The Ways of Solitude

The other day, a coworker made a comment that caught me off guard. He said, “Men must approach you all the time when you’re out.”

I laughed, because that couldn’t be further from the truth. I told him, “Actually, they usually just look — but rarely approach.”

Maybe it’s because my resting facial expression isn’t always the most inviting. Some people have told me I’m “traditionally beautiful,” though I beg to differ — but that’s a different story.

I explained that I often dine alone, and that I genuinely enjoy it. There’s something peaceful about sitting by myself, hearing the faint hum of a restaurant, and letting my thoughts roam freely. Dining solo is my little act of self-care — a way to reset, reflect, and just be.

He seemed surprised. He said he thought I was an extrovert because of my bright personality and friendly nature. I smiled and told him, “Not exactly. I can be social, but I’m definitely an introvert. I hate large crowds and love quiet.”

That’s when he shared something that shifted my perspective on what solitude means from the other side. He told me he once lived alone — and absolutely hated it, saying, “coming home to a quiet house was depressing. I need to feel someone’s presence.” Now, he lives with his grandmother. It’s not like they hold marathon talking sessions, but he cherishes having her there. The comfort of another human nearby makes him feel grounded. He also admitted he could never eat alone because he feels like everyone is watching him.

It was such a contrast to my own experience. When I eat alone, I’m not thinking about anyone else. My mind slips into this peaceful silence where it’s just me, my meal, and my thoughts. Occasionally, I’ll see a happy couple or a family nearby. I smile for them — truly happy for their joy — but deep down, I feel that familiar pang. That quiet voice inside wonders: Where is my loyal husband — the one I’m attracted to, who’s kind and grounded? The man who’s doing well, not necessarily rich, but wise with his choices? The man who adores me, who wants to build a life with me, who sees me as the mother of his children? Where is he? Where is my life going?...

Then I catch myself. I breathe deeply. I come back to the moment. And once again, I’m reminded — I may be alone, but I’m not lonely.

The Teachable Moment

That conversation with my coworker stayed with me — not because it changed how I feel about solitude, but because it reminded me that we all experience it differently.

For some, being alone is peaceful. For others, it’s uncomfortable or even painful. Some of us recharge in silence; others come alive in company. Neither way is right or wrong — it’s just human, and your own personal preference.

If you’ve ever felt nervous about traveling or dining alone, remember: solitude isn’t a measure of your worth or your likability. It’s simply a different kind of space — one that can be nurturing, reflective, and freeing if you learn to embrace it.

Until next time, smile first — the world will catch up.