learning in lonesome

I'm alone and lonely, and I think I'm okay with it.

There’s a stillness that comes with living alone, a quiet that seeps into every corner and crevice, making itself at home. For the first time in my life, I find myself without family or roommates, tucked away in a city thousands of kilometers from home where I know no one. It’s a peculiar in-between—college-aged, yet not in college (at the moment). I’m not surrounded by the camaraderie of peers navigating similar waters, but instead, I work a corporate job, sharing water cooler banter with colleagues who remind me more of fathers than friends.

via Pinterest.

At first, I reveled in the novelty. The luxury of calling my parents on speaker in the living room without worrying about disturbing anyone. The indulgence of a fridge that belonged entirely to me, no longer a game of Tetris to fit my groceries among my four roommates’ leftovers. My apartment complex is a dream—modern, gleaming, with a gym filled with equipment I don’t know how to use, free lattes and cappuccinos, and a skyline view that could steal your breath away. Yet, amidst all this splendor, the silence grew heavy, almost oppressive.

When I breathe, it feels like the air echoes. Every creak, every shuffle, is mine alone—or perhaps something sinister, if you have as wild an imagination as I do. If I’m not on the phone chatting with my hometown and college friends, there is no sound. My mother, whose vigilance borders on paranoia, raised me to trust no one and fear everything, which doesn’t pair well with a city known for its questionable safety. Exploring isn’t easy without a car, and what little this city offers feels out of reach—a sprawl of bars and overpriced food halls catering to the finance bros’ downtown, with no soul for aimless wandering.

And so, my days are a quiet rotation: my desk, my couch, my bed. I go in office thrice a week, the grocery store once a week, and the library once a fortnight. But somewhere along the way, in the silence and the stillness, I’ve started to find a serene solace.

via Pinterest

I’ve learned to slow down. To sit with my thoughts without rushing to fill the void with noise or distraction. I’ve taken up passion projects (like this blog!!!), and allowed myself the time to rediscover forgotten joys. Books that had long been gathering dust on my TBR list are finally being devoured. In the kitchen, I experiment—last week, it was a pumpkin cake with homemade cream cheese icing that tasted like fall clinging to its last golden breath.

More than anything, I’ve learned to sit with my sadness. I’ve always been an anxious person, spiraling at the first sign of anything less than perfect (which is all of life). But now, when the unease comes, I channel it. I journal. I write. I let my pen doodle aimlessly, as if the pages can absorb what my heart cannot carry. The sadness is no longer a stranger but a console which forces me to sit back and reflect. And the loneliness no longer is a shadow but a quiet companion, one I’m learning to coexist with rather than fear.

via Pinterest

It’s in the stillness, in those gray areas where neither happiness nor despair take the lead, that I feel most human. The quiet ache in my chest isn’t something to fix but something to feel—evidence that I am alive, that I am here. Slowly, I’ve stopped seeing solitude as an obstacle and finally embraced it as part of my life. It’s in the pauses, the unknown, the in-betweens where the growth unfurls and where I am the most me.

I am alone, and yes, I am lonely. But for the first time, I think I’m okay with it. There’s something profound in learning to live with yourself, in making peace with the quiet, in finding a strange kind of beauty in being your own company.