Thriving Solo

Category: Solitude

  • 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.

  • 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.

  • 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.