I Like Being Alone

I like being alone.

Not in the way people assume — that tired, misunderstood loneliness they often project onto solitude. Not the kind of alone that’s laced with sadness or longing. Mine is different. Mine is soft. Gentle. Sacred.

For most of my life, silence has been my language. Crowds feel like noise, even when no one is speaking. Parties leave me drained, not because I dislike people, but because I absorb too much. Their energies. Their stories. Their sadness hidden beneath laughter. I walk away full — and not in a good way. Full of everyone else, emptied of myself.

Being alone is how I return to me.

It’s in the quiet spaces, the slow mornings, the nights when the only sound is my own breath, that I begin to hear the truest parts of myself speak. I hear the little voice that gets drowned in the buzz of life — the one that says, “You’re okay, you’re enough, just as you are.” Alone, I don’t have to impress anyone. I don’t have to shrink or expand. I just am. And that’s enough.

I like how solitude wraps around me like a blanket. Not too tight. Not demanding. Just there — constant, reliable, familiar. People say you can’t hug silence. I disagree. I’ve been embraced by quiet more deeply than any arms have ever held me. It holds no expectations. No conditions. Just presence. Peace.

There’s a stillness in solitude that brings me closer to the Divine. I feel God the most when I’m alone. When it’s just me and the rustling of leaves, or the hum of my laptop, or the steam rising from my coffee. In those unassuming moments, I feel watched over. Loved. As though Heaven is sitting beside me, whispering, “This is holy too.”

I know we live in a world that glorifies connection. A world where to be alone is often mistaken for being unloved, or broken, or weird. But I’ve learned that liking your own company is one of the most rebellious acts in a society that constantly tells you you’re not enough unless someone else says so.

I like being alone because it gives me space to think clearly. To feel deeply. To create without fear of judgment. I write best when no one’s watching. When there are no eyes waiting to dissect the way I’ve bled across the page. When I can be vulnerable without the risk of misunderstanding. When it’s just me and the words — raw, messy, and real.

People sometimes ask if I get lonely. Of course I do. I’m human. There are days when I ache for someone to sit across from me and just exist — not talk, not fix, just be there. There are nights when I reach for my phone, knowing no one will call, and still hoping someone might. But I don’t confuse those moments with a lack of love. I have love — plenty of it. It just doesn’t always wear the shape of constant company.

I’ve loved deeply. I still do. But I’ve also learned that being in love and being alone are not opposites. You can miss someone and still crave your space. You can love someone fiercely and still need time away to find your footing. I’ve known relationships where I felt lonelier in their presence than I ever did in solitude. I’ve also known companionships that respected my silences like sacred ground — those are rare, and beautiful, and cherished.

I like being alone because it reminds me that I am whole. I am not waiting to be completed. I am not a puzzle missing a piece. I am not a song searching for a harmony. I am music on my own. A full composition. Sometimes melancholy, sometimes joyful — but always mine.

Being alone has taught me boundaries. It’s taught me to listen to that quiet “no” inside my chest before I drown it out with a people-pleasing “yes.” It’s taught me that I don’t owe access to everyone. That not all connections are healthy. That being available isn’t the same as being kind. That I can walk away from noise without apology.

Alone is where I heal. It’s where I tend to the parts of me that the world keeps trying to rush. I am not fast. I am not flashy. I am not meant for chaos. I grow like trees — slowly, silently, but rooted. When I’m alone, I water my roots.

It’s in solitude that I’ve cried the hardest, laughed the freest, prayed the deepest. It’s where I’ve looked in the mirror and said, “I forgive you,” and actually meant it. It’s where I’ve gathered the shattered pieces of heartbreak and stitched them back into something resembling hope. I’ve found myself, lost myself, and found myself again — all in the sacred quiet of being alone.

I know there are people who are terrified of solitude. People who seek constant company, afraid that stillness might reveal something too loud to bear. I don’t judge them. But I’m not one of them. I am not afraid of what lives in my silence. I’ve made peace with it. I’ve made poetry of it.

And in that poetry, I’ve found home.

So no — I’m not lonely when I sit alone. I’m not sad when I skip the party. I’m not bitter when I say, “No, I just want to be by myself today.” I’m just tending to the garden within. I’m just choosing peace over pressure. I’m just listening to the language my soul understands best.

Maybe one day I’ll have a home with someone — someone who understands that I still need space. Someone who won’t be threatened by my silence but will sit beside me in it, knowing that love doesn’t always need words. Someone who won’t fill the air just to feel close, but will let me be — fully, quietly, beautifully.

But until then, I’ll be here. Alone. Not waiting. Not aching. Just being.

And I like it here.
I like being alone.

"Some people fear the silence of being alone, but I have found that in the stillness, my soul speaks the loudest — and for once, I listen."

— Neta