I think living alone in a city might be the first time I've actually heard myself think.
No one tells you how weird it is to sit in complete silence at 7 PM on a Tuesday and realize you're the only person who knows what you ate for dinner. Or that you got emotional folding laundry because a song came on that reminded you of something you can't even name. Or that you've rearranged your furniture three times this month, hoping it'll make the space feel more like a life and less like a waiting room.
The first week was brutal. I kept expecting someone to walk through the door, or for my phone to buzz with plans I'd forgotten about. Instead, I found myself having full conversations with delivery drivers just to hear another voice. I'd leave the TV on for background noise, even shows I hated, because the silence felt too heavy.
I moved here thinking I'd meet people everywhere. That I'd stumble into my "thing" or find some version of myself I'd been missing. The fantasy was all coffee shop encounters and spontaneous invitations to gallery openings. Reality was eating cereal for dinner while watching Netflix shows I'd already seen three times.
But somewhere between month one and month three, something shifted.
The Version of You That No One Sees
The real thing I found wasn't a new social circle or a passion project. It was just… me. The version that exists when there's no audience to perform for.
I started noticing things I'd never paid attention to before. Like how I actually prefer my coffee without music playing. How I'll spend twenty minutes arranging books on a shelf just because it makes me feel calm. How I talk to myself more than I'd ever admit, and it's not weird anymore… it's just thinking out loud.
It's not always melancholy. Some days I feel completely electric walking through the grocery store with my headphones in, picking out produce like I'm the main character in my own movie. I'll try new recipes just because I want to. I'll take long baths on Wednesday nights. I'll dance badly in my kitchen while making breakfast and not feel embarrassed about it.
Like I'm finally becoming whoever I was supposed to be before I got so caught up trying to be everyone else.
Other days the quiet makes me feel like I'm losing it. The apartment feels too big and too small at the same time. I'll text someone just to see my phone light up, then delete it before sending because what am I supposed to say? "Hi, I exist and wanted you to know"?
Those are the nights I'll walk to the corner store just to be around other people, even if we don't talk. Or I'll call my mom and pretend I have something important to tell her when really I just needed to remember what my voice sounds like in conversation.
The Things You Learn in the Quiet
But maybe that's the whole point. Maybe you have to sit with the uncomfortable parts of yourself before you figure out which ones are actually you and which ones are just habits you picked up from being around other people all the time.
I've learned that I'm funnier when I'm not trying to be funny. That I have opinions about things I never thought about before, like what kind of lighting makes a room feel alive. That I'm more decisive when I don't have to explain my choices to anyone.
I've also learned that loneliness and being alone are completely different things. Loneliness is missing something. Being alone is just… being. And sometimes being is enough.
The hardest part isn't the practical stuff everyone worries about. It's not learning to cook for one person or remembering to lock your door. It's learning to be comfortable with your own company. To stop treating solitude like something to fix or fill.
Some nights I'll sit on my couch with a cup of tea and realize I'm genuinely content. Not happy in some explosive way, just… okay with where I am and who I'm becoming. Those moments feel like the most honest parts of my life.
Still Figuring It Out
I don't have some perfect revelation to wrap this up with. I'm still figuring it out, same as anyone. There are still nights when the quiet feels too loud, when I miss having someone to debrief the day with or share random thoughts that don't deserve their own text message.
But if you're out there, living alone somewhere new, and it feels like you're doing it all wrong… maybe this is exactly what doing it right looks like.
Maybe the point isn't to fill every silence or make every moment social media worthy. Maybe it's just to sit with yourself until you remember that you're actually pretty good company.
Maybe this is just what becoming real feels like.
