In my early thirties, I moved from a small bungalow in the Bay Area to a hippie barn in Santa Fe to take a new job. The barn, with its tin doors and weathered wood, had seemed novel, a radical change. Here my boyfriend and I would explore our mellow sides, walking the dog on dusty horse trails, eating dinner at our picnic table. It sounded romantic.
But soon after we unpacked, he left for a monthlong writing fellowship in another state. I found myself in this new, rural place alone. And I panicked. Though I’d grown up an only child, I no longer knew how to sit with myself for long stretches of time. And honestly, my childhood had been lonely. My parents both had busy, demanding careers and a penchant for budget babysitters who did little more than watch television and talk on the phone. I spent great swaths of time inventing games by myself in my room. As soon as I was old enough to drive, I hung out constantly with friends, a habit that persisted throughout my twenties. I wasn’t all that interested in reclaiming solitude. During the first week alone in the barn, I called every person in my phone, even people I barely knew. But after I’d talked to everyone, after my eyes nearly fell out of my head from watching TV, I realized I couldn’t keep this up for four weeks.
So I did something I’d always wanted to do: I signed up for banjo lessons.
At night I practiced, looking out at the sunsets over the chamisa flowers, the jackrabbits loping by. When I got tired of the chord progressions, I’d knit or read. And though I expected to be dogged by loneliness—that mortal childhood enemy—I felt, instead, a surprising calm. All this time, I’d been working so hard to avoid myself, but as it turned out, I liked being alone. Me and myself had so many shared interests, so much to say to each other! If I permitted it, I was good company. That felt like such a revelation.
The longest relationship we have with anyone is with ourselves, and yet that relationship is often the first one we let slide. Maintaining it brings such comfort, though: Liking your company means that you always have at your beck and call a person who gets you.
So, if everyone departs and you’re left feeling lonely and adrift—or if you never allow yourself to be alone—ask yourself what you’d do if you had a friend over. You’d be curious about her, you’d engage with her, you’d be compassionate. Why not treat yourself the same way?