There is one lie the ego tells more often, more subtly, and more devastatingly than all others: You are alone. This isn’t just the feeling of being without company. It’s a spiritual lie—a false belief that you are separate from God, cut off from your Source, abandoned in a chaotic world with no one to guide or care for you.
You may recognize the whisper. It speaks in moments of grief. In the silence after a disappointment. In the pit of the stomach when fear creeps in and no hand reaches out to hold yours. The ego capitalizes on these openings. It offers not comfort, but confirmation: “See? You are alone. You always have been. No one truly understands. No one can help.”
A Course in Miracles addresses this lie directly:
“If you knew Who walks beside you on the way that you have chosen, fear would be impossible.”
This single line unravels the ego’s narrative entirely. It affirms a deeper truth—that we are never alone. Never have been. Never will be.
But we forget. And forgetting is the cost of believing the ego.
The ego survives by convincing us we are separate—separate from one another, from the world, from love, and ultimately, from God. This idea of separation is its cornerstone. Every fear, every judgment, every form of suffering rests upon this false premise. If it were not for the belief in separation, the ego would have no home in us.
And so it repeats its favorite line: You’re on your own.
It says it when a friend lets you down. When a prayer seems unanswered. When illness arrives or loss devastates. When you walk into a room and feel invisible. It’s in the silence after bad news, the stillness after someone leaves, the ache of feeling misunderstood.
But the truth—the truth we have covered over with layers of false beliefs—is that we are not alone. Not even for a second.
God did not create us to abandon us. The divine spark that breathed us into being still resides within us, untouched and eternal. And the Holy Spirit, described in ACIM as the bridge between the illusion of separation and the memory of Oneness, is always present in our minds. Always. Even when we don’t believe it. Even when we don’t feel it.
I remember a time in my own journey when I felt adrift—untethered from faith, from purpose, from connection. Illness had changed my body. Loss had shifted the shape of my family. I woke up one morning and asked out loud, “Is anyone there?” There was no lightning bolt, no booming voice, but there was a stillness—one I had been too noisy to hear before. And within that stillness came a quiet knowing, a presence that said not in words but in certainty: You are not alone.
The Course is gentle with us because it knows how deeply we’ve accepted this lie. It doesn’t shame us for feeling isolated. Instead, it reassures us again and again that the separation never actually happened. What we experience as disconnection is not reality—it is a dream. A painful dream, yes, but still a dream. And like any dream, it can be awakened from.
That awakening begins with willingness. Willingness to question the thoughts that say, I have to do this by myself. Willingness to pause when fear rises and say, There must be another way. Willingness to invite the Holy Spirit in, even if we’re unsure what that means or whether it will work.
Loneliness is not proof that you’re unloved. It is proof that you’ve believed a thought that isn’t true. The antidote is not distraction or busying yourself with company—it is remembering the presence that walks beside you. The presence that is within you.
The Holy Spirit does not need grand gestures or perfect faith. A whisper is enough. A moment of openness. A quiet cry of Help me see this differently is enough to part the clouds and let the light through.
But here’s where it gets even more beautiful: when we begin to remember that we are not alone, we become instruments of that remembrance for others. Suddenly, we’re the ones reaching out, offering love, creating connection—not because we’re trying to fix someone, but because we see ourselves in them. The illusion of separation begins to fade.
One of the Course’s most radical teachings is that “When I am healed, I am not healed alone.” That means every step you take out of isolation is not just for you—it sends ripples across the dream, helping others wake up, too.
So how do we live this truth in a world that often reinforces the opposite?
We start simply.
- When fear tells you no one understands, pause and remember: God is with me.
- When shame whispers that you’re unworthy of love, counter it with: I am as God created me.
- When grief hollows you out, let yourself grieve—but grieve with the knowledge that divine comfort is never far.
- When you sit alone in a room and feel forgotten, invite Spirit to sit with you. Speak aloud if you must. The response may not be audible, but it will come.
We can also practice connection in the small ways—look someone in the eyes when you say hello. Listen without preparing your reply. Send a note of encouragement. These are not just good deeds. They are spiritual acts that reaffirm the truth of our shared identity.
And when you forget—because you will—return to this thought:
“I am never alone. I walk with God.”
Let that be your mantra. Let it walk with you down hallways, through hospitals, across parking lots, into every quiet moment where fear waits.
Let it whisper louder than the ego’s lie.
You are not alone.
You are loved.
You are carried.
You are remembered.
And that is not just hopeful thinking. It is truth. And truth, unlike illusions, never changes.
