There’s a certain freedom that creeps in quietly when you live alone long enough.
At first, you might still catch yourself doing things the “normal” way—habits built from shared spaces, compromises, social expectations. But over time, you stop asking, “Would someone else find this odd?” and start asking, “Does this make sense for me?”
And somewhere in that shift, you start shedding little apologies. Not always out loud—but the internal ones. The ones you make in your head every time you reach for the thing that’s “not quite proper” or “a bit weird.”
As you adapt to being alone, you start to shed the layers of masks you wear for the rest of the world. The true You can come to the fore, and if you look, you find things that you no longer feel the need to apologise for.
Here are a few of mine:
1. My Music (It’s Constant, and Not to Everyone’s Taste)
There’s nearly always music playing in my space. Sometimes ambient. Sometimes unsettling. Sometimes a post-metal band no one’s heard of. Sometimes a live performance that’s more ritual than song.
It’s not background noise for everyone, but it is for me. And now? No headphones unless I need them. No concern about volume unless it’s late. No apologising for the playlist.
This is my space. It sounds like me.
2. Talking to Myself (And My Desk Mascots)
I don’t just talk to myself—I talk to the octopus on my desk. To the little raven who holds my lamp. To Baphomet, my satanic rubber duck. It’s part meditation, part brainstorming, part theatre.
And when I’m gaming? I swear like a sailor. At the screen. At my character. At the AI that clearly cheated. There’s nobody to shock, so the filter’s off.
Nobody overhears. Nobody interrupts. It’s strange, sure. But I’m done pretending I need to think silently to be functional.
3. Eating Weird Meals at Weird Times
Bacon and eggs at 3 PM. A single spoonful of peanut butter for lunch. Full roast dinner on a random Tuesday night. Toast for dinner because that’s what I want.
I no longer explain my meals to anyone. There’s no “should,” no shame. Just food that fits the moment.
4. Leaving Projects Half-Finished (Visibly)
There are tools on the table. Index cards across the floor. An open notebook in the hallway. Because when inspiration hits, I don’t tidy. I build.
I used to rush to clear everything away, just in case someone dropped by. Now, if something’s in progress, it stays in progress. The space adapts to the project, not the other way around.
5. Skipping Showers (If I’m Not Seeing Anyone)
A little gross? Maybe. But if I’m not leaving the house, and I’m the only one who has to deal with it, who cares? It’s not a daily occurrence, but when it happens, I don’t feel bad about it anymore. Hygiene is important, sure—but perfection is optional.
6. My Mess (Is My Problem)
Sometimes my space gets messy. Not in a health hazard kind of way—just that particular chaos of “I know where everything is even though it looks like I don’t.”
If I’m the only one bothered, and not bothered enough to fix it, then that’s on me. No shame. No guilt. Just lived-in space.
7. Being Quiet (Or Loud)
Some nights I don’t say a word. Others I’m singing at full volume. I narrate my thoughts while I’m cooking. I play soundtracks that shake the windows.
No apologies, no adjustments. Just presence. However it shows up.
Final Thoughts
Living alone doesn’t turn you into someone new—it just strips away the parts of you that were constantly trying to fit around other people. What’s left is a little odd. A little specific. A little wild.
It’s also more you than you’ve ever been.
Being yourself does not require an apology.