Thriving Solo

Author: ozzy

  • I Decorate for Me (Flowers Included)

    Living alone doesn’t mean living without beauty.

    I bought flowers last week. Not because I had guests coming over. Not because there was a birthday or a dinner or a reason. Just because I wanted to.

    They were bright and a little chaotic — not the kind of tidy bouquet you buy to impress someone else. They made me smile every time I passed by — which I did a lot; they were on the central table in my living room, beside my comfy chair.

    That little smile, that hint of a scent? That was enough.

    A Home That Reflects You

    When you live alone, you have a choice: you can treat your space like a storage unit, or you can make it feel like home. No one else is going to do it for you. No one else is going to care whether you put up art, or grow herbs on the windowsill, or change the cushions with the seasons.

    So the question becomes:

    Do you care enough to do it just for you?

    You deserve nice things. Not as a reward. Not as a performance. Just as part of the life you’re already living.

    Beauty Isn’t Just for Company

    It’s easy to fall into the trap of only making an effort when others are watching. Fancy meals for guests. Clean counters for visitors. Art on the wall just in case someone drops by.

    But what if you’re the one worth making the effort for?

    My space has soft lighting and a few too many cushions. There are plants I talk to, and art I picked just because I liked the images and the vibe. Plants (low maintenance, so they don’t die) to soften the space, give it some life. None of it’s for show. It’s not even “finished.” It feels like me though.

    When I’m sitting here, coffee in hand, surrounded by things I chose, I’m reminded: this is my life. This is my home. And I’m allowed to enjoy it.

    Final Thoughts

    If you’re waiting for company to make your house feel like a home, you’ll be waiting too long. Choose the curtains. Light the candle. Buy the flowers.

    Even if — especially if — no one else will see them.

    You’re worth the beauty.

    You’re worth the effort.

    You’re worth the flowers.

  • You’re Not Alone in Feeling Alone

    I’ve been seeing more and more posts lately—people talking about how hard it can feel to live alone. The quietness. The evenings that stretch a little too long. The sense that everyone else is busy with someone else, while you’re just… here.

    If that’s you, this post is for you.

    It’s Not Always a Choice

    Some people live alone by choice. Others don’t.

    Maybe you lost someone. Maybe a relationship ended. Maybe you moved to a new city, or away from flatmates, or just reached a point in life where circumstances put you here.

    Whatever the reason, living alone can sometimes feel like being stuck between chapters. You know this isn’t the final destination—but you’re not sure what comes next.

    That’s real. And that’s hard.

    Solitude and Loneliness Are Not the Same Thing

    Solitude can be beautiful. But when it’s not chosen—when it creeps in rather than being welcomed—it can feel heavy.

    Even when it was chosen, some days still hit harder than others.

    Even seasoned introverts can feel the ache of too much quiet. Me included.

    So if you’re feeling it right now? There’s nothing wrong with you. You’re not doing life wrong. You’re just human. You’re just in a moment.

    You’re Allowed to Miss People

    It doesn’t make you weak. It doesn’t mean you’re failing at independence. Missing connection is part of being alive.

    Send the text. Call your sister. Say yes to a catch-up. Or no, if you’re not up to it right now.

    Loneliness isn’t always solved by people—but people do help. And if you don’t have people right now? That doesn’t mean you never will. Life turns. Chapters end. New ones start.

    This is just one part of your story.

    In the Meantime, Be Kind to Yourself

    You don’t need to love every moment of living alone to still take care of yourself in it.

    Eat real meals.

    Make your bed.

    Light the candle.

    Put on music.

    Talk out loud to yourself if it helps.

    Be kind. To yourself.

    Do what you can to make your space feel less like a holding cell, and more like a home.

    Not because it fixes everything, but because small comforts matter.

    Final Thoughts

    If you’re struggling with living alone, I want you to know this:

    You’re not broken.

    You’re not a failure.

    You’re not alone in feeling alone.

    It’s okay to not be okay all the time.

    This season won’t last forever. While you’re in it, I hope you can find ways to feel okay. Not perfect. Not amazing. Just okay.

    That’s more than enough for now.

  • How I Keep My Relationships Alive (Without Living With Anyone)

    Living alone doesn’t mean living without people.

    It just means you have to be a little more intentional.

    There’s no one passing in the hallway. No one sitting on the couch when you get home. No “What’s for dinner?” moments that spark casual conversation.

    So you reach out, with intent.

    Sometimes that’s a message.

    A dumb meme. A “saw this and thought of you.” A photo of whatever you just cooked, even if it’s toast.

    Sometimes it’s a call.

    To a friend. A sibling. A parent. Not always long. Not always deep. Just checking in, hearing a voice, being heard.

    Sometimes it’s inviting yourself over.

    “Mind if I stop by for lunch?” With a supermarket stop on the way so you’re not empty-handed.

    They say yes, because they’re glad you asked. Because they were thinking of you too.

    You don’t need to talk to someone every day.

    But if you care about the relationship, it needs a little oxygen.

    A little effort.

    A little presence.

    It’s not about being social.

    It’s about staying connected—on your own terms.

  • Living Alone Doesn’t Mean Going Unprotected: How I Use Tech to Watch My Back

    You don’t have to be elderly or unwell to benefit from having a bit of backup. Living alone means full independence—but also full responsibility. And when something goes wrong, you’re the only one there.

    I read a story recently about someone who slipped down their stairs and broke a leg. They were home alone. No one expected them. But they were wearing a smartwatch that let them call an ambulance without crawling to a phone.

    That stuck with me. Because it’s easy to assume “that won’t happen to me” until it does.

    Here’s how I use a few bits of tech to make living solo feel safer, more supported, and—honestly—less lonely.

    1. My Smartwatch Is a Quiet Lifeline

    I wear an Apple Watch, and I’ve set it up for fall detection and emergency calling.

    I don’t expect to use it—but if I ever hit the ground hard, I like knowing it’ll prompt me to check in. And if I don’t? It can call for help.

    I’m also a motorcyclist, and I ride solo most of the time. Out of the way roads, some with steep drop-offs on one side of the road or the other. Crash detection, or the ability to call for help if I come off the road in a catastrophic way.

    It’s peace of mind, not panic.

    2. My Phone Reminds Me of Things No One Else Will

    Living alone means there’s no one asking,

    • “Did you take your meds?”
    • “Weren’t you going to call the dentist today?”
    • “Hey, when was the last time you watered the plant that isn’t fake?”

    So I let my phone ask.

    I set reminders for the things that matter, even the ones that feel small. Not because I’m forgetful—just because I don’t want to rely on memory when I don’t have to.

    3. I Use Smart Home Tech for Safety, Not Just Convenience

    I’ve added smart plugs and lights I can control with my phone or voice—especially helpful when I come home late or want the house to look “lived in” while I’m away.

    Motion-sensitive lights in hallways.

    A camera at the front door.

    A smart speaker to check the weather before I ride out.

    It’s not paranoia. It’s preparedness.

    4. Check-Ins Don’t Have to Be Constant—But They Help

    I’ve got one or two friends who know that if they don’t hear from me by a certain time on certain days, they can check in. Not a formal system—just enough to keep things human.

    Some people use daily check-in apps. Others have shared calendars or group chats where silence is a flag.

    You don’t need a panic button if you have a soft safety net.

    5. I Let Automation Do the Things I’d Ask Someone Else To

    If I lived with someone, I’d probably say, “Hey, remind me to…”

    Since I don’t, I let technology take that role.

    My reminders app is full of one-off prompts like:

    • “Move the meat from freezer to fridge”
    • “Cancel that trial before they bill you”
    • “Call Mum”
    • “Empty the bin before it smells”

    Solo living doesn’t mean solo remembering. Offloading small thoughts keeps my brain clearer—and my life smoother.

    Final Thoughts: Living Alone, Not Unguarded

    Technology isn’t a replacement for community, but it can be a solid backup.

    It won’t stop things from going wrong, but it gives you more tools to handle them when they do.

    You don’t need to be afraid to live alone.

    You just need to think ahead.

    Because independence isn’t about doing everything alone—it’s about knowing what’s worth doing smarter.

  • How I Keep the Place Clean (Enough) Without Hating It

    When you live alone, no one else is there to hold you to account for your mess.

    There are no passive-aggressive notes on the fridge. No housemates to argue over chores. No one else using your dishes or mysteriously leaving toast crumbs all over the bench.

    But also—there’s no one to share the load of making that mess go away.

    Every dish, every pile of laundry, every dusty corner… it’s all on you.

    So how do you keep your space clean without it feeling like a never-ending job?

    Here’s what works for me.

    1. I Clean in Layers, Not All at Once

    The idea of “deep cleaning” my whole place is enough to make me want to lie down. So I don’t.

    Instead, I clean in layers.

    Maybe I do all the dishes and clean the bench, but skip the floor. Maybe I vacuum the living area today and save the bedroom for tomorrow. Maybe I wipe down the bathroom sink but ignore the mirror for now.

    Progress over perfection. Layers over burnout.

    2. I Do 10 Minutes a Day

    You can get a surprising amount done in 10 minutes.

    Wipe the kitchen benches. Take out the rubbish. Run a cloth over the bathroom counter. Sweep the worst of the crumbs.

    Ten focused minutes is often more than enough to stop things spiralling—and it doesn’t feel like a thing. It’s just part of the day. Maybe I go over a bit—’I’ve started so I’ll finish’.

    I treat it like brushing my teeth. It doesn’t need to be heroic—it just needs to happen.

    3. I Clean While I Wait

    There’s a weird amount of dead time in everyday life.

    Waiting for the kettle to boil. Waiting for something to finish cooking. Waiting for a file to download.

    That’s when I do something tiny.

    • Pick up a few clothes off the floor
    • Unstack half the dishwasher
    • Give the bathroom mirror a quick wipe
    • Put three things back where they belong

    It’s not a “cleaning session”—it’s just turning waiting into something useful.

    4. I Stack Cleaning With Audio

    If I’m going to be scrubbing or tidying for more than five minutes, I’ll grab an audiobook or put on a podcast. Sometimes I’ll call a friend and chat while folding laundry or doing dishes.

    It makes the time pass faster, and turns something dull into something almost enjoyable.

    It’s not multitasking—it’s mood-enhancing.

    5. I Lower the Bar—Just a Little

    Clean doesn’t have to mean spotless.

    Clean means “I’m not stressed by my surroundings.”

    Clean means “I can walk into my kitchen without muttering under my breath.”

    Sometimes that’s a full tidy. Sometimes it’s stuffing things into a basket so I can clear the table.

    And sometimes, it’s just making the bed so the room feels like it’s trying.

    6. I Use Tools That Make It Easier

    There’s no prize for scrubbing with elbow grease when a spray and a cloth will do.

    There’s no shame in using disposable wipes, having a robot vacuum, or keeping cleaning gear in multiple spots so it’s never far away.

    Work smarter, not harder.

    7. I Make It Visible, But Not Stressful

    I keep a small whiteboard near my desk with 3 rotating chores on it:

    Clean fridge shelf. Wipe bathroom mirror. Vacuum rug.

    When I finish one, I erase and add another. No deadlines, no pressure—just a little nudge.

    It keeps me aware of what I’ve done and what’s next without needing a full-blown chore chart.

    Final Thoughts

    Your home doesn’t need to be perfect.

    It just needs to feel liveable—to you.

    Clean enough to be calm.

    Clean enough to be functional.

    Clean enough that it doesn’t whisper guilt every time you sit down.

    When you live alone, you get to define what “clean” means.

    And that’s a freedom worth using well.

  • The Luxury of an Unshared Schedule

    There’s something deeply satisfying about waking up when your body is ready, not when someone else’s alarm goes off.

    About eating dinner when you get hungry. About going to bed without coordinating it with anyone. About never having to explain why you’re eating bacon at 10pm or vacuuming at 7am on a Sunday.

    It’s one of the quiet luxuries of living alone: your schedule is entirely your own.

    Yesterday, I woke up at 1am, had breakfast at 2:30 and went back to bed at 5am for a couple of hours. Not planned, definitely not optimal, but I got some stuff done while my body was insisting on my being awake.

    No Negotiations, No Syncing Required

    When you live with someone, even if you love them, your routines tend to orbit theirs. You eat when they eat. You wind down when they do. You sometimes adjust your bedtime, your shower time, or your noise levels to keep the peace.

    That’s fine—it’s part of coexisting.

    But when you live solo?

    There’s no negotiation. No syncing up. No guilt when your habits don’t match anyone else’s, because no one else is there.

    You get to ask yourself what works for you—and then just do that.

    You Learn Your Own Rhythm

    I’m a fan of early mornings. There’s something about the quiet before the world stirs that feels sacred. But I’ve also had phases of late-night flow states—writing, gaming, or reading until the small hours.

    The beauty is: I don’t have to choose one or explain it. I can shift with the seasons of my life. I can follow energy, not obligation.

    That’s a kind of freedom I didn’t realise I was missing until I had it.

    You Can Eat When You’re Hungry (Not When It’s “Time”)

    Breakfast doesn’t have to be at 8. Dinner doesn’t have to be at 6.

    There’s no one checking if you’ve had lunch or wondering why you’re just now making coffee at noon.

    I’ve had days where I graze gently until evening and others where I’ve made a full steak lunch and followed it with ice cream at 3. Some nights, toast is enough. Some mornings, I eat nothing at all.

    The point isn’t the food. It’s that no one else’s hunger dictates my meals.

    Rest Without Coordination

    Sometimes I want to nap mid-afternoon. Sometimes I want to go to bed at 8. Sometimes I’m up at 5 because I’m excited to write. I don’t have to ask for quiet. I don’t have to explain why I’m tired. I just… do what I need.

    There’s no “Are you going to bed already?”

    No “Did you just wake up?”

    No commentary. No judgment.

    Just rest, when I need it.

    Final Thoughts

    Living alone means a lot of things. But one of the best parts?

    The luxury of building a life that flows with you—not against you.

    You don’t have to justify your timeline.

    You don’t have to match anyone’s pace.

    You don’t have to rush or slow down for someone else’s convenience.

    Your days are yours.

    Your time is yours.

    And that’s not just a perk—it’s a privilege.

  • Three Words for the Solo Life

    There are words in the world that capture feelings so specific, so subtle, that they don’t translate cleanly into our everyday vernacular. They carry with them a kind of emotional shorthand—a whole philosophy, packed into a single term.

    These three speak to the solo life in ways that feel, to me, like home.

    Isolophilia

    There’s a big difference between being alone and being lonely.

    Isolophilia captures that perfectly. It’s not about withdrawal. It’s about preference. About choosing stillness, not settling for it.

    If you’ve ever felt most like yourself with no one else around—when your thoughts stretch out, when your space feels sacred, when the quiet settles like a weighted blanket—you know what isolophilia feels like.

    This isn’t about rejecting people. It’s about recognising that solitude brings a clarity and calm nothing else can match.

    Eremitism

    Sometimes you don’t realise it’s happening. You stop replying right away. You let plans drift. You reach for peace before noise.

    It’s not personal. It’s not permanent. It’s not punishment.

    Eremitism is a kind of quiet resetting. A soft slip beneath the surface when life feels too loud or too demanding. It’s not about pushing people away—it’s about returning to yourself.

    And when you resurface? You come back clearer, calmer, more whole.

    Sturmfrei

    Sturmfrei is the energy that fills a room when the last guest leaves and you close the door behind them. It’s that subtle click of realisation: this is your space, and no one else gets to set the rules.

    Dinner at midnight. Music loud or not at all. Clothes optional. Silence uninterrupted.

    It’s not chaos—it’s calm without interference. A kind of personal weather system, where the forecast is entirely yours to set.

    Final Thoughts

    Not everyone will understand the appeal of living solo.

    But sometimes, you come across a word from another place, another language, and it lands like a confirmation:

    You’re not alone in loving this.

    Solitude is not a compromise.

    It’s not a lack.

    It’s a language of its own.

    And when you live alone long enough, you learn to speak it fluently.

    (Images found and uplifted from this post on Reddit)

  • The Door Is Closed on Purpose

    It’s a rainy weekend, and I’m not going anywhere.

    Not because I’m unwell. Not because I don’t have options. Not because I’ve run out of things to do. Simply because I don’t want to. The door is closed on purpose.

    There’s something quietly powerful about choosing to stay in. Not out of avoidance, but from a place of comfort and contentment. The kettle’s warm, the blanket’s close, and the outside world can wait.

    Solitude Isn’t a Last Resort—It’s a Luxury

    There’s a common assumption that being home alone means something went wrong. That plans fell through, or no one invited you, or you didn’t have the courage to say yes. But sometimes, solitude isn’t the backup plan. It’s the main event.

    A rainy weekend is a perfect excuse to lean into it. To nest. To potter. To exist without performance.

    There’s no one else’s timeline to follow. No small talk to make. No weather to brave. Just you, your home, and the soft sound of rain outside while you read, cook, nap, or do nothing at all.

    I opened my front door once last weekend—to collect a package.

    I simply stayed in. I wrote, I gamed, I read, I had good meals and quality (online) social time. I caught up on a bit of work for my day job (yay, overtime!). I did some housework I’d been putting off for a bit too long.

    This qualified as a good weekend.

    The Door Stays Closed Because It Feels Good That Way

    It’s easy to mistake quiet for loneliness. To assume that silence equals lack. But when you live alone, you learn to read the difference. You know when solitude is filling your cup, not draining it.

    That’s how this weekend feels.

    The door’s closed not to shut people out, but to keep the comfort in. The stillness. The warmth. The rightness of being right where you are.

    No Guilt for Saying No

    Weekends can carry a pressure to “make the most of it”—to go out, catch up, be productive, be social. And sometimes, that’s great. But not always. Not every weekend needs to be full. Not every hour needs to be optimized.

    There’s nothing wrong with choosing rest over plans.

    There’s nothing wrong with preferring slippers to shoes.

    There’s nothing wrong with looking at the rain and deciding: not today.

    You don’t owe your time to anyone.

    You don’t need a reason beyond “I’m happy here.”

    Final Thoughts

    Last weekend, the door was closed. Not permanently, not locked and barred, just closed.

    Next weekend it might not be. It could be, I’ll see how I feel.

    Because solitude isn’t something to be fixed.

    It’s something to be felt, and enjoyed.

    And sometimes? It feels just right.

  • Dinner for One Is Still Dinner

    Tonight’s dinner was a good one. Steak, garlic and herb butter, fried haloumi, a fried egg, and a generous helping of coleslaw. A solid meal, cooked just for me, because it’s Saturday night—and weekends deserve to feel a little different.

    That’s something I’ve come to appreciate more since living alone: the ritual of eating well, even when there’s no one around to see it.

    Photo by Zoshua Colah on Unsplash.

    You Don’t Need Company to Eat Like You Matter

    There’s a weird cultural idea that solo meals are supposed to be throwaway affairs. A can of something over the sink. Dry toast at the bench. Maybe takeaway, if you’re “treating yourself.”

    But a real meal? A plated one? With sides and intention and seasoning? Surely that’s too much for one person.

    Except it isn’t. Not at all.

    Dinner for one is still dinner. You still get hungry. You still have taste buds. You still deserve to enjoy what you eat.

    Not Every Night Needs to Be Fancy

    Most weeknights, I keep it simple. Quick protein, something green, maybe an egg on top. Honestly, most of the time I eat in front of the TV with the plate on my lap. No shame in that. It’s comfortable, and I like it.

    But a few times a week, I make a point of sitting at the table. I plate the food nicely—not fancily, but nicely. Sometime’s I’ll even light a candle, or just take a moment to breathe and appreciate how the meal looks before I take the first bite. It’s a small ritual, but it changes the tone of the meal. It turns dinner from a fuel stop into something more intentional.

    It reminds me that I’m worth a bit of effort—even if no one else is watching.

    Solo Doesn’t Mean Second-Rate

    When you live alone, no one’s there to nag you into eating your greens. No one is there to ask if you’ve had dinner yet. It’s all on you. That freedom is a gift, but it comes with a quiet responsibility: to still take care of yourself like you matter.

    That includes food.

    That includes presentation.

    That includes eating at the table when you feel like it.

    Not because anyone expects it of you. Just because it feels good.

    Final Thoughts

    There’s something satisfying about cooking for yourself and making it count. Not every meal needs to be a production. Not every evening needs to be candlelit. But when you live alone, those small acts of care—of choosing the steak, of frying the haloumi, of using the nice plate—send a message to yourself:

    This matters. I matter.

    Dinner for one is still dinner.

    And it’s worth doing well.

  • This Is Not Just a Phase

    There’s a certain kind of look people give you when they hear you live alone and like it.

    It’s not always judgement. Sometimes it’s curiosity. Sometimes it’s pity, sometimes naked, often thinly disguised. But almost always, it comes with an assumption: that this, whatever it is, must be temporary. That you’re just taking some time for yourself before you return to “normal.” That eventually, you’ll get tired of the silence. That eventually, you’ll want more.

    More people. More connection. More something.

    Here’s what I’ve come to realise:

    This isn’t a phase. This is my life—right now. Not a prelude to anything. Not a holding pattern. Not a waiting room.

    Just… life. And it’s good.

    A girl, sitting on a bed and drinking tea by a window with potted plants by the windowsill.
    Photo by Ashlyn Ciara on Unsplash.

    I Didn’t Fall Into This By Accident

    I didn’t wake up one day and suddenly find myself living alone. I made choices. I said yes to certain things and no to others. I prioritised autonomy over entanglement. I built a life that fits me, not one that fits a template.

    Also: I don’t claim this is how things will always be.

    People change. Needs change. Circumstances shift. I’m open to the possibility that someday I might want something different.

    At the same time, I’m not looking to change. Simply open to the prospect.

    That doesn’t make this phase less real or less valuable.

    We do ourselves a disservice when we treat every solo life as a transitional one. When we suggest that solitude is only meaningful if it’s leading somewhere else.

    Sometimes, solitude is the destination. Or at least, the right stop for now.

    The Pressure to Evolve Into Something Else

    There’s a kind of self-help narrative that tells us we should always be striving, always improving, always moving forward into the next version of ourselves. And in that worldview, choosing to stay still—or choosing something quieter, smaller, simpler—can feel like rebellion.

    But rebellion isn’t the goal here.

    Presence is.

    I’m not living alone to prove a point. I’m living alone because it’s what fits me right now, because it allows me to be more myself. Because I like the rhythm of my days. Because my space feels good this way.

    There’s nothing unfinished about that.

    It’s a Choice, Not a Life Sentence

    Saying “this is not a phase” doesn’t mean “this is forever.”

    It’s also not entirely true. EVERYTHING is a phase. Nothing is permanent. I had a childhood phase, a university phase, a young professional phase, an engaged phase and a marriage phase. Now I’m having a solitary phase.

    It simply means I’m not treating this as a problem to be solved. Some phases are transitional – engagement, for example. Others, such as marriage, are intended to be indefinite and ongoing—but that doesn’t always work out.

    I’m not measuring this moment against a hypothetical future.

    I’m not living my life like it’s just the trailer for a movie that hasn’t started yet.

    Maybe someday I’ll make room for someone else in this space. Maybe not.

    If I do, it won’t be because I finally “grew out of” living alone.

    It’ll be because my life shifted, and I chose something new from a place of fullness—not from lack.

    Why? Because I don’t lack. I live a full life, on my own terms, and while I enjoy company and companionship, I’m not dependant upon it.

    You don’t have to defend your solitude. You don’t have to treat it like a stopgap. You don’t have to soften the edges for the people who can’t imagine being content in your position.

    This is not a phase.

    This is not a mistake.

    This is a life—a good one, and it’s yours.

    It’s what YOU choose to make of it.