I've spent a lot of time alone these past few years. Some of that has been by circumstance, but more and more, I've come to realize that much of it has been by choice.
I travel alone. I go to concerts alone. I explore new places, have incredible experiences, and build memories that, more often than not, I have nobody to share with when I get home.
And while I've learned to appreciate the freedom that comes with living this way, I'd be lying if I said it wasn't difficult.
There are days when the loneliness is overwhelming. Days when I wish I had someone to share the small things with. Someone to call when something wonderful happens. Someone to sit beside at the end of a long day. Someone who genuinely wants to know how I'm doing, and who I can show that same care and attention to in return.
I still want those things. Very much.
But lately, I've been questioning whether I'm ready for them.
Not because I've stopped believing in love or connection, but because I've started looking more closely at the person I've been in my relationships. And some of what I've come to recognize about myself has been difficult to accept.
For most of my life, I've believed that I was someone who tried to do right by the people I loved. I cared deeply. I wanted to protect them. I wanted to help them through their struggles, make their lives easier, and be someone they could depend on.
I still believe those intentions were genuine.
What I'm beginning to understand, though, is that good intentions don't always translate into good actions.
Sometimes, in my determination to help someone, I may have failed to really listen to what they needed. Sometimes I thought I understood what was best for another person without giving them the opportunity to decide that for themselves. And sometimes, what I considered love, support, or protection may have felt like something entirely different to the person receiving it.
That's a hard thing to admit.
Because it means accepting that I may have contributed to the very pain I thought I was trying to prevent.
I've spent a lot of time reflecting on the ways I've been hurt in past relationships. The disappointment, the broken trust, the arguments, and the emotional exhaustion that can come from trying to hold something together when it feels like everything is falling apart.
Those experiences were real, and the pain I felt was real.
But so was the pain I may have caused.
And for a long time, I don't think I gave that truth the same consideration.
It's easy to tell the story of a relationship from your own perspective. You remember what someone said, how they made you feel, what you did to try to fix things, and all the moments when you felt misunderstood or unappreciated.
It's much harder to ask yourself how the other person might tell that same story.
Would they remember my efforts as acts of love? Or would they remember moments when they didn't feel heard?
Would they say I supported them? Or would they say that my need to fix things sometimes left little room for their own choices?
Did I really listen to understand them, or was I sometimes listening for an opportunity to explain myself?
I don't have comfortable answers to all of those questions.
And I don't think I should.
I'm beginning to understand that accountability isn't just acknowledging the things you've done wrong. It's being willing to question the version of yourself you've carried for years, especially the parts of that version that have allowed you to feel justified in your actions.
I can recognize that I was hurt without making someone else responsible for everything that went wrong.
I can acknowledge that I loved someone without assuming that my love was always expressed in a healthy way.
And I can accept that I tried my best while also recognizing that my best, at times, may not have been enough.
None of that makes the past easier to look at. But I think it's necessary.
Which brings me back to solitude.
I've wondered whether choosing to spend so much of my life alone is simply another way of protecting myself. Maybe there's some truth to that. When you keep people at a distance, you reduce the opportunities to be rejected, disappointed, misunderstood, or hurt.
But lately, I've realized there's another side to that decision.
I'm not just afraid of being hurt again. I'm afraid of hurting someone else.
That may be the most difficult thing I've written here.
I don't want to enter another relationship carrying patterns I haven't fully understood. I don't want to mistake my desire to be needed for my ability to be a good partner. I don't want to confuse loving someone with trying to manage their happiness, solve their problems, or protect them from decisions that are theirs to make.
And I don't want another person to become responsible for helping me work through things I haven't yet learned to understand about myself.
There is a difference between wanting companionship and being prepared for the responsibility that comes with it.
Right now, I'm not sure I'm where I need to be.
So I'm choosing to be alone.
Not as punishment. Not because I believe I'm undeserving of love. And certainly not because I think removing myself from other people's lives somehow makes me noble or selfless.
I'm choosing solitude because I need the space to better understand myself, my behaviors, my intentions, and the impact I've had on people who mattered to me.
I need to learn how to sit with uncomfortable truths without immediately defending myself.
I need to understand why I sometimes felt responsible for fixing things that weren't mine to fix.
I need to become more comfortable with the idea that someone can love me and still disagree with me, make choices I wouldn't make, or need things that I don't fully understand.
And perhaps most importantly, I need to learn that loving someone doesn't mean I always know how to love them well.
There's a part of me that worries about how long this process might take.
I'm not getting any younger. I see people around me building lives together, finding companionship, sharing ordinary moments that I sometimes desperately wish were part of my own life.
I won't pretend that doesn't hurt.
There are moments when I wonder if I'm missing opportunities for happiness by keeping myself at a distance. Moments when I question whether I've become too comfortable doing everything alone. And moments when I worry that what began as a conscious choice could eventually become a habit that's difficult to break.
I think that's something I need to be mindful of, too.
Because solitude can provide space for growth, but it can also become a convenient place to hide.
I don't want to hide.
I still want to meet people. I still want friendships, conversations, laughter, shared adventures, and the unexpected connections that make life interesting. Some of my happiest moments recently have come from putting myself in unfamiliar situations and allowing myself to connect with people without expectations.
Those moments have reminded me that I have a lot of love and friendship to offer, and that connection doesn't always have to mean a romantic relationship.
But I also know that wanting to connect with people isn't the same as being ready to share my life with someone.
Maybe one day I'll feel differently.
Maybe I'll reach a point where I can enter a relationship with a better understanding of myself, healthier boundaries, and a greater willingness to truly hear another person, even when what they're saying is difficult for me to accept.
I hope so.
I don't want this chapter of my life to become the rest of my story.
But I'm also not going to rush through it simply because I'm lonely.
For now, I'm trying to make peace with the fact that I can want something deeply and still recognize that it may not be the right thing for me at this moment.
I can miss being loved without needing to immediately find someone to love me.
I can acknowledge the mistakes I've made without allowing them to define everything I am.
And I can take responsibility for the ways I've hurt others without denying the ways I've been hurt myself.
I don't expect everyone to understand why I've chosen to live this way. From the outside, it might look like independence, avoidance, fear, or even loneliness disguised as freedom.
Maybe, on different days, it's a little bit of all those things.
But what matters to me now is being willing to look at myself without turning away from the parts I don't particularly like.
I can't change the past. I can't undo the hurt, rewrite conversations, or go back and become the person I wish I'd been in certain moments.
All I can do is acknowledge those things, learn from them, and make an honest effort not to repeat them.
And if another opportunity for love eventually finds its way into my life, I want to know that I'm bringing more than good intentions into it.
I want to bring understanding. Patience. Humility. The ability to listen without needing to be right. And the willingness to let another person be fully themselves, rather than who I think they should be.
Until then, I'm going to keep living my life. Traveling, exploring, finding joy where I can, and continuing to meet people along the way.
Some days I'll be perfectly happy on my own.
Other days, I'll wish things were different.
Both can be true.
I'm choosing solitude right now, not because I've given up on connection, but because I'm still learning what it means to connect with someone in a way that's healthy for both of us.
And for now, I think that's where I need to be.
