If you can't eat alone, you can't be alone.

It’s a Saturday night. 

You’ve had a long, ass week. Maybe even one of your worst weeks to date. 

For once you tell yourself, “I want to go out”. 

Doesn’t matter what. Doesn’t matter where. 

Your whole being deserves to see the light (or night) of day and maybe along the way attempt to convince yourself that you still have a remnant of a social life. 

Naturally you pull up your contact list and the elimination game ensues. 

“I just saw her recently.”

“He has something tonight.”

“Eh. We’re not so close.” 

The night concludes with two staples: your go-to takeout and your overused pyjamas; all while telling yourself that it’s okay, you were supposed to stay in anyway. 

But also, a part of you isn’t so okay. 

I originally wrote this piece with the intent to talk about independence and what the true embodiment of being on your own meant. But as I type along I realize that independence is already the end product of what makes a rigorous journey. The untold side of being alone is recognizing the moments when you knew exactly when it happened for you without the pulsing need to mask it as strength nor independence. 

Because at that time — you were alone. 

Maybe sadness creeped in, maybe loneliness even. 

And at that moment you chose to stick it out and feel it all.

The concept of singularity isn’t supposed to be comfortable. Because for the most part, independence doesn’t start as a personal choice. It often comes by chance, circumstance, or situation. Eventually, it’s made into a conscious, active choice. 

It’s not eating one meal in a family restaurant and claiming it as mighty independence. 

It’s not giving yourself a well-deserved shopping spree or a full body massage. 

Nor is it in the face of solo dates followed by a broad declaration afterwards. 

Don’t get me wrong. These activities have alone plastered all over and take a lot of courage to do. It’s okay to romanticize solo activities. But we also shouldn’t confuse independence by tying it with commercialized definitions of self-care and suddenly claiming that we’re great on our own. Because frankly we don’t get to fully know who we are when we expose ourselves only to the things that bring immediate, temporary contentment. 

True independence is accepting a simple statement: I am alone not because I need to but because I want to. 

It’s accepting the fact that maybe you didn’t want to be alone but you are. 

It’s doing things on your own without having the need to explain. 

It’s looking at your self and admitting to the unlearning and relearning that has to be done.  

It’s knowing your traumas and triggers, and choosing to improve that person every day, even when it gets exhausting. 

It’s accepting your brokenness and knowing that you’re the only person capable of making that person whole. 

It’s you saying: “Hey, this isn’t the best, but I’ll work on it.” 

When you’ve chosen to sit with the fact that you are —  

A product of your past but not limited to that past; 

A person at present but not bound to what is present; 

A person whose future is uncertain but whose future is certain. 

True independence needs no grand declaration or praise. It’s not a personality trait that you specifically target and say you’ll work on. You work on the things that need work, you improve on the things that need change, and naturally you’ll find yourself in a place of comfort and acceptance that only you will know if you’ve attained. After all, the one person who has been giving you the biggest weight of judgment is none other than the person in front of the mirror. 

If you ask me, no one is really 100% independent. No one wants to be alone, whether we admit it or not. But each person holds a threshold only known to their innermost selves characterized by growth and learning. 

When you’ve reached a level of balanced discomfort that you’re going to be with yourself for a while — that bare, authentic self — then maybe you’re not doing so bad.