“Solitude is the deep romance of the self.”

– r.h. , ( Hymn Twenty-Six, She Felt Like Feeling Nothing)

*written December 2024*

I find this quote so captivating I was on my 18-hour flight from Ethiopia to Atlanta, a flight that seemed determined to test every ounce of patience I had left. My seat was broken, the screen wasn’t working, and I was cramped, tired, and just done with the whole experience. With nothing to distract me from the hours stretching endlessly ahead, I reached for my phone.  

Scrolling through my Books app, I stumbled upon a collection I’d downloaded years ago, back when I thought poetry could fix a broken heart. The titles were remnants of 17-year-old Akosua, who thought everything she felt was the end of the world. Now, at 21, I felt a little embarrassed about my younger self’s dramatic taste. Still, I opened one of the books, thinking, Why not?

Honestly, I was ready to cringe and I did. It was giving major “he cried, I cried, we crode” energy but then, there it was: a single line that made me pause. “Solitude is the deep romance of the self.”

Suddenly, the discomfort of the flight faded into the background. This wasn’t just a quote from some over dramatic poetry book, it was my reality.  

Solitude as a Mirror

Without a doubt, this has been one of the worst years of my life, mentally, emotionally, and spiritually. I’ve spent so much time away from others, isolating myself to figure out why I’ve endured back-to-back traumatic, life-altering events in recent years. Each time, I’ve had to pull myself out of the wreckage, but I’m tired. Exhausted. Another traumatic event might just be my villain origin story. 

 

Yet, in this period of isolation, I’ve discovered so much about myself. I’ve learned what I like and dislike. I’ve uncovered what I want for my life and started establishing boundaries in my relationships. I’ve realized that I am a people pleaser and that it has never served me well.  

For years, I poured into everyone else’s cups without noticing that mine was bone dry. Instead of speaking up and saying, “Hey, what you’re doing is harmful and draining me,” I let people take and take until I had nothing left.  

 The Cost of People-Pleasing  

Looking back, I see how this pattern hurt not just me but my relationships too. There were people I truly admired and enjoyed being around, but I couldn’t hold my weight in those dynamics. I had no more love, joy, or reciprocity to give.  I had to let them go not because I didn’t care about them, but because I had to choose myself for the first time.  

People-pleasing often feels like you’re gaining approval or love, but in reality, it’s a slow form of self-neglect. Every time I prioritized someone else’s needs over my own, I chipped away at my sense of self-worth. It wasn’t their fault entirely, many didn’t even know what I was going through.  I didn’t speak up. I didn’t set boundaries. I let the cycle continue until it broke me.  

I remember one specific friendship where I constantly showed up for them, emotionally, physically, financially but when I needed the same support, they weren’t there. That moment of clarity hurt deeply, but it also opened my eyes. How could I expect others to refill my cup when I never asked them to? Worse, I didn’t even allow myself the chance to refill it.  

Letting go of these dynamics wasn’t easy. It felt like a loss, like I was walking away from something that could’ve been better if only I had more energy to give. But now, I understand that people-pleasing isn’t love; it’s self-erasure.  

Learning to Romance Myself

“Solitude is the deep romance of the self.”

r.h. , She Felt Like Feeling Nothing

This line makes me think of all the ways I’ve begun to romance myself in isolation, learning to love who I am, flaws and all. Solitude has been painful, yes, but it’s also been a gift. It’s taught me how to advocate for myself, establish boundaries, and walk away from dynamics that drain me.  

In solitude, I’ve learned to enjoy my own company. I’ve picked up little habits that bring me peace—journaling, listening to my favorite playlists, even lighting candles for no reason other than that I like the smell. These aren’t grand gestures, but they feel like love notes to myself, reminding me that I am worth the care and attention I so easily give to others.  

Solitude also taught me to sit with my feelings, even the ones I used to avoid. For a long time, I equated being alone with being lonely, but I’ve come to see that they’re not the same. Loneliness feels like an emptiness you want to escape, but solitude feels like a fullness you grow into. It’s in these quiet moments that I’ve found clarity about who I am and what I want.  

I won’t romanticize solitude completely, it’s not always easy. There were nights when the quiet felt suffocating, when my thoughts were too loud to ignore. But even in those moments, I grew. I realized that facing my fears and sitting with my pain was the only way to truly heal.  

The best part? I’m learning to carry this peace into my relationships with others. The more I value my own time and energy, the more I attract people who value me just as much. Solitude gave me the confidence to demand reciprocity and to walk away when it’s not there.  

Closing Thoughts  

I’m still learning. I’m still healing. But for the first time in a long time, I feel like I’m pouring back into my own cup.  

Choosing solitude isn’t easy in a world that celebrates busyness and connection. There’s an unspoken fear of being seen as “lonely” or “antisocial,” as though choosing yourself is some kind of failure. But I’ve realized that solitude is an act of courage. It takes strength to face yourself—the good, the bad, and everything in between and even more strength to love what you find.  

This isn’t a process with a clear ending. There are days when I feel tempted to fall back into old patterns, to give too much, to lose myself in the approval of others. But then I remind myself of the peace I’ve found in solitude. I remind myself of the lessons I’ve learned, the boundaries I’ve built, and the love I’ve cultivated for myself.  

Solitude isn’t a punishment; it’s a gift. It’s where I’ve found the time to rewrite my narrative and rebuild my sense of self. It’s taught me that being alone doesn’t mean being lonely, it means being present with myself in a way that no one else can be.

  

As I continue this journey, I carry this lesson with me: I am worthy of my own love, attention, and care. While I’ll always cherish the people who pour into me, I now know how to pour into myself first.

That, I think, is the deepest romance of all.