A Personal Journey Through Solitude

Why Being Alone Feels Both Freeing and Lonely

I’ve noticed that whenever someone spends a lot more time on their own than most folks think is, well, “normal,” everyone starts asking questions. They wonder if you’re sad or anxious or maybe just going through some rough patch. People say things like, “Humans are social creatures” or “Don’t isolate yourself,” as though that alone will magically fix everything. But honestly, it’s not always so black and white. Some of us actually choose to step back from the hustle and bustle because we just can’t deal with the drama or the small talk or whatever else crowds bring.

I’ve been there myself—still am, to some extent. There’s a kind of weird relief that comes from putting space between me and the rest of the world. Sure, it can get lonely, but loneliness and solitude aren’t automatically the same thing. You might feel alone even in a crowded coffee shop, and you can also feel perfectly fine in your own company.

I’ve gone through stretches of what I’d call semi-social isolation, where I wasn’t totally disconnected—I mean, in this digital age, can anyone really be completely off-grid? I still had the internet and, occasionally, a friend or family member I might text. But there were weeks when I barely left my apartment. At first, I felt free—no pressure to attend get-togethers or make small talk in the office break room. Then, after a while, I actually started to miss seeing other humans. It caught me off guard.

It reminds me of Schopenhauer’s story about hedgehogs. They huddle together for warmth in the winter, but their spines end up hurting each other. Sometimes that’s exactly how social interaction feels: we need the connection, but it can sting too, especially if you’ve been let down or hurt before. So, you keep people at arm’s length because you remember how the spikes felt.

For me, part of why I retreat is because I thrive on introspection and creativity in my own space. I like having the freedom to write or reflect without distractions. But I also admit there’s a bit of fear in there—fear of more drama, more disappointment, or just more exhaustion. Sometimes it’s easier to say, “Yeah, I’m good over here on my own, thanks.”

When the pandemic forced everyone to stay home, I caught glimpses of both the benefits and drawbacks of a hermit-like life. I missed chatting with coworkers about random TV shows or running into old friends at the grocery store. But I also felt relieved not to have the constant social obligations. I could just be in my bubble, and it was oddly comforting.

Over time, though, too much solitude turned into a game of mental ping-pong. I’d have endless conversations with myself and no one to set me straight when I veered into unproductive thoughts. That’s when it hit me: maybe I do need people more than I’d like to admit.

Of course, there’s no universal fix for everyone. Some people truly flourish in solitude, living like monks in a state of blissful self-sufficiency. Others need the daily chatter and laughter that comes from being around friends or even acquaintances. The real question, I think, is figuring out the reasons behind your desire to pull away. Are you actually happier alone, or are you running from the possibility of being hurt or judged?

I’ve tried to become more aware of how much I isolate myself. Sometimes I’ll choose to work in a café just for the comfort of hearing background chatter. It’s not that I’m starting a conversation every five minutes, but there’s something reassuring about having people around. Online gaming with friends can also help—sure, it’s not face-to-face, but it’s still some form of connection.

Every so often, I venture out into the world for a proper change of scenery. Traveling has become my way of reminding myself there’s more to life than my four walls. And once I’m out there, I usually end up feeling re-energized by the new faces and random encounters.

Social isolation, in the end, can be a double-edged sword. It gives you space, peace, and a break from all the usual nonsense. But it can also shut you off from the joys and opportunities that come with being around others. Balance is a moving target—it shifts as we age, as our circumstances change, or as we learn more about ourselves. Right now, I’m still figuring out where I land on the solitude spectrum, and that’s okay. If you’re asking yourself the same questions, you’re not alone in wanting to be alone. And honestly, the world will still be there if and when you decide to come back.

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