In my college days, I was the quintessential extrovert. I thrived on the energy of others and loathed the thought of solitude. My desire to be surrounded by friends was so overwhelming that I would panic if I found myself alone. After classes, I’d gravitate towards the throngs of smokers lounging outside my crowded dorm, always seeking someone to connect with. I’d wake up early after nights of revelry, wandering the halls of my friends’ rooms, straining to hear any signs of life. Throughout my entire college experience, I can’t recall a single night spent alone; I was always in the company of others.
Even during solitary activities, I craved companionship. I loved to read, but it was always more enjoyable when I could do so with someone else or in a bustling café where I wasn’t entirely isolated. As a music major, I often had to practice alone for countless hours, yet I’d still invite a friend to rehearse in the next room, taking breaks to catch up in the hallway. Knowing someone was nearby provided me with comfort and motivation.
My dependence on constant companionship wasn’t a true reflection of extroversion. The definitions of introversion and extroversion hinge on how one draws energy and recharges. Extroversion shouldn’t manifest as a panic over being alone, just as introversion shouldn’t lead to a fear of social interaction. For me, the thought of solitude was terrifying; I felt an urgent need to share every experience.
Comedian Maya Carter once shared a poignant moment in one of her routines, addressing the crowd with a joke followed by a revelation: “I just couldn’t be alone with that.” That sentiment resonated deeply with me; I had always felt that way. I couldn’t bear to sit with my thoughts, let alone my feelings.
Then everything changed. A year ago, I made the painful choice to embrace my true self and end my marriage. After moving out of the home I shared with my ex-husband, we now split parenting duties for our two kids. This often leaves me alone in my house, with only my dog for company.
Initially, the silence was daunting. Being home alone for days on end felt vastly different from the brief hours of solitude I experienced while working from home. It meant long stretches of quiet with no tasks to occupy my time, no kids’ demands, and no background noise from their YouTube videos. Just me, enveloped in silence.
And honestly, it has turned out to be incredibly liberating. Don’t get me wrong—I would always choose to have my kids with me rather than being alone. They are my world, and even during challenging moments, I wouldn’t trade our time together for anything. Having them close brings me joy and comfort.
Yet, there’s something undeniably sweet about an evening spent munching on snacks instead of preparing a full meal for several people and then cleaning up afterward. Imagine sitting on the couch, laptop on my lap, a bowl of popcorn by my side (who says no eating on the couch?), while “Gilmore Girls” plays softly in the background. The rest of the house is dark and quiet, and I can’t help but smile at this unexpected bliss.
Sometimes, I’ll pump up the volume on my Bluetooth speaker, blasting tunes from artists like Lizzo, dancing freely without a care in the world. It may not be graceful, but who’s judging? I’m alone, so it doesn’t matter!
After 40 years, I’m finally getting to know myself, and I like what I discover. I often take a moment to stand in the middle of my home, spinning around to take it all in: my charming dining set, the nearly completed 2000-piece puzzle, the cozy couch adorned with mismatched pillows, my towering bookshelves, and my treasured piano. In this stillness, I recognize these objects as symbols of the life I’ve created for myself—a life I never thought I would have. The journey was fraught with anxiety, depression, and guilt. It remains challenging at times, but I can confidently say: I did it. I’m living it. In the quiet, I can fully embrace that reality.
The most astonishing realization I’ve come to during these solitary days is that I genuinely enjoy my own company. I appreciate the thoughts swirling in my head. The joy of having uninterrupted moments to reflect is liberating. It has taken me decades to arrive at this point of honesty with myself and others. Settling into this truth, although not without its difficulties, is a tremendous relief. After 40 years, I’m discovering the real me, and I find her quite delightful.
As I ponder the roots of my former need for constant companionship, I recognize that part of it stemmed from a fear of missing out. However, much of it also came from a lack of comfort with who I was. I was uncertain about my identity and apprehensive about exploring it. Surrounding myself with others allowed me to avoid confronting my true self.
This transformation is significant. Sure, motherhood can be chaotic and exhausting, so it’s natural to crave peace and quiet. Yet, my newfound appreciation for solitude goes deeper than just enjoying a tranquil home. It’s about finally unmasking the true version of myself and relishing the time I get to spend with her.
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In summary, my journey from a life filled with social obligations to embracing solitude has been transformative. I’ve learned to appreciate my own company, rediscovering who I am in the quiet moments.
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