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The Gift of Solitude: Learning to Sit with Myself

  • Writer: Andy
    Andy
  • May 25
  • 3 min read

Updated: May 26

There was a time when the thought of being alone filled me with dread. Not just the absence of others, but the silence - the kind that wraps around you when there’s no conversation, no distractions, no one to perform for or please. Just me, in my own company. And for much of my life, that was the very last place I wanted to be.


Last month, I spent a few days on my own along the Jurassic Coast in Dorset. I walked the cliffs and shoreline, sat on vast empty beaches, and simply was. I listened to the waves, the wind, the occasional call of a gull - but mostly, I listened to the silence. And somewhere in that stillness, I found something I hadn’t always known how to seek: peace.


It’s remarkable, really, because this kind of trip would have been impossible for me years ago. I couldn’t bear my own company. I needed people around me like scaffolding - holding me up, keeping me from collapsing inward. If I was alone, I was exposed to myself. And I didn’t want to see what was there. What if I didn’t like it? What if I had to face all the parts of me I’d tried so hard to hide?


So I avoided. I sought out connection constantly - not from a place of joy or intimacy, but from fear. I needed to be needed. I needed to be liked. I ricocheted from one relationship to the next, each one a way of distracting myself from myself. A way of numbing the ache I didn’t understand and didn’t want to confront.


In hindsight, it was never really about the people I chased. It was about avoiding the parts of me I couldn’t tolerate - the shame, the guilt, the wounds left unhealed. But wounds demand attention. Left untended, they fester. And in some way, I knew that. So I kept busy. I kept running.


Eventually, life slowed me down - or perhaps I just became too tired and ill to keep up the pace. The self-reflection required during my counselling training and personal therapy also shifted my focus inward. And in that slowing and shifting, the silence crept in. Tentatively, awkwardly at first, I began to listen. I began to sit. I began to see.


What I saw wasn’t always easy. I’ve had to face the damage I’ve caused, the mistakes I’ve made, the people I’ve hurt in my desperation not to hurt myself. But I’ve also found something else in the silence: compassion. A softening. An understanding that I did the best I could with the awareness I had at the time. That doesn’t remove responsibility, but it does offer a pathway to forgiveness - not just from others, but from myself.


I’m still very much a work in progress. I still trip over old patterns now and then. But I’m no longer afraid of my own company. In fact, I cherish it. I’ve discovered how essential solitude is for me - not as an escape from people, but as a coming home to myself. Peace and stillness have become sacred. They offer me space to reflect, to reset, and to remember who I am beneath all the noise.


I believe this kind of personal work is essential for all of us. Not because we’re broken, but because we’re layered, complex, and beautifully human. Facing ourselves can be painful, but it’s also the gateway to healing and wholeness.


There is a quiet wisdom in solitude. A gentle truth that emerges when we stop running and start listening. And if we can learn to sit with ourselves - not just the polished, presentable parts, but the messy, unfinished bits too - we might just find that we’re not as unlovable as we feared. We might even discover that we’re enough.


Just as we are.



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