I Would Rather Be At Home All By Myself
The other day, I was at this super buzzy rooftop bar. You know the kind – pulsing music, impossibly chic people sipping brightly colored cocktails, and a view that could honestly sell air as a luxury product. My friend Sarah, bless her extroverted heart, had dragged me along. “It’ll be fun,” she’d promised, her eyes sparkling with the infectious optimism only a true social butterfly possesses. And for a solid ten minutes, maybe fifteen, it was. I managed a few polite nods, a couple of forced laughs at jokes I barely heard over the bass, and even complimented someone on their shoes (which, let’s be honest, were pretty spectacular). But then, the familiar ache started. It wasn’t a physical pain, nothing so crude. It was more of a… gentle unraveling. A quiet whisper in the back of my mind that grew louder with each passing clinking glass and boisterous conversation. The whisper said, “You’d be happier somewhere else.”
And it was right. Oh, how it was right. Because while everyone else seemed to be thriving in the vibrant chaos, I was meticulously cataloging all the ways I would rather be… well, anywhere else. And increasingly, that “anywhere else” translates to home, all by myself.
It’s a sentiment that gets a lot of funny looks, doesn’t it? “Oh, you don’t want to go out? But why?” As if the mere act of being invited somewhere, anywhere, should be met with unbridled enthusiasm. As if solitude is some kind of social failing, a testament to being unpopular or, heaven forbid, boring. And maybe, just maybe, for some people, that’s true. But for me? It’s a deep, profound preference. It’s not about rejecting people; it’s about embracing myself. And that, my friends, is a revolutionary act in a world that constantly tells us to be more, do more, and be with others more.
I’ve always been a bit of a paradox, I suppose. I can be fiercely independent, tackling complex projects at work with gusto, and then crumble into a heap of existential dread if I have to make small talk at a party for too long. It’s not that I dislike people. Far from it! I genuinely enjoy connecting with individuals, having meaningful conversations, and sharing laughter. The problem arises when the sheer volume and intensity of social interaction become overwhelming. It’s like my social battery has a surprisingly low amperage. It charges up quickly with a good chat or a deep dive into a shared interest, but it drains like a leaky faucet in a crowded room.
Remember those childhood sleepovers? Hours of giggling, pillow fights, and whispered secrets. I loved those. I loved the intimacy of sharing that space with one or two close friends. But then came the teenage years, and the allure of the big group hangouts. The parties, the clubs, the crowded movie theaters. Initially, it felt like the thing to do. The rite of passage. And I went through the motions, forcing smiles and trying to keep up with conversations that zipped around like hyperactive hummingbirds. But even then, a part of me yearned for the quiet hum of my own room, the comforting weight of a good book, the simple pleasure of not having to perform.
So, when I say “I would rather be at home all by myself,” it’s not a cry for help. It’s a statement of self-awareness. It’s an acknowledgement that my ideal state of being, the place where I feel most recharged, most centered, and most authentically me, happens within the four walls of my own space, with no one else around.
Think about it. At home, alone, there’s no pressure. No need to curate your image, no awkward silences to fill, no constant low-level anxiety about saying the wrong thing or being judged. The air is yours. The volume is yours to control. The activities are entirely dictated by your own desires. You can wear your comfiest, most ancient pajamas, walk around with your hair in a messy bun that would make a scarecrow wince, and sing off-key at the top of your lungs without a single soul batting an eyelash. This is freedom, people!
For me, being at home alone is a multi-sensory spa treatment for the soul. It’s the ritual of brewing the perfect cup of tea, the satisfying weight of a blanket, the gentle glow of a lamp creating a cozy cocoon. It’s the freedom to devour a book in one sitting, to get lost in a rabbit hole of fascinating documentaries, or to simply sit in silence and let my thoughts wander. It’s the quiet joy of cooking a meal just for myself, experimenting with flavors without worrying about anyone else’s palate. It’s the permission to do absolutely nothing and feel absolutely no guilt about it.
This isn't to say I'm a hermit who shuns all human interaction. Absolutely not. I cherish my friendships. I have people in my life who I love dearly, whose presence brings me immense joy. But there’s a difference between genuine connection and the obligatory social engagement. And sometimes, when I’m feeling drained, the thought of another obligatory social engagement feels like a lead weight in my stomach. It’s not about them; it’s about my own capacity at that moment.
The irony, of course, is that sometimes, the most profound connections we can have are with ourselves. And you can’t really get to know yourself, truly know yourself, when you’re constantly in the company of others, letting their energies, opinions, and needs fill up all the available space. Solitude provides the quiet arena for introspection, for self-discovery, for that gentle, sometimes awkward, but always essential conversation with the person in the mirror.
I remember one particularly rough week at work. Everything felt like a struggle, and by Friday evening, I was running on fumes. Sarah, naturally, had plans. A big group dinner, followed by drinks. My initial instinct was to say yes, because, you know, FOMO. But then I pictured myself there, forcing a smile, feeling utterly depleted, and the thought of it made me physically tired. So, I sent Sarah a text, something along the lines of, “So sorry, can’t make it tonight. I’m officially entering Hibernation Mode. Recharge required!” She was disappointed, of course, but she understood. And what did I do? I ordered my favorite takeout, put on a ridiculously cheesy rom-com, and curled up on the sofa with a glass of wine. It was bliss. Pure, unadulterated, soul-soothing bliss. By the end of the evening, I felt like a new person. The world hadn’t ended because I wasn't at the party. In fact, in my own little world, something wonderful had happened: I had prioritized my own well-being.
This desire for solo time isn't some new phenomenon for me. As a kid, while other children were clamoring for playdates, I was often content with my own company. I’d build elaborate forts in my bedroom, write stories, or just lie on the floor and watch the dust motes dance in the sunlight. There was a quiet satisfaction in these solitary pursuits, a sense of agency and self-sufficiency that I still crave today.
It’s also about what I call the “social energy threshold.” We all have one, I think, though it varies wildly. For some, that threshold is incredibly high, allowing them to bounce from one social event to another without breaking a sweat. For others, like me, it’s a little more… delicate. Pushing past that threshold feels less like invigorating engagement and more like emotional exhaustion. It’s like trying to run a marathon when you’re only trained for a 5k. You’ll get there, eventually, but the experience will be far less enjoyable, and you’ll likely need a significant recovery period.
And let’s be honest, the world can be pretty loud. Not just audibly, but in terms of expectations, demands, and constant stimulation. Being at home, alone, is my sanctuary from that noise. It’s a space where I can recalibrate, where I can hear my own thoughts again, where I can simply be. It’s a conscious choice to step back from the whirlwind and find my own center.
There’s a certain smugness, I’ll admit, that comes with successfully opting out. The initial pang of social anxiety – “Should I be there? Are they missing me?” – is quickly replaced by a wave of relief and contentment. It’s like a secret superpower: the ability to recognize when enough is enough and to have the courage to honor that feeling. And the kicker? Often, when I do choose to engage socially after a period of solitude, I’m a much more present, engaged, and enjoyable person to be around. Because I’ve refilled my own cup.
So, if you ever find yourself at a buzzing rooftop bar, and there’s a part of you that’s mentally drafting your grocery list or replaying a particularly good episode of your favorite show in your head, don’t feel guilty. Don’t feel like you’re somehow failing at being social. It’s okay. It’s more than okay. It’s a sign that you’re listening to your own needs. It’s a sign that perhaps, just perhaps, the most fulfilling place for you to be, at that moment, is at home, all by yourself. And that, my friends, is a perfectly wonderful thing.
Embracing your inner homebody, your solo adventurer, is a form of self-care that’s often overlooked. It’s the quiet rebellion against the constant pressure to be out there, doing, and being with others. It’s the recognition that sometimes, the richest experiences happen when we’re not looking for them in crowded rooms, but in the quiet corners of our own lives. So, the next time someone invites you somewhere and your gut instinct whispers, “I’d rather be home,” listen to that whisper. It might just be leading you to exactly where you need to be.