Thriving Solo

  • Vacations Solo

    It’s easy to feel like a holiday doesn’t “count” unless someone’s there to share it with you. That the memories aren’t valid unless they come with someone else’s reaction. That the joy isn’t fully real unless there’s someone next to you saying, “Wow, look at that.”

    When you’re single, or simply living solo, that pressure doesn’t disappear. In fact, it often intensifies — especially for trips we’re culturally taught to do together: seaside weekends, city breaks, bucket-list destinations.

    The truth is, vacations feel different alone. You don’t have the shared stories. You don’t tag someone in the photo later. You might wander silently through a beautiful place with no one to narrate it to.

    Photo (cropped from) an image by Terrine Axel on Unsplash

    But here’s the thing: do it anyway.

    Go to the place you’ve always wanted to visit.

    Stay in that hotel you’ve had bookmarked for years.

    See the museum, eat the dish, follow your whims.

    Watch the sunset alone and feel every single part of it.

    Take your coffee in bed. Stay up too late watching hotel TV. Wander the streets with no one else’s itinerary to consider. Wake when you want. Rest when you want. Your pace becomes the only pace.

    Because the experience still matters — even if it’s just for you.

    And here’s a secret: you can share it with people who aren’t there. Not through obligation, but through delight. You’ll find yourself telling a friend later, and they’ll say, “Wow, you went alone?” or “You’re so brave — I could never do that.” And you’ll smile, knowing you didn’t do it to be brave. You did it because you wanted to live a bigger life, even if no one else was around to witness it.

    That doesn’t make the trip less real.

    It makes it yours.

    Vacations don’t have to be about togetherness to be worthwhile. They can simply be about you, stepping outside the familiar, giving yourself a memory that’s just for you.

    Not for the feed. Not for the story. Not for the scrapbook.

    Just because you deserve one.

  • Treat Yourself to Some Touch

    I realised, a couple of weeks ago, that it’s been months since I had physical contact with another human being that wasn’t a business handshake.

    When you live alone, it’s easy for physical touch to quietly fade out of your life. No hugs hello or goodbye, no hand on your shoulder in passing, no absentminded contact that most people don’t even notice they’re getting.

    For a while, you might not miss it. Then one day, you realise your body does. Human touch isn’t a luxury—it’s a need. It grounds us, calms the nervous system, reminds us we exist in the world.

    So how do you meet that need when you’re on your own?

    Start With Self-Contact

    It sounds small, but it matters. Massage lotion into your own hands or shoulders. Stretch. Take long, hot showers. Use a weighted blanket or soft fabrics. Run your hands through your hair. These small actions tell your brain: I’m here, I’m safe, I’m cared for.

    Bring Touch Into Your Routines

    Get regular massages if you can. Try yoga, swimming, or dance—anything that reconnects you with the physical side of being alive. Pet an animal if you have one (or borrow one from a friend for an afternoon). Even something as simple as washing dishes by hand or gardening counts; they’re all forms of sensory grounding.

    A woman getting a massage
    Photo by Toa Heftiba on Unsplash

    Seek Connection—Safely

    If you’re missing deeper human connection, it’s okay to admit that too. Hug a friend when you meet. Sit close during a movie night. Choose safe, healthy touch with people you trust. It doesn’t have to be romantic, sexual or even intimate—it’s simply about reminding your body that connection still exists.

    For me? I have a massage booked for later in the week, and on the weekend, I spent some time roughhousing with three rambunctious nephews. Good times and good, healthy contact—for me and for them.

    Touch doesn’t have to be constant to matter. A little bit of intentional contact—the kind that makes you feel alive, connected, part of something—goes a long way.

    Touch Is Not a Weakness

    Needing touch doesn’t make you needy. It makes you human. Living alone doesn’t mean living untouched—it just means you have to be intentional about how you meet that need.

    So treat yourself to some touch. In whatever way feels right. You deserve to feel held—even if, right now, it’s by your own two hands.

  • Reset Rituals

    Living alone means you don’t just set the rules for your space—you set the rhythm of your days and weeks. Without anyone else’s schedule pushing or pulling, those rhythms can drift. That’s where reset rituals come in.

    For me, resets are small, repeated actions that mark transitions—between work and rest, weekday and weekend, effort and ease. They’re not about being rigid, but about giving myself a sense of flow.

    Friday Resets

    By Friday afternoon, I close my work laptop, tear off the top page of my notebook and throw it away, and give my desk a tidy. My work desk becomes my gaming desk for the weekend, and the clutter stack shifts with it.

    Friday night, straight after work, I do a full kitchen clean. Not glamorous, but it clears the decks for the weekend. There’s nothing better than waking up Saturday morning knowing the kitchen’s ready to go.

    Weekend Resets

    Saturday mornings, I tackle whatever little bits of cleaning are most needed. Not a marathon—maybe half an hour. Just enough to keep the place ticking along without ever letting it slide too far.

    Sunday nights are another kitchen reset, deeper than the daily tidy. I also organise my daily supplements for the week, filling up one of those little pill organisers so I don’t have to think about it again until next weekend.

    Daily Resets

    Pour over filter coffee
    Photo by Gaia&Co on Unsplash

    Every morning is its own reset too. I get up and head straight into the shower. Dress, turn on the light over my writing desk, and then head to the kitchen. Coffee is always next—either stovetop espresso or a pour-over filter. While it brews, I drink half a litre of water, then take my supplements with another. By the time I sit at my writing desk with that first coffee, I’ve already reset into the day.

    Reset rituals don’t have to be complicated. They’re just small, intentional actions that mark the edges of your time. They help you clear out the old, prepare for the new, and remind you that even in solitude, your days have shape.

    There’s a comfort to these little rituals, a security to them. I can do them with minimal thought not, they’re so ritualised, so part of my routine.

    What matters most is that they’re yours—anchoring you, in your own way, in your own space.

    It’s your life. Your space. Claim it in a way that makes sense to you.

  • Microadventures for Introverts

    Adventure doesn’t have to mean backpacking across continents or throwing yourself into crowded festivals. For introverts, the sweet spot is something small, manageable, and low-pressure—a break from routine that still leaves you with energy at the end of the day.

    A microadventure can be as simple as:

    • Taking a solo train ride to a town you’ve never visited, just to wander its streets for an afternoon.
    • Packing a thermos of coffee and finding a quiet hilltop, beach, or riverside spot to sit and watch the world go by.
    • Trying a museum, gallery, or historic house you’ve walked past a hundred times but never gone inside.
    • Going for a long walk in your own city, but in a neighbourhood you rarely visit, following curiosity instead of a plan.

    The magic is in the scale—it’s something you can do without weeks of planning, without having to negotiate with anyone else’s timetable, and without returning home exhausted. You get the spark of the new without the overwhelm of a big production.

    For me, the best microadventures often happen on impulse. A sudden urge to ride out to the coast with a stop at the supermarket on the way, or just a walk into town to check out a café I’ve never tried. No social commitments, no need for a plus-one—just the freedom to follow whatever catches my attention that day.

    Big adventures have their place, but when you live alone, microadventures are a way to keep life fresh and interesting, while still honouring the quiet that fuels you.

    10 Microadventure ideas

    1. Ride to the end of the line – Take the bus, train, or ferry to its final stop just to see where it goes. No bus/train/ferry where you live? Just walk or drive somewhere you haven’t been before.
    2. Explore a “never been” neighbourhood – Walk slowly, notice the details, stop at one café or shop that catches your eye.
    3. Go museum-minimalist – Visit a small gallery or museum you’ve overlooked, even if you only spend an hour there.
    4. One-hour nature escape – Drive or walk to the nearest park, reserve, or beach, and stay until your head feels quieter. Take some water with you, and just enjoy.
    5. Sunrise or sunset watch – Pick a spot with a view and make the time to just watch it happen.
    6. Bookshop wandering – Spend an afternoon browsing, with no agenda to buy—just explore. You might consider leaving your money at home though, bookshops are dangerous.
    7. Café tourism – Try a café you’ve never visited before, even if it’s only a few blocks from home.
    8. Night-time walk – When it’s quiet, explore the streets or waterfront with the city lights as your guide.
    9. Library dive – Grab a random book from a section you never usually visit, and read it there.
    10. Micro road trip – Pick a small town within an hour’s drive and treat it like a day-long getaway.

  • Your Own Weatherproof Life

    One of the quiet luxuries of living alone is that your plans can bend to the weather without negotiation. When the forecast turns or the rainy day dawns, there’s no juggling calendars, no group chat consensus—just you, deciding what feels right.

    Rainy weekend? Pull the curtains, make something warm, and let the sound of water on the roof dictate the pace. Cold snap? Stack the blankets, keep the kettle busy, and pretend the outside world doesn’t exist. Heatwave? Move slowly, eat cold food, and let the AC hum through the whole day.

    Photo by Cole Keister on Unsplash

    No-one to comment on your choice to spend all day in your PJ’s, fluffy slippers on and not an effort to get through the shower.

    Fluffy blankets and cocoa? A day spent curled up with a good book (or a bad one, no-one to judge, you do you). Or maybe a binge of that series you’ve been meaning to get around to watching.

    You don’t have to explain, justify, or compromise. Your home becomes your shelter, your rules, your rhythm—whatever the skies are doing.

    That’s freedom.

  • The Comfort of Ritual


    Living alone doesn’t mean living without structure. Over time, you find your own quiet rituals—the ones that make the day feel right.

    When you live alone, you start to build your days around small moments that matter only to you. They’re not traditions you have to share, or routines shaped by someone else’s preferences. They’re yours—quiet anchors that give your life rhythm.

    For me, it’s the morning coffee at my writing desk. My mornings start with a shower, then I head downstairs and make a coffee.

    What coffee exactly? Some morning, it’s a Japanese style filter. Others, it’s a classic stovetop espresso. Either way, it’s not a rushed takeaway on the way to somewhere else, but the slow ritual of making it, setting it down beside the keyboard, and taking that first sip while the day is still unfolding.

    Later in the day, it’s the laptop on my knees, writing in front of the TV late at night. No one to complain about the blue glow or the clack of keys, no one to ask me to pay attention to the show, or ask what I’m working on.

    Photo by Lee Campbell on Unsplash

    Weekends, it’s dropping the needle on a Jesus and Mary Chain record—or maybe something from KMFDM—while I do my Sunday housework. The bassline rattling the windows, loud enough to overwhelm the vacuum cleaner’s humming, the satisfaction of knowing I’ve done enough for the place to feel right again.

    When energy levels are high, it’s standing at my work desk with a bass guitar slung across my back, an amp by my feet, letting a few notes ring out while I think something through, a few snarls or a smooth 12 bar while I’m decompressing between tasks. A habit that would seem absurd in a shared office, but here, it’s just part of the day.

    Rituals don’t have to be grand. They just have to be yours. In solitude, these little patterns become more than just habits—they’re proof that your life has shape and meaning, even in the quietest moments.

    Every one of those examples above? They’re mine. They work for me.

    If you’re living alone? Find the small, steady rituals that make your solo life yours.

    What are yours?

  • Living Alone Means Sacrifice

    I’m a big fan of solo living, but it’s not all quiet mornings and total freedom.

    Living alone comes with sacrifices—things you give up in exchange for the independence you gain.

    Some are practical, some are emotional, and some you don’t even think about until you’ve been on your own for a while.

    Here are a few of the trade-offs:

    1. You pay more for the privilege.

    There’s no splitting the rent, mortgage, or utility bills. No “let’s share a meal” grocery budget. Every dollar is yours to earn and yours to spend — and that can stretch a budget thin.

    2. Everything is your responsibility.

    From cleaning to cooking to remembering to put the bins out — it’s all on you. There’s no one else to quietly pick up the slack, or even remind you if you drop the ball.

    Photo by Nico Smit on Unsplash

    3. No built-in backup.

    If you’re sick, injured, or just having a rough day, there’s no automatic safety net at home. You have to be proactive about asking for help when you need it.

    4. Less spontaneous connection.

    You can go days without meaningful conversation unless you make it happen yourself. When you live alone, maintaining friendships and contact becomes an intentional act.

    5. Big tasks stay big.

    Moving furniture, deep cleaning, or tackling a repair project? It’s you, your own muscles, and maybe a YouTube tutorial. There’s no housemate or partner to help you muscle through. Sometimes? It’s another expense you need to find the money for.

    Living alone is worth it for many of us—the peace, the space, the freedom. But it’s not free of trade-offs.

    If you understand those sacrifices, you can prepare for them, soften their impact, and make solo living not just doable, but enjoyable.

    For me, living alone is how I thrive.

  • Signs I’m Doing Better Than I Could Be

    Living alone can mess with your sense of progress. There’s no one to notice when you vacuum the living room, fold the laundry, or remember to defrost the chicken in time for dinner. No applause, no gold stars.

    Lately, I’ve been noticing the small things. Not the big, flashy achievements—just the little markers that remind me: Hey, I’m doing okay. I am adulting successfully. YAY ME!

    • I put the laundry away the same day I washed it.
    • The bathroom sink isn’t growing a toothpaste crust.
    • I remembered bin night without seeing my neighbour drag theirs out first.
    • There are groceries in the fridge, and I know roughly what I’ll cook tonight. Tomorrow night too.
    • I watered the houseplants before they started to look sad and droopy
    • I changed the sheets last week… and I might do it again this week, because the second set is already washed and dried and folded (even the fitted sheet) and away where they belong.
    Photo by Spacejoy on Unsplash

    I know that these aren’t huge accomplishments; they’re quietly affirming. They say: I’m functioning. I’m caring for myself, my space, my rhythm.

    It’s easy to overlook those wins when no one else sees them.That doesn’t they don’t matter. Especially when life’s a bit hectic, or you’re not feeling your best, or you’re just tired of being the only one responsible for everything. Those small victories are still victories.

    The small losses though? They mound up. They compound.

    If you’ve been living solo for a while, you might have already found that out. The dishes that sat in the sink for a couple of days longer than you’d like to admit, the sheets that went unchanged for, yeah, let’s just not mention how long.

    The floordrobe. Don’t get me started on the floordrobe.

    So if you’re reading this and thinking, “Yeah, I did some of that too”—that’s worth acknowledging. You’re showing up for yourself.

    You’re doing better than you could be.

    Well done.

  • It’s Okay to Be Boring

    …if boring makes you happy and content.

    There’s a lot of pressure—spoken or unspoken—to make life look interesting. Social feeds full of perfect meals. Friends talking about their big weekends. Even when you live alone, that pressure can sneak in: shouldn’t I be doing more?

    But one of the quiet joys of living solo is that you don’t have to perform for anyone. You don’t have to make your life look exciting. You just have to make it work for you.

    And sometimes that means being boring.

    The Freedom of “Good Enough” Meals

    When I was married, we had a rule: the first one home started cooking. Later, when I worked from home, that almost always meant me.

    Cooking for someone else brings a kind of unspoken obligation. You feel like you need to make proper meals—dishes with names, things that belong in a recipe book, meals that look like meals.

    Now? Not so much.

    Dinner for me is often the same simple routine:

    Grab some frozen mince out of the freezer around lunchtime. Dinner time rolls around, and I’ll throw that into the wok. Chop a few vegetables. Add flavour boosters (spices, a dash of soy, maybe some chilli), crack in an egg or two. Ten minutes later, I’m done.

    Is it thrilling? No.

    Would it impress anyone? Absolutely not.

    But I’m fed, I’m not hungry, and I can get back to what I want to do. That’s the whole point.

    Boring Can Be Brilliant

    Living alone means you get to choose what matters. Sometimes that’s a carefully plated dinner. Sometimes that’s throwing together whatever works because you’d rather spend the extra half hour reading, gaming, or writing.

    There’s no audience to impress.

    No one’s taste buds to please but your own.

    No judgment—unless you decide to judge yourself (and why would you?).

    Permission to Be Ordinary

    The same applies beyond food.

    You don’t need to fill every weekend with activities to feel valid.

    You don’t need a constantly spotless house if a “clean enough” one feels fine.

    You don’t need hobbies that sound impressive when you tell other people about them.

    If something keeps you content, healthy, and calm, that’s enough.

    Final Thoughts

    Living solo gives you the freedom to drop the performance. To stop chasing “interesting” for its own sake.

    Your life doesn’t have to look like anything. It just has to feel good to you.

    So eat the boring meal. Wear the same comfy clothes two days in a row. Spend a Saturday doing nothing much.

    Boring isn’t bad.

    Boring is peaceful.

    And peace is worth choosing.

  • When the Weekend Doesn’t Go to Plan (and That’s Okay)

    Living alone means you get to respond to your needs, not fight them.

    Some weekends are productive. Others are social. Some are quiet, restful, tidy.

    Then there are the ones like I just had: scattered sleep, middle-of-the-night wakefulness, seeing the dawn from the wrong side and naps at odd times. Nothing quite linear, nothing terribly structured.

    Nothing particularly bad going on—just a few things on my mind and an ill-considered second coffee on Saturday morning combined with a new game that I’m finding far too easy to sink myself into.

    It would’ve been frustrating—if I’d had to explain myself to anyone else.

    I didn’t.

    This, it turns out, was a blessing.

    The Gift of Responsiveness

    Living alone gave me the freedom to follow my own rhythm. To nap without guilt. To eat at strange times. To be awake at 3am reading, then sleep until the sun was high. To take a nap on the couch at 10am and another at 3:30pm.

    Photo by Alexander Grey on Unsplash

    No one needed anything from me.

    No one asked why I wasn’t “doing more” with my weekend. No-one around to pressure me with demands or even unspoken expectations.

    That kind of space can feel indulgent, but it’s not. It’s humane. It’s what it looks like to treat yourself with understanding instead of judgement.

    Not Lazy, Just Listening

    Sometimes solo living means keeping a clean house, cooking nourishing meals, and ticking things off your list. Sometimes it means allowing yourself a weird, offbeat, barely coherent couple of days—and knowing that’s okay, too.

    No partner to apologise to.

    No kids to wake.

    No social schedule to uphold.

    Just a chance to listen to what your body and mind need, without outside pressure.

    Final Thought

    You don’t have to be productive to be worthy.

    You don’t have to have a “good” weekend to feel content.

    Solo living doesn’t guarantee ease, but it does grant flexibility. And sometimes, that’s exactly what you need.

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Thriving Solo

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