When I was little girl, I loved being by myself.
I could hole myself away in my room and play alone for hours. I would draw, or read, or write or talk to my imaginary friend, Nicholas (shut up, it’s a sign of creativity and a by-product of being an only child until age 7).
Don’t get me wrong–I had friends and loved being around other kids. It’s just that all that socialization had it’s time and place. And when it was over, it was my time. Even in high school, I craved the end of a night with friends so I could go home and chill and reflect and daydream and think.
In the last few years, I forgot what it was like to be that girl that not only doesn’t mind, but enjoys being in her room alone with her thoughts and her dreams. I think I’ve gotten a little closer to finding her.
Lately, when I’ve visited friends and family, I’ve had a hard time coming home. I think I really hated the prospect of having to return to my life by myself, not only to its problems and mistakes, but to its signals that it needed to be redirected down a different path, toward a reality that better fit the person I am. I didn’t want to be in my own head, because it was daring me to find a new way for myself, and that was terrifying and hard.
Leaving my friend’s house in NYC this weekend, I was actually ready to come back. I didn’t feel anxious or avoidant. I felt excited and happy to get back to me.
And as I gear up for another night to myself, I feel fortunate. Fortunate to have this time to use as I wish, perhaps even to channel my six-year-old self so she can dream up the endless possibilities that lie in store for me.