Of Being Alone

There’s a difference between being alone and being lonely—though it took me years to truly understand it. I used to think they were one and the same, that the absence of people in my life meant something was missing, or worse, that something was wrong with me. I filled silence with noise: background music, meaningless conversations, social media feeds. I ran from stillness as if it might swallow me whole.

But the truth is, stillness isn't empty. It’s full of things we’re often too busy or afraid to notice. When I finally stopped trying to outrun it, I discovered that being alone could be one of the most honest, grounding experiences of my life.

I didn't come to this realization all at once. It happened slowly, over time. It began during a period when I was, quite literally, alone more often than not. Friends had moved away. Work had shifted online. The rhythms of daily life had quieted. There were whole evenings where I didn’t speak a word to anyone but myself. At first, it felt strange—like the world had forgotten me.

But gradually, the discomfort gave way to something else. I began to hear my thoughts more clearly. Not just the surface-level ones that bounce around during a busy day, but the deeper, more honest thoughts—the ones we often suppress or silence because we don’t have time, or space, or the willingness to face them. I started journaling again, not for anyone else’s eyes, just for mine. I sat with questions I didn’t know how to answer. I let myself feel things I had ignored for too long.

What surprised me most was how full those quiet moments felt. I began to notice the light through the window in the late afternoon, the way tea tastes better when I take the time to drink it slowly, the way my body relaxes into the comfort of solitude when I let it. I discovered that there’s a quiet richness in being alone that no crowd or conversation can replicate.

That’s not to say I don’t sometimes crave company. I do. We all do. Connection is essential—we are human, after all. But what I’ve come to believe is that connection becomes deeper, more authentic, when it’s not driven by the fear of being alone. When we are comfortable in our own company, we stop depending on others to complete us. We start showing up as whole people, rather than fractured halves looking for someone to fill in the gaps.

Solitude has taught me how to be with myself, fully and unapologetically. It’s taught me to be my own witness—to my thoughts, my growth, my pain, my joy. It’s shown me that I can survive disappointment, sit with sadness, celebrate my own wins, and soothe my own heart. And there’s something incredibly empowering about that.

Of course, the world doesn’t always celebrate solitude. We live in a culture that equates busyness with worth and social popularity with happiness. If you’re not constantly surrounded by friends, constantly doing something, constantly online, you’re seen as “missing out.” But maybe what we’re missing is the chance to know ourselves without distraction.

I’ve started to protect my alone time like a sacred ritual. Not because I don’t love people—I do—but because I’ve learned that time spent alone is not wasted. It’s where creativity is born. It’s where clarity emerges. It’s where healing happens. It’s where I remember who I am when no one else is watching.

That doesn’t mean I’ve become a hermit or that I’ve stopped needing anyone. It just means I’ve found a kind of peace in my own presence. I no longer look to others to validate my existence. I know who I am when the room is quiet. I know what matters to me, not because someone told me, but because I listened long enough to hear it myself.

In the end, being alone has helped me become more connected—not just to myself, but to others as well. Because when you’re no longer afraid of your own company, you stop placing unrealistic expectations on the people around you. You allow them to be themselves, fully and freely, because you’re no longer trying to mold them into someone they’re not just to fill a void in you.

So if you’re reading this in a moment of solitude, wondering if something’s wrong with you because you’re alone—take a deep breath. Maybe this is exactly where you’re meant to be. Maybe this quiet chapter is preparing you for something richer. Maybe, just maybe, being alone isn’t a sign of emptiness, but a doorway to wholeness.

And maybe, for now, that’s enough.