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The Art of Solitude

I’ve noticed it since I was knee-high. Five, six, three, four years old. I’ve always been incredibly quiet and alone, and I’ve never actually been sad about it. It’s just who I was, who I am. When I look back, there is this one significant memory that just feels like the picture of my life. It says so much about me. My mum and her friend left me in a room. I must have been tiny, about five years old. They left me in this room with a colouring book. I just remember the room feeling so big, the ceiling incredibly high, the curtains drawn, little light. And I remember sitting in the middle of the sofa, colouring, not looking left or right, just keeping my head down. Alone. Silent. In my head. Wondering whether or not I should colour within the lines. That moment just sums up my whole life. Me, in my own world. Nothing to say. Not wanting to colour within the lines. Non-conformist.

At primary school, I remember playing by myself a lot. There was this period when I would throw the ball up against the wall, not even just the wall, but over the roof of this Victorian-style school. I don’t know whether it’s because I was little, but I do think the schools were a lot higher than they make them these days. So this was definitely a Victorian-style school. I was throwing this ball over the roof, catching it again and again and again. At one point, the ball was taking time to come down. So I was waiting for it, in my own world. I scraped my right cheek against the side of the wall. Just me and the ball. No one else. When I got home, from the repetitive questioning, I don’t think my parents could quite get their heads around the idea that I was playing catch with myself.

Sometimes it was uncomfortable, yes. Sometimes lonely. But never exactly sad. I just got on with it. Although in my teenage years it became more obvious. Because when you’re that age, being bubbly, being popular, that was social currency. And I wasn’t any of that. I went to a private school. There were only ten kids max in each class, and just three of us were girls in mine. When two of them left at the same time, I was the only girl left. That was incredibly uncomfortable. Not exactly sadness, maybe just a smidgen. But lonely. A quiet loneliness. Fortunately, a couple of girls from the older years looked out for me. Well, one really, and her friend. If you’re listening, V and J, thank you. Random side note: I’ve just noticed they have the same initials as my kids. And, quite by accident, my daughter has the same name as one of them, because my husband chose it.

Later, in my late teens and early twenties, when I was taking way too many drugs, again it was incredibly obvious. I was in my head. Silent. Unable to join in with banter. And even now in adulthood, people think it’s odd. They call me out for it. They think I’m standoffish. They pity me for it. Dislike me for it. They just don’t see the strength in it. But years later, in my mid-twenties, maybe early thirties, my aunt said to me: “I remember as a child, you were always the quiet one.” I’ve got two brothers, but she saw it in me. And it warms my heart to this day that she noticed. That she saw me.

Sometimes I try to flip the script. I’ll walk into a public place where there’s lots of people, and I’ll be the bubbly one. But it’s never sustainable, because it’s not who I am. The truth is, I am powerful when I’m quiet. In solitude, I feel like royalty. A Priestess. A Royal Priestess. Untouchable. There’s so much strength in not needing to be heard or seen, but just to exist.

I came to hate the word introvert. Not because I’m not one. In fact, I am the epitome of introverts, a classic introvert through and through. But I hated the way people would use that word to mean shy, nervous, weak. That is not what it is. Introversion is about energy. It’s about how we recharge. Extroverts gain energy from being with people. And I get that, because I do too. But introverts gain their power from solitude. It doesn’t mean we can’t speak, or lead, or perform. It just means our power grows in the quiet. And some of the world’s most influential people were and are introverts. Think of Rosa Parks. Think of Albert Einstein. Think of Barack Obama. Think of Beyoncé. They’re not weak. They’re not shy. They are leaders whose strength comes from within.

And let me say this, because I’ve always wanted to say it out loud, especially to the people who call me shy: ask my mumma if I’m shy. Ask her what kind of woman she raised. Shy would be the last word she’d use. Confident? Yes. Risk-taker? Yes. Adventurous? Yes. Lively? Yes. A leader? Absolutely. Shy? Never.

So here’s what I own: I can be your friend, but only if it’s deep. I don’t do surface. I don’t do validation. I don’t do banter in groups. But I can stand on my own two feet comfortably. I am not weird. I am powerful. And if you can’t handle that or see that, that’s on you. My space is for powerful energy, for people who don’t need crowds to feel whole. I don’t chase belonging. I create it by being exactly who I am. Some people may think I’m shy, standoffish, or weird. But I’m not. I’m watching. I’m learning. I’m holding my own energy. Choosing when to spend it, choosing when to keep it.

Lately, I’ve been drawn to what monks call a vow of silence. Although not quite. I’m not cutting off all speech. And I’m not running from the world. For me, it’s about listening more, observing more, hearing what others don’t say out loud. It’s also about conserving my energy instead of spilling it. It’s about turning inward and training my mind to be still. That’s where my strength is building.

Call it solitude. Call it stillness. Call it holding my energy. I call it my power.