For years, I was terrible at being alone. I come from a family that thrives on social gatherings—weekends without birthdays, dinners, or meet-ups were practically unheard of. Being surrounded by people all the time wasn’t just normal; it was basically in our DNA.

Naturally, I carried that mindset into my own life. My schedule was always packed—if it wasn’t school, it was friends, family, or work. The thought of an empty day? Terrifying. So, I made sure I never had one. Even when I moved into a dorm at 18, my life remained just as social: weekdays filled with university and friends, weekends spent back home working and catching up with family. I lived like this for years, never questioning it.

When I finally moved into my own studio, I thought maybe I’d have more alone time. Spoiler: I didn’t. I had friends over constantly, spent a lot of time with my boyfriend, and made sure to stay busy. But then, one evening over dinner, my neighbor mentioned how she had taken herself on a solo trip to a nearby town—just wandered around, grabbed a coffee, read a book… by herself.

I remember feeling something that I can only describe as envy mixed with confusion. It was such a foreign concept to me: doing things alone, for fun. Sure, I’d gone on solo walks before, maybe lounged in the sun at a park, but I had never intentionally taken myself out for an entire day. And that’s when it hit me—I only spent time with myself when it was productive. I studied alone. I worked out alone. But when it came to leisure? That was always with others.

So, I decided that I wanted to change that.

I remember my first evening of being intentionally alone. Armed with a canvas and some paint, I thought I’d try out a new hobby. Spoiler alert: It was a disaster. I felt awkward. The painting looked like something a kindergartner would call “abstract art.” And instead of enjoying myself, I became obsessed with my own thoughts—none of which were positive. I spiraled. I was convinced that I was boring and had no personality unless other people validated me. The loneliness hit hard. I cried. A lot. But also, I felt determined.

I knew it wouldn’t be comfortable at first, but discomfort leads to growth, right?

So I started small. I took myself to a nearby park with baby goats (yes, actual baby goats—best park ever), bringing a book or my journal. And when I moved abroad to Spain not much later, I made Sundays my solo beach days. Was it the romantic “me-time” moment I imagined? Not exactly. In the beginning, I spent most of the time feeling self-conscious, convinced people were judging me for being alone. But after a while, I got the hang of it. I stopped overanalyzing my every move. I even began preferring certain activities alone—just me, my own energy, and no one else’s.

Then came COVID. With everyone stuck at home, I was forced into solo mode. And honestly? It was a game-changer. I dove into new hobbies like baking (thank you, banana bread phase), yoga, pilates, and even writing poetry (yes, I went full cliché). I realized I didn’t actually want a packed schedule or a birthday party every weekend. And most importantly, I learned that while I love my friends and family, I don’t need them to feel whole.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying I’m always cool with being alone. Some days are definitely harder than others, and there are moments when loneliness creeps in. But here’s the secret: The more time you spend with yourself, the more you actually enjoy your own company. No validation needed.

What’s one thing you’ve always wanted to do alone but haven’t tried yet? 💛