Thriving Solo

Author: ozzy

  • Solo Isn’t Broken

    There’s a quiet assumption baked into so many conversations: that being alone is a temporary condition. That if you live solo—if you don’t have a partner, roommates, or a busy social calendar—you must be between things. Between relationships. Between phases. Between the life you have and the “real” one that’s surely coming.

    But here’s the truth: living solo isn’t broken. It’s not incomplete. It’s not the sad prelude to something better. It’s just one of the many ways a good life can look.

    I’m not anti-relationship. I’m not anti-community. I’m just done with the idea that being alone is a flaw to correct.

    When You Live Alone, People Start Looking for the Fix

    They ask if you’re seeing anyone. If you get lonely. If you’ve considered getting a dog, a flatmate, a dating app, something. The question behind the questions is always the same:

    “So… when are you going to stop living like this?”

    As if this was just an in-between moment.

    But this isn’t a placeholder. This is life. A real one. A full one.

    A Life on My Own Terms

    Living alone means freedom. It means not compromising on what you eat, how your home looks, what time you go to bed, or how much space you take up. It means solitude when you want it, and the power to reach out when you don’t.

    It means learning to trust your own rhythm. To recognise your own voice. To ask, “What do I want today?” and actually get to follow through.

    That’s not broken. That’s not lacking. That’s liberating.

    You Can Choose Something Different—But You Don’t Have To

    If one day I decide I want to share my space, or merge my life with someone else’s, I can do that. But it’ll be a choice—not a rescue. Not a fix. Not an escape from some supposed defect in my life as it is now.

    I don’t need to be saved from solitude. I’m not waiting for something better. This is better.

    Final Thoughts

    You’re not behind because you live alone. You’re not broken because you enjoy your own company. You’re not missing out just because your path looks different.

    This isn’t a waiting room. It’s your life.

    And if it’s working for you, you don’t owe anyone an explanation—or a change.

  • Things I’ve Stopped Apologising For Since Living Alone

    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.

  • Solitude vs. Isolation: Knowing the Difference (and Keeping the Balance)

    Living alone means you get good at being by yourself. You start to learn the rhythms of your space, your thoughts, your time. You learn what recharges you. What drains you. You build rituals that are yours alone. You find peace in silence that used to feel awkward.

    That’s solitude.

    Solitude is chosen. It’s intentional. It’s when your time alone fills your cup, calms your mind, or helps you think. It’s when you end a solo weekend feeling a little more like yourself.

    But sometimes, it slides. Slowly. Quietly. Solitude becomes something else.

    Isolation.

    Isolation doesn’t recharge you. It drains you. It makes you feel like you’re underwater—disconnected, a little foggy, a little adrift. It’s when the silence isn’t peaceful anymore, it’s just heavy. When the space that used to feel like sanctuary starts to feel like a trap.

    It’s a fine line. And the tricky part is, you usually don’t notice when you’ve crossed it until you’ve been on the wrong side for a while.

    My Personal Rule

    Here’s one rule I’ve made for myself:

    Don’t turn down invitations without a damned good reason.

    Not because I’m a social butterfly. I’m not. But because I’ve learned that the part of me that says “you don’t need to go” is often trying to protect me from the discomfort of interaction—not the harm of it.

    I say yes to the beach trip with family, the friend saying “Want to grab a beer?”, the invitation to a family dinner, even when I’m feeling low-energy, unless I’m genuinely unwell, exhausted, or already committed to something that matters.

    Because I know that when I start saying no by default, I start to drift.

    I mostly want to beg off. I like my solitude. Still, these people matter to me.

    I never come away, regretting having gone.

    Questions I Ask Myself

    • Will I regret missing this?
    • Am I saying no because I truly need rest, or because I’m avoiding the effort of showing up?
    • Would this be good for me, even if it’s not easy?

    More often than not, the answer to all of these is yes.

    So I say “Yes”. I say “Thanks” and “I’ll see you there”.

    Final Thoughts

    Solitude is a gift. It’s one of the best things about living alone. But like any gift, it can turn on you if you don’t treat it with care.

    Check in with yourself. Say yes when it counts, and don’t wait until the silence starts to feel heavy before you reach out.

    Because you don’t have to wait until you’re lonely to ask for connection. Sometimes you just need to open the door before it feels closed.

  • A Home That’s Just for Me

    When you live alone, you don’t have to compromise on how your home looks or functions. You don’t have to explain your layout, your colour choices, your furniture (or lack of it), or why your desk is there instead of a kitchen table. (Easy access to the fridge is important, OK?)

    You don’t have to think about whether the space “makes sense” to anyone but you.

    And that’s the joy of it.

    My home isn’t designed for guests. It’s designed for me. It’s set up for how I actually live—not for how I’d want someone else to see it.

    I have a sofa I rarely use, and for the rare occasions I have a friend stay, it folds out into a bed. Mostly, it has a jacket or two on it. I have a stand near my front door, that’s for my motorbike jacket and helmet. It makes sense there. For me.

    The chair that fits my back. The desk that holds just what I need. The cushions that make me smile. The stack of books that migrates across the house, always close but rarely tidy.

    The way I’ve arranged things is personal, functional, and occasionally unconventional, whimsical. I’ve moved desks between rooms when the light changed. I’ve changed the purpose of a space because my life changed. I’ve chosen comfort and utility over convention.

    I had a spare desktop bookshelf, so my bedroom chest of drawers now has a bookshelf on top of it. Why not?

    My living room is my workspace and gaming zone. My bedroom has no TV, no distractions—just calm. My kitchen has a drawer full of random things that make sense only to me. It’s not chaos. It’s mine.

    My writing desk is cluttered but curated, it’s an intentional space, and everything on there makes me happy in some small way—the satanic duck (that’s Baphomet) I talk to when I’m thinking things through, the helpful raven (That’s Matthew, he holds a light for me), the brass octopus (who doesn’t have a name yet) who sits atop my small stack of index cards that relate to my current WIP.

    When you live alone, you get to create an environment that reflects your habits, your moods, your priorities.

    And maybe that means you eat dinner on the couch with your feet up. Maybe it means your ‘home gym’ is just a yoga mat that never gets put away. Maybe it means your bookshelf is organised by mood, not alphabet.

    The point is, it doesn’t need to impress anyone. It just needs to support you.

    Your home isn’t a showpiece. It’s your launchpad, your hideout, your sanctuary.

    So build it for who you are—not who you think you should be.

    And definitely not for who might be visiting.

    That’s the freedom of living solo. That’s the magic of making a home just for you.

  • Maintaining Relationships When You Prefer to Be Alone

    Living solo doesn’t always mean you’re a loner—but it might mean you have a lower social appetite than most.

    You like your space. You like your routines. You find joy in the quiet, and you don’t need—or want—constant social contact. And that’s perfectly valid. But even the most solitude-loving people still need connection. And relationships, even light ones, need care to survive.

    So how do you keep relationships alive when you’re perfectly content spending most of your time alone?

    Understand Your Own Social Rhythm

    Not everyone thrives on the same amount of connection. Some people need regular interaction to feel grounded. Others (maybe you) can go weeks happily flying solo.

    Knowing your own rhythm helps you make intentional decisions. Are you the kind of person who needs one good chat a week? A text thread that’s always going? A monthly dinner?

    When you understand your needs, you can show up better—on your terms.

    Let People Know You Care (Even If You’re Quiet)

    One of the biggest risks of preferring solitude is accidentally making people feel unimportant. You don’t mean to, of course—you just get caught up in your own world. Days pass. Then weeks. Then months. And suddenly that friend you genuinely like thinks you’ve ghosted them.

    You don’t need to apologise for your nature, but a little effort goes a long way. A check-in text. A link to something they’d love. A meme, even.

    Small gestures keep relationships alive without requiring big energy.

    Low-Effort Doesn’t Mean Low-Value

    If the idea of dinner parties, long phone calls, or scheduled events drains you, lean into low-maintenance connection.

    Some ideas:

    • Replying to Social Media posts directly
    • Sending voice notes instead of typing out long messages
    • Playing low-pressure online games together
    • Watching something at the same time and messaging during

    You don’t have to force yourself into high-energy socialising to be a good friend.

    Be Honest About How You Socialise

    Some people thrive on spontaneity. Others need notice. Some like big groups, others prefer one-on-one. Knowing where you land—and sharing that with people—helps everyone.

    It’s okay to say:

    “I really like hanging out, but I’m a bit socially low-energy, so I might need to flake sometimes.”

    Or:

    “I love catching up one-on-one, but I tend to stay quiet in group chats.”

    The more people understand how you work, the easier it is to maintain relationships without pretending to be more extroverted than you are.

    Also, you can invite the person on the other side to check in with you in the same way – maybe they need a bit more than you’re giving, maybe they don’t always want to be the first one to text, the only one to call.

    Every relationship involves some compromise.

    Make Room—Just a Little Bit

    Maintaining relationships when you live alone and love solitude doesn’t mean overhauling your life. It means leaving just a little space for others:

    • A half-hour chat every now and then
    • A shared hobby or game
    • A standing invitation to catch up (even if it rarely happens)

    You don’t have to go all-in. Just leave the door open.

    Final Thoughts: You Can Be a Quiet Person With Strong Connections

    You don’t have to be constantly available to maintain relationships. You don’t have to say yes to every plan, reply instantly, or be anyone’s social anchor.

    You just have to care enough to show up sometimes, in ways that feel true to you.

    And if you do that? You’ll find that even as someone who prefers solitude, your connections can still run deep—and last.

  • Your Life Doesn’t Have to Be Optimised

    If you spend enough time online, you’ll start to feel like you’re doing life wrong.

    You’ll see the people who have colour-coded planners, full-body routines, and morning rituals that begin before the sun comes up. You’ll hear about how every moment should be productive. You’ll be told that if you’re not meditating, cold-plunging, tracking your macros, side-hustling, journaling, and levelling up, you’re falling behind.

    And if you live alone, the pressure doubles. Suddenly all that time and space you have is supposed to be fuel for constant self-improvement. You’ve got the hours, right? So what’s your excuse?

    Here’s mine:

    I don’t want my life to be a project. I want it to be a life.

    My yesterday (at time of writing ) is a great example of this.

    My alarm goes off at the same time, but I don’t rush out of bed (which I try to do on week days). Instead, I relax, lay in bed for a while. I reach for my iPad, read for a bit, chat a bit on a couple of Discord servers. I dozed a little bit.

    I got up, and took a shower, got dressed and went downstairs. I wasn’t feeling overly hungry, and the kitchen needed a bit of a tidy up, so I did that. I bought a big tray (for one person) of discounted steak the day before, so I put on a big slow-cook before I made breakfast.

    Then I sat, with my iPad, reading while I ate my bacon and eggs and drank my coffee. I was in a good part of my current book, so I kept reading for a while longer.

    Phone call from my boss interrupted that (nothing urgent, just a bit of a debrief on some things from the previous day), then I went to my computer. Chatted with a couple of people on Twitch, and did some idle gaming for a while. Nothing too challenging, but entertaining nevertheless.

    After a couple of hours, I noticed some friends playing something else, so I joined in with them. That was another four or five hours.

    I took breaks here and there – more water, something for lunch, stirring the big slow-cook. Another break to finish off, then eat the first meal from that big cook—watching some TV while eating.

    Back to the game (different parts of the same group were playing still) until about 8pm, then a re-watch of another couple of episodes of a favourite show before bed.

    I could have done a lot more. And yeah, there’s a part of my brain that was constantly whispering at me, telling me that I should have been doing more.

    At the same time, I have a week’s worth of lazy dinners in the fridge (I told you it was a big slow-cook), and I’m being more productive today.

    So, was it a loss? A waste of a day?

    Not at all. I feel recharged. I enjoyed myself, I spent quality on-line gaming time with people I genuinely like.

    How could I consider that a waste?

    The Myth of the Optimised Human

    There’s a difference between growth and optimisation. Growth is natural. It ebbs and flows. It’s responsive to what you need, not what the algorithm says you should be doing. Optimisation, on the other hand, is about control. It’s about treating yourself like a system that can always be made more efficient.

    But we’re not systems. We’re people.

    Living well doesn’t always look good on paper. Sometimes it looks like a slow start. Sometimes it looks like reading the same chapter twice because your mind wandered. Sometimes it’s doing “nothing” on a Sunday and not turning it into a productivity hack.

    You Are Not Wasting Time by Living

    There’s nothing wrong with making the most of your time. Structure can be helpful. Discipline has its place. But you are not a robot, and your worth is not measured in output.

    Resting is not a waste. Doing things just because they bring you joy is not a waste. Watching a show, cooking a meal, listening to music, going for a walk with no destination—these are not failures of time management. They’re part of a full life.

    When you live alone, there’s no one around to tell you this. No one to remind you that it’s okay not to be improving every second. So you have to remind yourself.

    The Space to Just Be

    One of the quiet gifts of living solo is that you don’t have to perform for anyone. You can just exist. You can be a little messy, a little aimless, a little human.

    Your home doesn’t have to be Instagram-worthy. Your routines don’t need to be airtight. Your days don’t have to be impressive.

    They just have to be yours.

    There’s so much freedom in letting go of the pressure to optimise. In deciding that you don’t need to be your best self all the time. You just need to be yourself.

    Final Thoughts: Life is Not a Spreadsheet

    Solo living gives you space. But space doesn’t always need to be filled with productivity. It can hold quiet. Stillness. Simplicity.

    So if today didn’t feel like a win, that’s okay. If you didn’t “level up,” that’s okay. If all you did was get through the day and feel mostly okay doing it—that’s a pretty decent day.

    You’re not falling behind. You’re not broken. You’re just a person living a life.

    And that life doesn’t have to be optimised for it to be good.

  • A Sunday night alone.

    There’s a particular stillness to Sunday evenings when you live alone.

    No one asking what’s for dinner. No background noise. Just the quiet hum of your space, maybe some music, maybe a show you’ve watched ten times before playing in the background.

    Sometimes I cook. Sometimes it’s leftovers. Sometimes it’s toast. No rules.

    It’s the calm before the storm that is Monday morning. It’s the wind down of a weekend where I’ve been relaxing, living my best life.

    This weekend, I have written, and that’s my main goal for any day. So, that’s a success. I’ve moved forward in some material ways with my writing coaching business, and that matters to me.

    I’ve also cooked and eaten some good meals, spent time gaming with friends, some of it while streaming. For me, this counts as social time – it’s not face to face, which means it’s not always what I need, but it’s still a good social time.

    I’ve learned not to dread the “Sunday scaries.” For me, Sunday night is reset time. No performance, no planning marathons—just a bit of breathing space to put the weekend down gently.

    Sometimes that looks like tidying up. Other times, it’s doing absolutely nothing useful. Lately, it’s meant writing down one or two small intentions for the week—not goals, just ideas I’d like to carry with me.

    And sometimes, it’s just sitting here with a hot drink and the sense that I’m okay.

    Not extraordinary. Not behind.

    It’s okay. I feel good about myself, my weekend, and that’s a good place to end the week. A good place from which to start the week to come.

  • Being a Good Neighbour (When You Mostly Like to Be Left Alone)

    I live at the back of a courtyard. I have three sets of neighbours – two couples, one older lady who lives alone.

    We mostly ignore each other. Not in a bad way—we just live separate and distinct lives. If we happen to be in the courtyard or the driveway at the same time, we exchange a few friendly words. Other than that, we see each other, and we don’t need to interact.

    And honestly? That suits me fine.

    I don’t want to host street barbecues or get drawn into neighbourly drama. I like my space. I like not feeling obligated to make small talk just because I took the bins out at the same time as someone else. But at the same time, I want to be a good neighbour. I want to be someone who contributes to a sense of ease and quiet goodwill, not tension or suspicion.

    You don’t have to be sociable to be considerate. You don’t have to be friends to be friendly.

    The Quiet Art of Neighbourliness

    For those of us who enjoy solitude, neighbourliness isn’t about being outgoing. It’s about creating an atmosphere of mutual respect. A sense of “we don’t need to be in each other’s pockets, but we’ve got each other’s backs.”

    That can look like:

    • Giving a quick wave when you pass someone in the driveway.
    • Keeping your noise to a minimum (especially at night).
    • Not blocking shared spaces.
    • Offering a hand if you see someone struggling with shopping or furniture.
    • Returning packages that get left at your door by mistake.

    It’s not a social contract. It’s just shared decency.

    Knowing the Vibe

    One of the best things you can do as a neighbour is read the room—or in my case, the property.

    Are your neighbours chatty? Do they keep to themselves? Has anyone ever invited you to something, or is it more of a nod-and-carry-on place?

    You don’t need to match their energy, but it helps to understand it. That way, you’re not accidentally being standoffish, or—on the flip side—too familiar in a place that values boundaries.

    Small Gestures, Big Impact

    You don’t need to do anything grand. Just being the kind of neighbour who doesn’t cause problems is enough. But if you want to go a step further:

    • Shovel a bit of someone else’s driveway if you’re already out there.
    • Water their plants if they’re away (and you’re asked).
    • Let someone know if their car lights are on, or if there’s a parcel sitting exposed in the rain.

    In my case, my nearest neighbour and I will bring each other’s empty rubbish bins in. Whoever happens to go out and clear theirs first, they’ll also grab the other person’s, and drop it where it belongs. No stress, no commitment, just neighbourly good natured behaviour.

    None of these require commitment or ongoing involvement. They just show that you’re paying quiet attention—and that you care, even if you’re not looking to become best friends.

    Final Thoughts: Neighbourly Without Needy

    Living alone doesn’t mean isolating yourself from the world around you. It just means you get to choose how you engage.

    Being a good neighbour doesn’t require extroversion. It requires thoughtfulness, respect, and the willingness to look up from your own life every now and then to make someone else’s a little easier.

    You don’t have to be social to be part of a community. You just have to be kind.

  • When “Me Time” Turns Into “Too Much Time”

    One of the perks of living alone is that you get plenty of me time. You’re in charge of your space, your time, your routines. You don’t have to negotiate plans, share the remote, or justify your schedule to anyone. It’s freedom in its purest form.

    But there’s a shadow side to that freedom—it can be really easy to drift into isolation without even noticing. Especially if you’re naturally introverted, socially anxious, or just plain tired from life.

    So how do you know when your alone time is doing you good—and when it’s quietly wearing you down?

    Solitude vs. Avoidance

    True solitude is a choice. It’s when you want to be alone, and your time with yourself feels intentional. You read, go for walks, work on projects, rest, cook, clean, stare out the window—whatever. You feel like your life is yours.

    Avoidance, on the other hand, is when you don’t want to be alone, but you’re not doing anything about it. Maybe it’s fear of awkward social moments, the discomfort of meeting new people, or just the inertia that builds after spending too many weekends solo.

    It’s the difference between opting out and shutting down.

    Sometimes, avoidance looks a lot like solitude—until it doesn’t. Until you realise you’ve gone a week without a real conversation. Until even texting a friend feels like too much effort. Until you start wondering if this is just what your life is now.

    I’m fortunate to have family in town – when they reach out with an invitation, my personal rule is that I won’t say ‘no thanks’ unless I’m already booked somewhere else… somewhere that isn’t at home.

    I made this rule for myself because I could feel the self-inflicted isolation happening.

    At the same time, I don’t always have to wait for an invitation. A simple “Hey, you guys up for a visitor this afternoon?” or random drop-by when I’m out for a ride are both on the cards. Just don’t depend on people always being available when you reach out.

    The Gradual Slide

    Living alone doesn’t usually shift from “healthy solitude” to “full isolation” overnight. It’s subtle, insidious.

    It starts with declining a few invitations because you’re tired. Then not making any new plans because it’s cold or you’re busy. Then realising it’s been a month and the only people who’ve said your name out loud are baristas.

    There’s no big turning point. Just a slow slide into numbing routines and low-level loneliness that’s easy to ignore—until you can’t.

    Signs You Might Be Leaning Too Far In

    • You start turning down invitations reflexively—even the ones you might enjoy.
    • You find yourself restless or down but can’t quite name why.
    • The idea of seeing people feels exhausting, but being alone isn’t making you feel better either.
    • You’ve convinced yourself you don’t need anyone, but a part of you wonders if that’s really true.

    None of these signs mean something is wrong with you. They’re just cues—invitations to check in with yourself.

    Rebuilding Connection, Gently

    If you realise your me time has tipped into too much time, you don’t need a dramatic intervention. You don’t need to “get out more” or go full extrovert.

    Start small. Send a message to someone you like but haven’t seen in a while. Make a plan you can cancel without guilt. Go sit in a cafe with a book—just being around people counts.

    Maybe just go and walk somewhere with lots of people around. A popular weekend or evening destination, a shopping centre.

    Final Thoughts: It’s a Balance

    Alone time is essential, but it’s not infinite fuel. Even the most independent people need connection. And it’s not weakness to admit that. It’s just being human.

    When you live alone, you have to be your own emotional barometer. You’re the one checking in, adjusting course, noticing when the silence is restorative—and when it’s starting to echo.

    Me time is beautiful. Just don’t let it become a burden.

  • This guy is a dude!

    This quote hits home in the most grounded, quietly powerful way:

    “Once you know how to take care of yourself, company becomes an option and not a necessity.”

    There’s a huge difference between being alone because you have no choice—and being alone because you’ve learned how to enjoy your own company. Keanu nails that distinction here.

    Taking yourself out to eat. Buying things for yourself. Spending time alone, not because you’re avoiding others, but because you actually enjoy it. That’s a kind of emotional self-sufficiency a lot of people don’t talk about.

    Living solo doesn’t mean you’re lonely. It means you’re responsible for your own happiness—and when you start treating your own company as something worthwhile, the world gets a lot lighter.

    It doesn’t mean you never want connection. But it means that connection becomes something you choose, not something you chase.

    There’s power in that.