Because the first time you do it, you feel it in your body. You walk toward the venue and your hands feel slightly empty. You keep checking your phone even though nobody���s coming. You stand in line and suddenly you’re hyper aware of where to put your eyes. You’re scanning faces like you’re looking for someone to rescue you from looking like a person with no friends.
The brain does this stupid thing where it equates being alone with being unwanted.
Even when you chose it.
Even when you have people.
Even when the truth is just: your schedules don’t match, nobody answered in time, you don’t want to beg someone to live your life with you.
Still, the body feels it as exposure.
That’s why so many people would rather stay home.
They don’t want to miss the movie. They want to avoid the feeling of being visibly alone in public. They want to avoid that tiny sting when you sit down and there’s an empty seat next to you and you can feel other people’s laughter and you wonder if you look sad.
It’s pride. It’s fear. It’s that childhood wiring that says the herd equals safety.
Then you stay home and you scroll a feed of other people living.
You see couples at concerts. Friends clinking glasses. Someone posting museum photos. Someone at a cafe with a book and a cute pastry. You tell yourself they’re having a better life than you.
But half the time they’re just doing what you could have done, if you weren’t waiting for permission from someone else’s calendar.
Waiting is the quiet killer.
Not because friends are bad. Friends are great. Love is great. Shared memories are real.
The problem is when your entire life becomes contingent on other people’s availability.
You turn into this person who is always “down” but never actually doing. Always “we should.” Always “soon.” Always “when everyone is free.” You start stockpiling intentions like they’re experiences.
A year goes by that way so fast it makes you nauseous.
A lot of people don’t realize how much they’ve outsourced their living until they hit a wall.
They break up. Their best friend moves. Everyone gets busy. Someone has kids. Someone gets depressed. Someone becomes a work zombie. Suddenly the social engine that carried you stops. And you’re left standing there like a person who forgot how to walk without holding someone’s hand.
That’s when “go alone” stops sounding like empowerment and starts sounding like survival.
There’s a specific sadness in realizing you’ve been sitting in your apartment waiting for other people to press play on your life.
Like you’re paused until someone else is ready.
learn to go alone.
Not because it makes you edgy.
Because it keeps you from turning your life into a waiting room.
Going alone teaches you something your nervous system needs to learn: solitude is not rejection.
You walk into the coffee shop alone and nobody cares. The barista does not care. The couple at the corner table does not care. The guy on his laptop does not care. Most people are so wrapped up in themselves that your aloneness is invisible.
That’s the first relief.
The second relief is quieter: you start noticing what you actually like.
When you go with friends, you’re in group mode. Compromise mode. Conversation mode. Social performance mode.
Alone, you’re in attention mode.
You notice the light in the museum hitting the floor. You notice you want to stay five minutes longer in front of one painting. You notice which songs hit harder when you’re not trying to look cool about it. You notice you like sitting by the window. You notice you prefer earlier showtimes. You notice you like walking slowly after the movie instead of immediately debriefing it.
You start developing taste that isn’t filtered through anyone else.
That’s a form of adulthood people skip.
Also, going alone is a kind of quiet rebellion against shame.
Denzel Curry has unveiled The Scythe, a new crew made up of himself, Ferg, Bktherula, TiaCorine and Key Nyata. 🤯
The group is set to drop its debut full-length project, Strictly 4 The Scythe, on March 6 through Loma Vista Recordings. 💽