Choosing Solitude and Loving My Own Company

By Julie Jewels Smoot

I have stopped treating my own company as something to apologize for.

At 48, I know the quiet shape of my life better than I ever have. I know the comfort of a slow morning with tea. I know the pleasure of writing poetry without explaining the poem to anyone. I know the sacred feeling of creating music, listening to birds outside my window, resting when my body asks for rest, and letting a day unfold without appointments, expectations, or emotional demands.

There is freedom in that.

Some people see solitude and assume something must be wrong. They imagine loneliness, sadness, isolation, or a life waiting to be fixed. They may wonder whether I need more friends, a relationship, a fuller calendar, or a louder community.

But I do not see my life that way.

I am not waiting for someone else to arrive before I begin living. I am already here. I am already present. I am already enjoying the life I have built, one quiet choice at a time.

A quiet morning can be a complete and nourishing moment.

Solitude is different from loneliness

Loneliness and solitude can look similar from the outside, but they are not the same experience.

Loneliness often carries longing. It can feel like reaching for connection and finding absence. It may come with grief, disconnection, rejection, or the ache of wanting to be seen and not knowing where to turn.

Solitude is different. Solitude can be chosen. It can feel steady, spacious, and restorative. It can be a return to the self.

For me, solitude offers room to breathe.

When I am alone, I can hear my own thoughts without needing to filter them through another person’s needs. I can move through the day at my own pace. I can decide when to create, when to rest, when to go outside, when to listen to music, when to exercise, and when to be still.

That freedom matters.

So much of life teaches us to respond. We respond to messages, obligations, expectations, family dynamics, social norms, noise, urgency, and other people’s emotions. Some of that is part of being human. We are relational beings. We need connection, care, and community in ways that support our well-being.

But constant availability can drain the spirit.

Solitude gives me a place where I do not have to perform. I do not have to explain my mood, defend my silence, entertain anyone, or soften my truth to keep the peace. I can simply exist.

That kind of quiet is not empty. It is full of presence.

I do not need my life to look like someone else’s happiness

One of the most freeing lessons I have learned is that happiness does not have one shape.

Some people thrive in big families, busy homes, full calendars, and constant social connection. Some people love parties, group chats, community events, and shared everything. That is beautiful for them.

Others prefer small circles, one-on-one conversations, quiet rooms, long walks, and stretches of uninterrupted time. That is beautiful too.

There is no single correct way to be connected.

The trouble begins when people assume their preference should become the standard for everyone else. A person who loves constant company may look at solitude and see lack. A person who prefers quiet may look at a packed social life and feel exhausted. Neither person is wrong for having a different rhythm.

I have no desire to squeeze myself into someone else’s definition of a full life.

For me, fulfillment can look like:

• A notebook open beside a cup of tea

• A poem arriving line by line

• The hum of a singing bowl or the low resonance of a gong

• A walk where I can hear the wind in the trees

• A day with no need to explain myself

• A night when I go to sleep feeling peaceful in my own energy

  
  

These moments may not look exciting to everyone. They do not need to.

A life does not have to be loud to be meaningful.

Choosing solitude and loving my own company has helped me release the pressure to prove that I am happy. I do not need to display my joy for approval. I do not need my calendar to validate my worth. I do not need constant companionship to confirm that my life is rich.

I know what nourishes me.

Solitude can make room for nature, breath, and reflection.

Boundaries make solitude possible

Enjoying my own company requires boundaries.

That may sound simple, but it has taken practice. Many people are used to having access to us. They may expect quick replies, automatic yeses, emotional labor, explanations, and availability. When we begin protecting our time, some people may take it personally.

They may ask why we did not answer sooner.

They may assume silence means anger.

They may feel rejected when we decline plans.

They may expect us to justify our need for space.

But boundaries are not cruelty. Boundaries are clarity.

When I honor my boundaries, I am not saying other people do not matter. I am saying I matter too. My nervous system matters. My creativity matters. My peace matters. My spiritual life matters. My recovery, reflection, and rest matter.

There are times when I want to connect. There are times when I enjoy conversation, shared laughter, and meaningful exchange. I value genuine connection. I value people who meet me with respect, honesty, and care.

I also value the right to step back.

Solitude becomes healing when it is protected from guilt. If I spend the whole time alone worrying that someone is disappointed in me, then I am not really resting. I am still emotionally working. I am still managing someone else’s reaction inside my own mind.

That is why I practice giving myself permission.

I can choose a quiet evening.

I can let a message wait.

I can say no without offering a long explanation.

I can leave space on my calendar and not rush to fill it.

I can rest because rest is reason enough.

These choices may seem small, but they change the tone of a life. They create space where my own voice can return.

Creativity grows in quiet places

As a sound alchemist, author, Navy veteran, and advocate, I have lived through many kinds of noise.

Some noise is literal. Some is emotional. Some comes from the world. Some comes from trauma, memory, pressure, or the long habit of staying alert.

Quiet has become more than a preference for me. It is part of how I listen.

When I am alone, I can sense what wants to come through. A poem may begin with one phrase. A piece of music may begin with one tone. A reflection may rise while I am drinking tea or watching light cross the room.

Creativity does not always arrive when life is crowded. It often needs a little open space. It needs time without interruption. It needs a welcoming place where the unfinished can remain unfinished until it becomes clear.

Solitude gives that to me.

It lets me follow curiosity without rushing. I can write because I feel moved to write, not because I am trying to produce something for approval. I can create sound because vibration speaks to places words cannot reach. I can listen to nature and remember that not every message arrives through language.

A birdcall can be a teaching.

Rain can be a cleansing.

A bowl, drum, chime, or gong can remind the body that it is allowed to soften.

My creative life is deeply connected to my inner life. When I keep returning to myself, I create from a more honest place. I do not have to chase trends or perform a version of healing that looks acceptable to others. I can create from lived experience, from tenderness, from strength, from the truth of what I know.

Quiet helps me hear what is real.

Creative solitude can hold sound, writing, and stillness together.

Being alone has taught me to trust myself

There is a special kind of confidence that grows when I stop abandoning myself.

For many years, I thought connection required constant accommodation. I thought I had to be agreeable, available, understanding, and strong. I thought I had to make room for everyone else, even when there was no room left for me.

Solitude has helped me notice what I feel before I explain it away.

When I spend time with myself, I learn my own rhythms. I notice what drains me and what restores me. I pay attention to the difference between peace and numbness, rest and avoidance, connection and obligation.

That awareness helps me make clearer choices.

I can tell when I am saying yes from love and when I am saying yes from fear. I can tell when I miss someone and when I only miss the idea of being understood. I can tell when I am ready to engage and when I need more time with myself.

This self-trust did not arrive all at once. It came through many quiet decisions.

It came through choosing not to chase people who could not meet me with care.

It came through letting silence reveal what noise had covered.

It came through learning that my presence is enough, even when no one is there to witness it.

That last part matters.

So many people are taught to measure their lives by external response. Who called? Who invited? Who approved? Who stayed? Who noticed?

Those things can matter, but they cannot become the whole measure of a life.

There is deep power in becoming a faithful witness to myself.

I can celebrate my own growth. I can comfort my own grief. I can notice my own courage. I can sit with my memories and remind myself that I survived. I can honor the woman I have become without waiting for applause.

I can love people and still love being alone

Solitude does not mean I reject connection.

I love meaningful connection. I value honest conversations, compassionate presence, and relationships rooted in respect. I believe people can be medicine for one another when they show up with care and integrity.

But I no longer confuse access with love.

Someone does not need unlimited access to me to matter. I do not need to be constantly available to prove I care. Healthy connection leaves room for individuality. It respects silence. It does not punish rest.

The people who truly understand me do not demand that I become smaller, busier, louder, or more available than I am. They allow me to be whole. They know my solitude is not a rejection of them. It is part of how I stay grounded.

That kind of connection feels spacious. It does not tighten around my life. It breathes with it.

There is a difference between being alone because no one cares and being alone because I care for myself. I know that difference in my body now.

I am not lonely when I sit with my tea and watch the morning arrive.

I am not lonely when I write a poem that tells the truth.

I am not lonely when I listen to the wind, create music, or spend a day without plans.

I am not lonely when I choose peace over performance.

I am with myself. And that companionship has become sacred.

A quiet life can still be full of beauty, meaning, and devotion.

The freedom of my own presence

The older I get, the less interested I am in explaining my peace to people committed to misunderstanding it.

My life does not need to be translated into someone else’s comfort. My joy does not need permission. My solitude does not need a defense.

I have come to appreciate the quiet richness of my own presence. I have learned that I can be alone without being abandoned. I can be still without being stuck. I can be quiet without being empty. I can be selective without being closed.

I can belong to myself.

That belonging changes everything.

It helps me move through the world with more patience, more honesty, and more discernment. It reminds me that connection is most beautiful when it is chosen freely, not grasped out of fear. It reminds me that solitude can be a sanctuary, a creative home, and a place of restoration.

I do not need to wait for a perfect relationship, a bigger circle, or a busier life before I honor the life I have now.

I can wake up, make tea, write, listen, breathe, create, rest, and be grateful.

I can enjoy my own company without apology.

And I can say, with peace in my spirit, that I am not lonely. I am here. I am whole. I am enjoying my own presence.