Wandering Alone
Solitude Never Frightened Me
Recently, someone told me they wished they were able to go off on their own. To travel somewhere alone, venture out into nature by themselves, and disappear for a while. To me, this has always felt natural. In fact, I can’t really imagine not doing it.
There is a difference between loneliness and solitude, and it’s one I’ve always been able to distinguish clearly. I don’t feel lonely when I’m alone; on the contrary, I feel more in tune with myself. And in that lies a kind of freedom that many people, over the years, have told me they wish they could experience as well.
Lately, I have been growing increasingly tired of people telling me that I shouldn’t spend so much time on my own. When people push me to stay busy or social when I feel called to retreat and reflect, I sometimes wonder whether they are responding more to their own unease with solitude than to any genuine concern for my well-being.
Unfortunately, a strong need for solitude doesn’t always sit well within friendships, and that’s a truth I’ve had to face many times throughout my life. This becomes especially visible when I am trying to make new friends or be accepted within groups.
Many seem unable to understand why anyone would need so much time alone to reconnect with their inner world, a creative practice, or their own thoughts and emotions. And that’s fine. It only ever becomes a problem when I feel pressured to do things I’m not comfortable doing. Spending time in loud, crowded spaces or having every hour of a weekend planned out really doesn’t feel good to me. Even the thought of a weekend packed with activities and too little time for reflection leaves me exhausted before it has even begun.
As a child, I often wandered off, got lost in stories, and disappeared into my own worlds for hours. I would return from my outdoor adventures and try to write those stories down, either in my diary or on my mother’s electric typewriter. Over the years, and without ever consciously thinking about it, I learned to be comfortable in my own company.
During my teenage years, I loved those dark, rainy afternoons at school because I knew that when I got home I would spend hours reading or writing before, if at all, meeting up with anyone. Back in those days, nobody expected me to be available, judged me for disappearing into my imagination, or questioned my need to spend hours lost in books and stories. My desire for quiet, creative afternoons wasn’t treated as something that needed fixing.
That only started to become an issue later on, especially during my years at business school. Corporate life, with networking events, after-work gatherings, and the expectation to show up and present a version of myself that didn’t feel authentic, drained me. Throughout those years, I felt as though I were playing a role, one that I deeply detested. I became so detached from my true self and so unhappy that I realised I couldn’t spend the rest of my career in business.
Three years ago, I started a ritual to honour my need for solitude. I started taking a week for myself and retreating to a monastery by a beautiful lake in Switzerland. No expectations, no noise, and no need to be or do anything. The days are simple: rising early, sharing a quiet breakfast with other guests, walking, swimming, reflecting, sitting by the water, wandering through the convent grounds, and, when it feels right, writing. My thoughts become clearer there, and I am able to focus on tackling projects that have stood still for too long.
I also take one trip each year dedicated entirely to my own wellbeing. No rush, no obligations. This year, I spent a week sailing in the Indian Ocean with a group, and I loved it. Meeting people from all around the world gives me a sense of belonging, and it is something I genuinely enjoy while travelling. I’m deeply curious about the world and my surroundings, and I appreciate deep conversations, shared moments, and feeling understood. But I need to balance socialising with time on my own to process new impressions, and devote time to my writing, which is why I always add a few days of solo travel.
I can only speculate, but maybe too many have forgotten how good stillness feels. As for me, I don’t feel the need to keep up with everything or suffer from the fear of missing out. Being content in my own company, out in nature, comforts me, and it creates space for me to think, feel, reflect, and take stock of where I stand in life. The constant noise, distraction, and relentless pace of modern life drain me. All of these things take away my lightness, my sense of wonder, and my ability to put my thoughts into words, all of which I need to create stories.
That is also why I’ve come to question how friendships are formed. More often than not, adult friendships seem to develop out of a fear of being lonely, rather than common interests. When I moved towns, I knew that I needed company in one form or another, so I signed up for several socialising events. And it worked. Before long, my empty calendar started to fill up: hikes, cinema nights, networking dinners, theatre visits, and board game nights. But what I came to learn is that when friendship is rushed, the bar for shared values and true compatibility can become dangerously low.
What I often witness around me is a desperate attempt from many to avoid feeling altogether. It is easier to keep a busy schedule, to leave no room for solitude, exclusion, disappointment, or uncertainty. But avoidance rarely ends well. Those feelings we try so hard to avoid keep resurfacing until they eventually demand to be felt, and usually not in a gentle way. Perhaps this is why so many people chase distractions and become addicted to fast dopamine hits, rather than trying to build a deeper relationship with themselves and with others. And maybe that ultimately is the reason why so many are left feeling lonely despite being constantly entertained and surrounded by people.
Quick fixes rarely last in the long run, and I would argue that, in order to make sense of what we go through in life, we need to be able to sit with our feelings alone. I’m not talking about carrying pain alone; we need community. But as much as we need other people to help us through difficult times, we also need to be able to feel what we feel on our own, instead of trying to distract ourselves from it.
The following may sound blunt, but writing and reading nourish me more than maintaining surface-level acquaintances. Technological developments, trendy brands, and achievements for achievement’s sake have never mattered much to me. When people talk to me about their time at a prestigious company, or the new trendy café that’s opened around the corner, my mind tends to drift elsewhere very quickly.
What interests me is what truly excites a person, what sparks their curiosity and makes them feel alive. Everything else feels secondary and shallow.
I would rather have a handful of people I genuinely enjoy spending time with than a calendar full of plans with people I don’t resonate with and in places that don’t feel right to me. Perhaps that is another reason solitude has never frightened me. See, when we are comfortable in our own company, we stop holding on to people just because we are afraid of being alone. In fact, we begin to feel so good in our own company that we become selective about who we let in. And I believe it is a healthy trait to not let just anyone take up our precious time and drain our social battery.
For a long time, I thought there was something wrong with me. Why did so many around me seem to want more plans, more people, more noise, while I craved the opposite? But the older I get, the more I realise that needing time on my own is not something I have to justify, a flaw to overcome, or a habit that needs fixing. I don’t apologise for taking time off to be with myself anymore.
Solitude is where I reconnect with myself, where I remember what matters to me, and where I find the clarity to stay true to my own values rather than other people’s expectations.
I still appreciate friendship, community, and meaningful relationships. But I don’t believe that being surrounded by people is the same as being connected, or that being alone is the same as being lonely.