Embracing the joy of being alone.
Celebrating 30th birthday in solitude proves joyful, liberating and empowering
Ipacked my car one day last December, the anticipation tingling me like I was heading on a dream trip. But my plans weren’t all that grand. I drove off with Houston and the grind of the news cycle behind me, to a remote cabin in the Texas Hill Country. I couldn’t wait to be on my own for three days and do precisely nothing.
Even after nine months of solitude in quarantine, I yearned to be alone.
I turned 30 last week. I have lived on my own since I was 22. I know myself better now than I ever have. The birthday milestone led to a wave of self-reflection and a realization: Being alone is at the core of who I am. It shapes my actions and aspirations, my daily life and future desires.
Does this sound sad to you? Chances are it does. And I don’t blame you. Society has painted being alone as an unfortunate circumstance. There’s a stigma, especially for women. It’s even rooted in the words we use to describe it.
When you think of the noun form of “alone,” you may think of “loneliness” before “aloneness.” The thesaurus suggestions for “alone” are not any kinder: desolate, deserted, isolated, hermit, abandoned, unaccompanied, companionless, friendless.
Ouch.
It’s difficult to find positive words that define being alone. At best, they’re neutral. When I tell people I’m single, I often find myself adding “by choice” or “it’s the best” to avoid the glimmer of pity in their eyes. Some people don’t like being alone; that’s fine. But I wish they didn’t project their feelings on me.
As far back as I can remember, I’ve always been an independent person. I’m an only child, which compelled me to entertain myself with my own thoughts and activities — an invaluable life skill.
The funny thing is, I am no introvert. I love socializing. I am bubbly. I am loud. Pre-pandemic, I went out a lot. I’m often the last to leave the party. I have constantly pinging group texts. I’m just an extrovert who loves to be alone — hi, we exist.
This took a nudge, though. In New York City, where I moved after college, I often signed up for talks, tastings, dinners, exhibits. When I went through my contact list for a buddy, it was always difficult to find someone who was free. I’d end up with multiple new plans but still no plus-one.
To avoid missing must-go events, I started going on my own. Sometimes I’d meet new people, but often I enjoyed flying solo, being able to move through museums at my own pace, having the space to think deeply on my way home about what a panelist had said, picking a spot to eat without having to follow someone else’s food mood.
During the pandemic, there’s been a lot of talk about solitude and isolation. Many are sorry for those who are going through this alone. It’s true, this past year has been incredibly difficult and lonely for some, and I don’t mean to diminish that. Personally, I feel bad for people who are living and working on top of their significant others, surrounded by screaming children.
I’ve felt lucky to have time and space to myself in quarantine. Not everyone has that luxury. If I need company, my friends and family are just a Zoom or socially distanced hang away.
I wish we could reframe the narrative: Being alone can be joyful and productive. Empowering, even.
Having plenty of room to think is what I love most about spending time with myself. I love thinking. About anything. As enjoyable as socializing is, there’s no leeway to think when you’re playing conversational pingpong.
I’m at my most productive and creative during my thinking time. I have eureka moments of all kinds: Ideas for new projects, new goals. I plan and strategize. I find a story idea to pitch. I finally solve how to write a sentence, paragraph or story I had been stuck on.
When I’m alone with my own thoughts, I have life breakthroughs. Turning them into action is even more thrilling.
I love the agency of making decisions without consulting someone, whether that’s a fun weekend jaunt, or a big life step. I moved to a different country for college when I was 18, then another at 21. Then I moved cross-country, from New York to Houston, when I was 28.
Each time, I felt incredibly free. Like “sure, why not?” I can make this huge life decision, and follow through with it, on my own terms.
I’m grateful to have parents who raised me while honoring my independent streak. They’ve perfected the art, whether intentional or not, of doting without helicoptering.
They had me relatively late in life — at 38 and 43 — and had whole lives before they started the one they have together.
My father had a first marriage for a few years; his ex-wife became a family friend. He’s had multiple twists and turns in his journalism career, from being a food and travel writer to penning a book about archaeology. He was part of the resistance in the U.S. Army during the Vietnam War.
My mother was once engaged to an opera singer. He brought her to Santa Fe, N.M., which later became a frequent destination for our family trips. When she was my age, she traveled the world, including three formative years in China. She learned to speak fluent Mandarin and kitchen German from a restaurant job — when she gives me a snack, she still calls it a Vorspeise.
I sense there was some ambivalence on whether my parents would have children. In the end, they had just the one.
As time goes by, my thoughts on the matter have evolved from “I guess that’s something I’ll do one day because that’s what everybody does” to “oh, this sounds awful.”
The realization that I was not going to have or prioritize children was incredibly liberating. Without the tether of having to raise small humans, I can make life whatever I want it to be. I can spend more time and money and energy on the trips and adventures and life moments that matter most to me. For some people, that’s starting a family — it’s just not for me.
And because I don’t have to follow the countdown of my dwindling fertility to couple up, I literally have my entire life to find a mate.
I’d be lying if I wrote that I didn’t fear romantic commitment. I think the biggest reason I fear it is because more time with someone means less time on my own. I admire people who can fit an entire person into their everyday lives. It’s difficult for me to picture how that would work in mine.
There’s a misconception that fear of romantic commitment means a fear of all commitment. I don’t find that to be the case. I’m a caring, devoted friend. I form attachments to jobs and places.
These days, my next commitment is my new obsession: buying a home.
I’ve always cherished having my own space. After only a year of living with roommates in New York, my broke 22-year-old self decided to find her own place. While it was the worst financial decision I’ve ever made — my rent was 70 percent of my take-home pay at the time — it was one of my best life decisions.
It’s not an overstatement to say that homeownership is my most important noncareer goal in life. Recently, I told a friend the ways in which I will scramble enough cash together for a down payment, how I may be able to pay a mortgage every month and make the extra financial burden of owning a home work on my journalist’s salary.
She said something totally reasonable: I won’t be doing this alone forever; one day I’ll have someone to share all these costs with, and it’ll make it easier.
I’ve thought about this conversation a lot for the past few months because I’m amused at the internal, knee-jerk thought that entered my brain when she said that: “But it’s my house.”
My house, where there’s no such thing as too many cactus items, where I don’t have to accommodate someone’s ugly brown chair, or throw away my bean art. My house, where I can lead a solo existence that’s fulfilling, not isolating.
Where I can be the best version of my 30-year-old self.