Exploring Spending Time Alone
Just me, myself, and I.
At 6:15 AM, I stand alone in the pitch-black velvet of the morning, waiting for my taxi to arrive. The air is slick with humidity and completely still, the only noise the humming of mosquitoes and the gentle stirring of a nearby tree. I click on my flashlight and gingerly walk toward the front of the hotel. I don’t want to wake anyone. Within a few minutes, I hear the taxi sputter down the dirt-packed road, slosh slowly across a river of a puddle, and pull up to the casita. I click off my flashlight and walk toward its glaring headlights, the beams illuminating the flight paths of hundreds of moths.
“Buenos dias,” I whisper, my voice sleep-ridden and gruff.
“Isa? Para el tour en kayak?”
“Si, si.”
I duck into the taxi, which is really a golf cart on hydraulics, and grip the front handlebar. The driver restarts the ignition and we pull off into the night, rattling through the town, startling the local cats and raccoons.
When we arrive at the meeting spot for the kayak tour, the guide is waiting patiently, his head covered in an army print balaclava. He’s already wearing his sunglasses. He introduces himself quickly, hands me a paddle, and walks off toward the kayaks, which lay on the shore like beached whales. The group and I follow silently behind him.
Soon we are in the kayaks, paddling toward the horizon. I keep reminding myself to be present. I open my mouth to feel the air against my tongue, lick my lips to taste the salt, inhale deeply, glide my fingertips across the top of the water. I listen to the lapping of the ocean and the sound of my paddle dipping beneath its surface. I feel the sun against my face and my own heart beating. You are here, right now, I say to myself. I watch as dawn cracks open the sky. You are here, right now.
I used to be afraid of doing things alone. I thought that being alone and being lonely were one and the same. You are alone and therefore you are lonely. You are lonely and therefore you are lacking something essential. You are lacking something essential and therefore you are broken.
But in my 30s, I started to appreciate being alone. There was this sudden newfound joy in solitude. Being alone felt like an indulgence. It allowed me to fully immerse myself in joyful moments without worrying about the expectations of others.
And, maybe most importantly, being alone has led me to deeper self awareness. The more time I spend alone, the more I hear my inner voice; the more I hear my inner voice, the more I know my true desires, dreams, and inner callings. I discover new things about who I am and relish in them.
On the kayak tour, I learned that I am fairly quiet when immersed in nature. I avoid small talk and stare up toward the sky instead. I point toward birds and mimic their calls. I am entertained by the simplicity of the breeze.
When taking a solo ceramics class, I learned that I like getting my hands dirty; I love how it feels to squish clay between my fingers. I like to have a hand in the shape of a thing.
When visiting Miami by myself, I learned that I am invigorated by spontaneity. I am most full when I allow the day to unfold organically; when I’m able to savor the unexpected.
When shopping for books alone, I learned that I'm drawn to titles on the far bottom of the shelf. I feel a connection to them, perhaps because they are alone, too.
By spending time alone, I've discovered a new sense of freedom. Being alone offers me a chance to connect with myself and appreciate the present moment. And most significantly, I’ve learned that being alone isn't about feeling lonely; it's just another opportunity to fully embrace and love who I am.