I didn’t start writing sonnets until university – when I was just self-aware enough to be insufferable but not self-aware enough to know I was. Before that, it was just me trying to make sense of being left – broken thoughts arranged into broken lines, hoping the shape of the poem might soften the ache. It wasn’t about writing something beautiful – it was about proving I existed, line by line, in something I could actually hold.
One of my earliest poems has managed to haunt me in that fun, sticky way certain childhood moments do – like the time I thought blonde hair would fix my personality. It opens like this:
rooms.
There are seventy rooms on this floor alone, and I promise you this is the one you belong to,
The one that longs for you and begs for you never to go.
There are seventy rooms on this floor alone, and I’m in the one you belong to,
Crying and waiting; begging for you never to go.There are seventy rooms on this floor alone,
And I’m in the last one.Seventy.
Where you should be.And I don’t want to wait
While you roam each room first
Because there are seventy rooms on this floor alone.
Was I okay? Absolutely not. The emotional intensity wasn’t some adolescent flailing -nit was deliberate. I wrote that poem in university, and I meant every word. And I still do. Because even then, being alone didn’t just feel quiet; it felt like being left behind. And I knew the difference – because silence has a shape, and I’d already learned how to live inside it. Not just the absence of sound, but the weight of unsaid things. The kind of silence that creeps in between words, between people, between versions of yourself you try on just to feel less hollow. And when that becomes familiar, it starts to feel like home – even if it hurts.
Here’s the catch: there’s a difference between being alone and being left alone, and your nervous system knows it. If you grew up in chaos or just constant company, your brain doesn’t translate “solitude” as “peace and quiet.” It hears: “we’ve been abandoned, cue the internal sirens.”
used to think this was just quirky attachment style stuff – like, oh look, I get weird when people leave the room, how charming. But no. It’s not just a trait. It’s wiring. It’s muscle memory. I learned early that being alone wasn’t just about the absence of someone – it was about what that absence meant. It wasn’t about presence; it was about value. And in my head, if someone wasn’t there, it wasn’t because they were busy or tired or had their own life. It was because I wasn’t worth staying for. Full stop.
That belief doesn’t show up loud – it shows up quiet. It’s not screaming rejection, it’s tiny hesitations. Over-apologizing. Reading into texts. Wondering what you did wrong because someone hasn’t replied. And that’s the thing: once your nervous system gets trained to associate absence with unworthiness, it doesn’t matter what’s real – it only matters what feels true. And what felt true was that I had to earn people or else they’d leave.
Little D decided, around age two, that her parents working in another country meant she was too much or not enough or both at the same time. And while Adult D knows this is technically untrue, Adult D still gets a little weird about waiting too long for a text back.
Still, I’ve stopped pretending that being alone is inherently tragic. Sometimes, being alone is the only way to really figure out what’s yours and what’s just the leftover noise of who you thought you had to be to be loved. It’s quiet. It’s weird. And yes, it’s usually uncomfortable, especially if your idea of a fun night used to be avoiding all feelings through the magic of alcohol, chaos or someone else’s problems.
Being alone means sitting with thoughts you don’t always like. It means not outsourcing your identity to the people around you. It means asking questions you don’t want the answers to. And if you’re like me, it might also mean realizing how rarely you’ve ever put yourself first – on purpose.
That’s why healing is such a weird, exhausting little beast. It’s not flashy. It’s not even always rewarding in the moment. But it’s necessary. And lonely. And boring. And somehow still beautiful. It looks like drinking coffee without scrolling. Like reading for pleasure instead of productivity. Like writing things you’re afraid to say out loud but still giving them a chance to be heard.
And for me, it looks like taking long, quiet walks in the countryside with my dogs – who, let’s be honest, now walk me more than I walk them. This is a far cry from my old “walks,” which, if we’re still being honest, were usually me dragging my dog to the LCBO so I could buy vodka, then hitting the dog park to drink it under the guise of “socializing.” Now, I walk to feel my feet. To listen. To let the silence in without trying to shove it the fuck out.
Because here’s the surprising part: being alone with your thoughts isn’t always punishment. Sometimes, it’s the only way to hear yourself clearly and better yet, actually listen to yourself. Underneath all the noise and coping and background buzzing, there’s you – your actual voice, unfiltered, unperforming. And when you finally sit with it long enough? It turns out you’re not half as awful as you thought. You’re just… real. A fucking human. Trying.
I used to say, “I hate being alone with my thoughts” and laugh it off with friends who felt the same. But the truth is, I didn’t hate being alone – I hated what I believed it meant about me.
Now I’m trying on a new belief. One where my own company is actually pretty cool. One where silence isn’t dangerous, just unfamiliar. One where I’m not waiting in room seventy anymore for a maybe Prince Charming to maybe come. A lot of maybes when you have the power to be your own and only true.
So what comes next?
You stop waiting.
You stop rehearsing your worth in case someone finally decides to rescue you.
You turn the lights on in the room you’ve been in this whole time – and realize you were never trapped, just told you were. Told to wait. Told to hope someone might show up and make it make sense.
But this isn’t a story where someone kicks down the door and saves you.
It’s the one where you realize the door was never locked.
You walk out on your own. No audience. No applause. Just you – finally choosing yourself without needing a reason.
And that? That’s the whole story now. Not seventy rooms. Not waiting for someone to find you. Not writing poems hoping someone will read between the lines and come save you from the ending. You’ve already rewritten it. And maybe you’re still alone sometimes. But now, it’s on your terms.
Now, it’s not the absence of love, it’s the presence of you. Okay. For sure it’s a bit corny, maybe too sentimental. But I’d rather feel too much than nothing at all. And I’d rather be corny than lost.
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