Living solo - Where I Go, When It’s Just Me
In solitude, I check in with the young girl in me.
I recently saw a video where someone asked if you could add a love language to the current list of 5 love languages, what would you add, and before they replied, I screamed “alone time”.
I am writing to you from a cute cafe in Middleburg, a small town in the Netherlands.
The craving
How did I get here? I’ll tell you. David and I talked, and we decided I needed to go on a trip. There were no goals to be met or findings to be made. Just 3 nights by myself. I went on Airbnb and found 3 apartments I liked, all in different parts of the Netherlands — Helio, Middleburg, and Gouda. The classic Cynthia went on to close her laptop so she could get time to come back and decide. By the time I was back, the one I liked the most was gone, so I just went ahead and chose the next best one — an apartment in Middleburg.
Yayyyy, I was excited to travel solo. First time in over 5 years. I spent three nights and four days walking, sleeping, eating, and just existing. Yes, I was working too, but I prepped ahead and did most of my workload ahead of time. Plus, I just had to work on Friday and Monday.
I read books, sat with my thoughts, and primarily just existed for the duration of the trip and when I was packing to go home, I felt sad - because I knew I was going to miss having MY SPACE.
Let’s Unpack
It’s not always easy to ask for space, especially in a culture that idealises constant closeness. It is fine if you don’t feel the need to be by yourself, but I know it cannot be just me who craves solitude.
I don’t necessarily love being by myself all the time, but last year, while trying to understand myself better, I noticed that when I do get the time to sit by myself, I love it. Because I can think, do the things I want, when and how I want it without any hindrances. Personal space is such a big deal to me.
Being married doesn’t help with that, and I think that’s where I lost it. Dave and I would fight, and I’d just zoom out. I’d be sad for not being able to chat and crack jokes like we often do, but under all that, I’d feel more introspective, decisive, and clear-headed. I feel more inspired to write, read, and just do the things I want to do.
Sometimes, I’d feel guilty for being dramatic, and I’d wonder if I intentionally caused a fight just to be by myself and do stuff I want. I do like the company, but if you know me, you’d know that I have often never really liked humans. It’s not Dave or you. I can legit live on an island by myself, and I’ll be fine.
My friend, Mercy, often sends me videos of isolated farmhouses when she’s on a trip because she knows I love such places. I am not a city girl. I’ve tried and I’ve realised that I am not. I just want quiet. I’ll love to live on a farmhouse or some mansion in the suburbs and take a trip to the city now and then to rub skin with humans on the streets.
Don’t get me wrong, I love to spend time with friends too, just not too much. My social battery lasts as long as a fully charged iPhone XS Max. At the beginning, I am loud and cracking everyone up, but I can only keep that up for a couple of hours, and my battery depletes, and I recoil into my shell.
Whenever my energy would be off, everyone would feel it, and then it’s not fun for me or them. I love spending time with loved ones, but not too much because one moment, I am hyper and the next, I just want to disappear to an island and live alone for a whole year.
Solitude helps me return to the relationship more whole, more grounded, and more reflective about myself and my relationships.
I refer to this as “Thriving in Solace”. I tried once to explain this weird concept to David. I said, “It’s not about escaping you. It’s about returning to myself.” I need to return to myself now and then just to check in and see how the girl is doing. There’s a version of me that only exists when no one’s watching—not even someone I love. That version is one I want to spend time with now and then.
“Solitude” isn’t loneliness; it’s chosen aloneness. It’s space to think, breathe, just be.
Love without evicting solitude
It makes me think about how writers have been marked in history as loners or weirdos. I read stories where writers disappear for years and come back with a banger book ten years later, or how some go to the cabin in the woods and just write for hours, days, weeks or even months.
It might even be one of the reasons why most writers aren't married - how do you explain to your partner that you do not want to talk to them for some days? Or would you like to travel with me to a cabin in Norway, but the deal is we don’t talk, and I just write, or can I just travel alone?
I’d feel guilty for needing space because I’d think that I was running away from my partner, and that was because I thought these writers were escaping the world or their lives. Now, I think they were returning to something—some quiet inner voice that gets drowned out in the daily hum of conversation, companionship, chores, and closeness.
There’s a version of me that only shows up in that silence. Not better, not more true—but different. Calmer. Quieter. A little weirder. She’s not asking anyone what’s for dinner or folding laundry mid-thought. She’s just... thinking. Feeling. Writing.
It’s not about escaping him. It’s about returning to me.
Some concluding thoughts…
I love my partner, David, so much. I love our shared life. The laughter, the routines, the quiet togetherness. But I also love the version of me that exists in solitude—the one who doesn’t answer to anyone, who thinks in long, uninterrupted stretches, who takes up space without explaining it, takes a nap and trusts that it'll be quiet enough.
And maybe the goal going forward isn’t to choose one over the other or feel guilty about needing space. Maybe it’s about feeling comfortable enough to have those conversations and together, build a life where solitude has a seat, even at the table of love.
