The Sacred Art of Being Alone

I’ve never really felt like I belonged anywhere.

Since I was a kid, my friendships have always been touch-and-go. At 33, I don’t keep in touch with anyone from elementary or high school. I have a low tolerance for bullshit, high standards for connection, and honestly… I’m probably not the easiest friend to have — especially if you’re high-maintenance or need frequent check-ins. I like to be alone.

If you met me in person, you probably wouldn’t guess that. I’m outgoing and personable. I can connect easily with people and make them feel safe, seen, and heard. My curious nature draws people in and makes space for their stories. But here’s the thing — I don’t often let people in. I keep my walls up. I don’t host weekend hangouts or attend every invite to someone else’s social gathering.

This hermit side of me? It’s a gift.

Alone time has brought me not just peace — but depth, joy, and clarity. It’s given me the space to work on myself, on my career, on my connection with my kids and my husband. It’s where I experiment, reflect, move my body, walk in nature, meditate, and dive headfirst into shadow work and healing.

That said, shadow work isn’t always graceful. There have been moments — sobbing-on-the-floor moments — where I’ve thought: No one loves me. I’m a loser. I have no friends. What’s wrong with me?
But that’s not truth.
That’s the echo of a wounded inner child who was never told that solitude can be sacred. That being different doesn't mean you’re defective — it means you're discerning. It means you're deep.

If you’re a self-reflective, creative loner like me, you know what I’m talking about. Time alone isn’t a sign of brokenness — it’s where we find our magic. Our rhythm. Our medicine. We don’t need to be popular or busy every weekend to feel valid. If anything, a life full of constant social obligations and needy connections would drain the life out of me.

I wish someone had told me that in my 20s. Back then, I thought that needing to drink just to survive a party meant I was lame or unlikable. Turns out, I was just deep. Imaginative. Sensitive. Lit up by creativity and solitude — not small talk and chaos.

The more shadow work I do, the more layers I peel back. Masks I wore to survive childhood, school, and social expectations are crumbling — and I’m realizing most of it never mattered anyway. What does matter is authenticity. Owning who you are. Living in alignment with what lights you up — regardless of how it makes others feel.

Because the truth is: the more you embrace who you really are, the freer you become.