It’s hard to tell when I actually need to be alone and when I’m just running away again. I tell myself I’m doing “introspection,” like it’s some noble act of self-reflection, when half the time it’s just me sitting in silence convincing myself I’m okay with it. I like to think I’m self-aware enough to know when I’m isolating, but that’s the trick, isn’t it? Isolation always disguises itself as clarity until it’s too late.
There are moments where solitude feels like medicine. The kind where you finally hear your own thoughts uncluttered. You breathe, you process, you rebuild. Then there are the other times, when being alone feels like sitting in an echo chamber of your own doubt. Your own fear. The quiet gets loud. Your thoughts start looping on repeat, and every attempt to find peace turns into self-interrogation. It’s funny how both healing and self-destruction can wear the same mask.
Sometimes I crave stillness because the world feels too sharp, and sometimes I crave it because I don’t trust myself not to say something I’ll regret. But then I’ll sit there, alone, scrolling, overthinking, and realize maybe what I really needed wasn’t solitude. it was connection. A walk with someone who doesn’t need me to perform. A hug that lasts just a few seconds longer than usual. A reminder that being seen doesn’t always mean being exposed.
I don’t always trust that inner voice that says, “You need space.” Because sometimes it’s not space I need. It’s softness. Sometimes it’s not distance. Its presence. I’m still learning the difference between hiding to protect myself and withdrawing to find myself. One makes me smaller. The other makes me whole. And the line between the two is thinner than I’d like to admit.