I forgot how much I love being alone

And the importance of it.

Dear Reader,

I am what numerous quizzes online call an ‘extroverted introvert.’ Which is a fancy way of saying I’m loud and don’t shy away from attention, but I need alone time.

I have always found comfort in being alone, and granted, that might have much to do with my favourite activity being reading. You can do it with others, I guess, but I prefer it to be just me.

I love the quiet click of my door shutting behind me. I love putting on a playlist that only I have to like, or watching the kind of movie that no one else ever wants to watch. I love curling up with a book for hours, forgetting to answer texts, letting time slow down and stretch. I love being alone because it doesn’t mean I’m missing anything. It means I’m giving something to myself.

My first movie: The Revenant, and I don’t remember why I ended up going solo, but I do remember I wore red lipstick and cried a lot. I passed a mirror on the way out and my mascara was everywhere and I had lipstick on my chin.

My first meal: Montreal, and here’s the view from the rooftop patio. I had a salad that had octopus in it and a delicious cocktail, I couldn’t tell you the name of. I know the place was named after a bird, or maybe just called the bird? I can’t remember. I was there a day earlier than my friends, all of us going to Osheaga, and exploring the city myself was my favourite part of that trip.

My first concert: Fleetwood Mac. It was after work and I bought the ticket spontaneously, not wanting to miss one of my all-time favourite bands. The seats were extremely high up and off to the side. I enjoyed a joint on my walk to the venue and paid way too much for a glass of red when I got there. Still one of the best concerts I’ve been to.

I haven’t done a lot of solo things over the past year, and I chalk that up to a few things. New friends, new relationship, a lot of change. I look at days off and see if they align with others instead of burrowing in at home. And that’s a good thing, but I forgot about one thing: myself.

Loving being alone isn’t about rejecting people.

It’s about no longer abandoning myself. It’s realizing that solitude isn’t a punishment. It’s a kind of freedom. And once you learn how to keep yourself company, the silence gets softer. Sweeter. Safer.

I recently went to a movie/book club by myself, and it was the reminder I needed to carve out some time more often. I signed up for a month-long pilates book club shortly after, which won’t be just me, but I’m excited to be doing it myself and with new people.

I love the feeling of being out alone, like really alone, walking around with a drink or a snack, carrying something new in a bag, with nowhere to be. It makes me feel like I exist outside of everything. Like a movie character. And we know I love that.

And I still feel that — that buzz of aliveness when it’s just me and the city or the street or the slow Saturday morning. When I can carry something new home, and no one asks where I went. When I am both the observer and the observed. When I’m not performing, just being. When solitude feels cinematic, like I’m walking through a scene that’s mine and mine alone.

That’s the part people don’t always talk about.

The romance of it.

The little thrill of knowing you can take yourself to dinner or the bookstore or on a walk, and it’ll still feel like something special. If you take anything from this ramble (and reminder to myself), I hope that it’s that the most important relationship of your life is the one you’ve been slowly building with yourself.

Until next chapter,