Thriving Solo

Category: Solitude

  • 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.

  • 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.

  • 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 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.

  • 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.