Solitude is a delicacy that not everyone can digest–rich and robust and somewhat difficult to swallow. To some, it’s a treat. Sure, if you indulge in it too often, it may become a bore. But if you allow your taste buds to mature, taking in the flavors bite by bite, it may grow on you.
Solitude has been my comfort food. I’ve sampled it during walks in Schenley Park, at-home movie nights, and Sunday morning resets.
But lately, I’ve been fantasizing about living in a four-bedroom apartment with three other girls. We wouldn’t need to plan nights out; we could live off of spontaneity, eating Trader Joe’s microwave dinners and randomly deciding on a Friday night that we have the energy to dance. We’d flood into a bathroom far too small to fit us all, and take turns sharing a straightener while picking out everyone’s tiny top, baggy jean combo. The best part: I wouldn’t return to an empty home. There’d be a debrief waiting for me at breakfast. A meal I normally skip.
If I followed the recipe for making friends in college, I’d be planning group grad pictures for the upcoming spring. Maybe my group would be my roommates, or the friends that I met on my freshman year floor. We’d take photos of us standing in front of the fountain near the Frick Fine Arts building with Cathy in the background, and post to our Instagrams with the Dr. Dog song, “Where’d All the Time Go?” Eventually, we’d walk home with our heels in hand and gowns draped over our shoulders, reminiscing about all the memories we made across the four years we spent together. But I skipped the recipe.
Solitude has an aftertaste, and people are quick to point it out:
“Don’t you get FOMO?”
“You're too friendly to be an introvert.”
“If I were you, my thoughts would get too loud.”
They do: What if I hadn’t let my previous experience with roommates scar me, and I had actually taken the leap of faith and lived with girls for my last two years of college? What if I weren’t such a pushover and let people abuse my social battery? Do I even blame them?
For so long, I’d proudly exclaim how I’m an introvert. My time spent alone wasn’t only necessary, but sweet: staying up late, listening to my records, and dancing around my living room like I’m in a 90s coming-of-age movie. My at-home concert attire was an oversized t-shirt thrown over some underwear, and fuzzy socks to top it off. And when I started feeling breathless from jumping on my bed for far too many minutes, a tub of ice cream would be waiting for me in the freezer. I could turn off my records, crawl into bed, and let the sound of trains passing by lull me to sleep.
The second I put my social battery on the back burner, my time alone turned into doomscrolling until 3 AM and sleeping in until 5 PM. It tasted sour, but I was willing to sacrifice my emotions to be there for others. In reality, I was draining all the energy I had left, so much so that my alone time wasn’t enough to recharge me.
Solitude should be savored.
As I’ve entered my senior year, I’ve let people go and have felt my stomach ache because I don’t know how to tell them why. How does one explain they need more time alone?
I remember that I don’t have the stereotypical friend group that people write sitcoms about, and I begin wondering where I fit in. But I do have friends from freshman year who I can happily say have stuck by my side throughout all my ups and downs. I have close ones who welcome me into their homes so often that their roommates have become my friends as well. They inspire me to make last-minute plans, listen to undiscovered artists, unapologetically speak about politics, text that one person I’ve been meaning to catch up with, and fully embrace time spent alone.
It seems counterintuitive, but all this time spent with people who fill my cup has made me crave solitude again. That time to reflect, to consume, to create, to dance, to sing off-key. I’d be lying to myself if I didn’t admit to the occasional loneliness, but I can confidently say that solitude has started tasting sweet again.
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