Loneliness Didn’t Ruin Me. People Did

Loneliness was never the thing that hurt me.
What hurt was the noise. The constant talking. The endless processing of other people’s emotions, dramas, insecurities and silent competitions that had nothing to do with my life and yet somehow demanded my time.

I didn’t cut people off because I was bitter.
I cut them off because I was tired of wasting hours on conversations that led nowhere, on gossip disguised as bonding, on emotional chaos sold as friendship. I noticed that after most interactions I felt smaller, not richer. More drained, not more alive. And at some point I stopped pretending that this was normal.

The truth is, I don’t actually know what it feels like to have a “normal” circle. I don’t know what it’s like to have a best friend you grew up with, a safe family system, parents who feel like a refuge, a partner who is genuinely kind and steady. I never had the reference point people assume everyone has. There was no blueprint to return to. No version of “how it should be” waiting for me.

So when people talk about loneliness as something to escape, I always wonder: escape to what, exactly?

For a long time, I stayed around people simply because that’s what you’re supposed to do. You’re supposed to maintain connections. You’re supposed to try harder. You’re supposed to compromise. What no one tells you is how often this advice is built for people who actually had something healthy to begin with. If you grew up without stable love, without emotional safety, without models of mutual respect, you don’t miss community the same way others do. You don’t romanticise it. You approach it cautiously. Or you endure it longer than you should.

At some point, I realised that I wasn’t afraid of being alone. I was afraid of being trapped in relationships that required me to disappear in small, constant ways. Relationships where silence was safer than honesty. Where being calm meant being dull, and being ambitious meant being threatening. Where everything was measured, compared, quietly competed over.

So I chose solitude. Not as punishment. As relief.

Being alone gave me something no group ever had: mental space. No explanations. No performances. No need to adjust my tone or soften my thoughts. I could read without interruption. Think without defending myself. Work without justifying why it mattered. For the first time, my energy was mine.

People often assume that choosing solitude means you don’t like people. That’s not true. It means you’ve become selective. It means you’ve learned the difference between company and connection. Between filling time and sharing life.

Loneliness only feels dangerous when you don’t like yourself.
When you don’t trust your own thoughts.
When silence forces you to face things you’ve been avoiding.

I like myself. I like my mind. I like the way my thoughts move when they’re not constantly interrupted by someone else’s expectations. That changes everything.

I don’t sit alone wishing for a crowd. I sit alone and finally hear myself think. And that is not emptiness. That is clarity.

Maybe I never had the luxury of easy relationships, of inherited belonging, of a ready-made “tribe”. Maybe that’s why solitude didn’t break me. It became my training ground. My filter. My way of deciding who, if anyone, actually deserves access to my life.

I don’t know what it’s like to have a best friend who’s always been there.
I don’t know what it’s like to have a loving family system.
I don’t know what it’s like to be carried by others.

But I know exactly what it’s like to carry myself.

And somewhere along the way, loneliness stopped being something I needed to fix.
It became my most honest companion.