowing we were headed somewhere we loved was a relief, especially for those first few weeks. Everything feels unsteady when you transition from life in 2500 square feet down to just 80, even if you’ve done it before.

After checking in to the site, I crossed the busy A1A highway to the campground to find two—what appeared to be—lesbians camping next to us. Now, I’m an introvert at most campgrounds. That is code for: I try to speak to no one. But this rare occasion called for a special exception. I introduced myself. After talking with them and petting their dogs, I discovered they would be our neighbors for the next 12 days. They, too, had been waiting to come to this campsite for a year.

Every day, as they walked their dogs and we walked Dewey, we talked about the area and adventures we’ve taken. Made recommendations. Suggested our favorite campsites to each other. I felt relieved to have people watching out for us. People to watch out for, too.

Fast forward three weeks to a new campground just a few hours from our favorite. I was walking Dewey when I spotted them. Our new friends were our neighbors again at this new campsite. “Hi, friends,” I said excitedly. “I knew I should have gotten your contact information!” I think they were just as happy to see us as we were to see them.

I felt a little like I was going to cry. While we never shared a meal or a conversation more deep than a Google review worth of information, I felt a sense of safety upon seeing them. They were part of my little camping community. Without ever exchanging phone numbers or email addresses, I felt a warmth at this campsite I didn’t really experience last week. Honestly, it felt a little creepy until they arrived.

All this time, I’ve been keeping my head down and avoiding people, thinking it would keep me safe when maybe I was craving something more than solitude. Maybe I was craving community.

The older I get, the more I realize that community is critical to keeping us sane. Loneliness can kill us, and that’s not just some exaggeration. Some research compares being lonely with smoking 15 cigarettes a day, and look—I didn’t quit smoking all those years ago to die early.

I try to retreat inward and problem-solve my way into feeling better when I’m down, which only makes me more miserable. I’m my worst boss and harshest critic. But when I make that call, check in with people I love, and catch up? That’s when I feel safe in this world that does pretty much everything to make me scared.

So this week, I’m not suggesting you speak to strangers. But I think it’s time to talk to the people you love about nothing and everything. To seek out community and feel less lonely. Either that or go ahead and start smoking again (kidding).

Weekly Letters community epidemic health LGBT loneliness lonely