This week, a friend asked me: ‘What percentage of time do you spend alone?’ I replied: ‘Probably around 95%’, which was apparently the wrong answer, because he responded with alarming concern for my wellbeing which prompted me to question everything about my existence.
It’s a similar feeling I get when people comment that they’ve never been out for a coffee by themselves, and even though I’ve done this more times than I can count, I still find myself feeling a little embarrassed that this is my ‘norm’. I wonder whether, upon seeing how much time I spend alone, people presume I’m sad about it; that I’m lonely and perhaps would (or should) spend more time with others if I could.
Is it inherently implied that if we spend a lot of time alone, we must be lonely? Just as we can be surrounded by people and feel lonely, is it possible to be completely alone and at peace? How do we manage loneliness if it does creep in? And when does being or feeling alone move beyond a physical state?
Since I’ve committed to writing about my own experience living life a little separately from the herd, and with a nicely timed recent news report about young people on Guernsey feeling lonelier than ever, I thought it would be a good place to start for my second column.
Over the years, I’ve come to understand loneliness and aloneness as two distinct things. I view loneliness as a normal emotional experience that comes and goes depending on various factors. I view aloneness as a state of being which can either be celebrated and fulfilling or isolating and alienating.
People experience aloneness every day, even if they’re not physically alone – new parents feeling isolated with this incredible but overwhelming new chapter; someone who takes a giant leap into the unknown and sets up their own business; someone who takes on unexpected and daunting responsibilities at the expense of their own wellbeing and autonomy; someone who takes a stand based on what they believe in, risking relationships or reputation in order to stay true to their values.
One part of my reality is that I am lucky enough to have wonderful people in my world who I see as much as possible, and I love social connection. But the other part is that my life lends itself to aloneness in more ways than one – by valuing independence, by being single, by having a job and hobbies that are solitary in nature and just that general sense of following a different life trajectory to what feels like the majority. But do these differences make me feel lonely?
They do sometimes, particularly since coming home. Practically speaking, moving back was a big decision and the fears about it going wrong were (are) mine alone, which is a lonely space to be.
My mind has also found ways to highlight my differences as deficits. Comparison can inspire and motivate but it can also poison and create this mirage of truth about our self-worth. When I doom-scroll through seemingly perfect lives on social media and allow my insecurities to fester, this mirage feels so real: ‘I’m not good enough’, ‘I’m doing life the wrong way’, ‘They’re happy and I’m not’. Ultimately this is nonsense, but it’s easy to get stuck there. By focusing unhealthily on comparison, I’ve turned my differences into a sign of defectiveness rather than of power, independence, freedom or strength. In those moments, I’m not friends with my aloneness and, as a result, I feel lonely.
My journey to befriending aloneness took off when I moved to New Zealand because from that point on, it was me, myself and I.
Although I made friends, I couldn’t rely on them to create a life for me so off I went, attempting to be my own best friend and advocate for aloneness. I tackled ‘bigger’ things: I went on my first solo holiday, I started doing multi-day hikes across the mountains, I adopted Marlow, I moved to a new city three times, and I set up a private psychology practice. And there were smaller things – sorting out tax stuff, dealing with my car breaking down in the middle of nowhere and going to the cinema by myself.
Since moving home I’ve continued to do things alone that I love – running, walking everywhere, writing in coffee shops, reading with a wine in town, and taking short trips (I went to Sark for a couple of nights recently and it was bliss). I’ll acknowledge that on Guernsey, I do feel a little more aware of my aloneness and sometimes worry about being judged.
But I also think it’s important to normalise doing life in whatever way you want and that being ok.
A friend recently said that if his mind and body are occupied with something purposeful, even if he is often physically alone, he doesn’t have the chance to feel lonely. It spoke to me about intentionality. If I can be intentional with my time and find meaning in whatever I’m doing, I’m not worrying about what others think.
Sometimes, I question whether my friendship with aloneness has gone too far; have I become dependent on it to avoid discomfort? Is it so strongly attached to my identity that it’s now more of a shield? To be less alone means to be closer to others and this means greater vulnerability.
At times, and relationship context-dependent, this is true. But for the most part, I’ve tried to develop a healthy love and acceptance for aloneness that isn’t rooted in a fear of commitment or an avoidance of emotional intimacy. In the moments where I think I’m sensing judgement or pity from others as I navigate aloneness, I just lean into and make fun of the stereotypes: I am a cat lady. Outrageous! I am a single woman in her thirties. The horror! I’m a single woman in her thirties who doesn’t have or want children. Shocking! I’m nearly 40 (no I’m not) and don’t own a house. Ghastly!
When I pare it right back, I return to that simple act of going for a coffee alone. I think there’s a quiet symbolism in being able to do something so seemingly small by yourself and not feel lonely. Yes, part of me wonders how much less stressful or more fun my life might be if I had someone to share the responsibilities and experiences with.
But ultimately, if I waited for someone to take those giant leaps with me, I’d never do anything. I think even if I do end up spending less time alone as the years go by, I know I’ll always make room for those solo coffees.
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