I’ve realised something about myself lately: I’m a true loner. And that’s not a sad thing — it’s where I find my peace and my balance. It’s both grounding and liberating, the kind of awareness that shifts how I move through the world.

For a long time, I used to feel stung when people didn’t seek me out, didn’t invite me, didn’t make space for me. Even when I knew that my depression might have stopped me from showing up anyway. I used to think being included was proof that I mattered, even if I couldn’t participate. But now I see that wanting to be chosen and wanting to belong aren’t paths to happiness for me. Recognising that has softened something in me. It’s not a shutting out — it’s a letting be.

My family moved a lot when I was growing up, so people have always come and gone. In the days before the internet, staying in touch wasn’t easy, especially as a kid. I’m still in contact with a couple of people from high school, but that’s about it. I think that’s where my ability to detach from people began. And I’ve learned that detachment doesn’t mean disinterest — it means self-containment. It’s knowing that I can still care deeply about people without needing to orbit around them.

Our family wasn’t close — not physically, not emotionally. There were no cousins down the road, no grandparents dropping by for tea. And when my parents pushed me away, I learned to chase approval instead. For years, even as an adult, I kept doing that. I’d shape myself to fit what I thought family wanted from me, staying available just in case they needed me. I didn’t realise how much of myself I was shrinking to stay accessible.

Not anymore.

I’ve stopped trying to earn belonging in places where it’s conditional. I’ve accepted that I’m on my own — and that I’m completely okay with that. Because what I’ve discovered is that this isn’t a story of isolation. It’s a story of self-trust. By recognising that I’m a loner, I’ve also recognised that I’m free.

Free to follow my own path. Free to find out what makes me happy. Free to explore different parts of myself without apology.

Understanding that solitude isn’t loneliness — that peace can exist without constant connection — has changed everything. It’s given me permission to live more truthfully, without performing or bending myself to fit. I can be alone and whole. Simply existing as I am.

If people are in my life, that’s great. If they aren’t, that’s okay too. I’ll be okay.

Have you ever felt that quiet shift — the moment when being alone stops feeling empty and starts feeling like peace?