When I was 14, my mom called me “antisocial” because I spent most of my weekends in my room. My friends at school teased me for skipping parties, and teachers always seemed concerned when I preferred solo projects over group work. But here’s the thing: I wasn’t lonely. I just wanted to be alone.
For years, though, I thought there was something wrong with that. Society worships extroversion, and being “social” is treated like the gold standard of being human. So, I forced myself to socialize, to smile at parties, to make small talk when I didn’t care about the answers. And every time, I left feeling exhausted, like I’d been wearing an itchy sweater all day.
It wasn’t until my autism diagnosis that I realized solitude wasn’t my flaw—it was my sanctuary.
The Beauty of Being Alone
Here’s the thing about being alone: it’s not empty. When I’m alone, my brain finally has room to breathe. I can hear my own thoughts without the static of the outside world. I can stim freely without judgment. I can spend hours immersed in my special interests without feeling guilty.
One of my favorite solitary activities is taking long walks at dusk. I pop in my noise-canceling headphones, listen to instrumental music, and let my thoughts wander. The streets are quieter then, the world softer. It’s in those moments that I feel most connected to myself—and oddly, to the world.
Why Solitude Gets Stigmatized
Our culture loves extroverts. From a young age, we’re taught that being outgoing is good and being reserved is bad. Kids who talk a lot in class are praised, while quiet kids are labeled “shy” or “withdrawn.”
For autistic people, this bias can feel suffocating. We’re often seen as “aloof” or “unfriendly” when we’re simply overwhelmed. I can’t count the number of times someone has said, “You’re so quiet, is everything okay?” as if silence is a sign of distress.
The truth is, I’m not “quiet” because I’m upset—I’m quiet because I’m processing. And sometimes, I just don’t feel like talking.
Alone Doesn’t Mean Lonely
There’s a huge difference between being alone and being lonely, but people often confuse the two. For me, solitude is restorative. It’s how I recharge after navigating a loud, unpredictable world.
Loneliness, on the other hand, is something I’ve rarely felt. Even when I spend days without talking to another person, I don’t feel lonely. My books, my music, my thoughts—they’re enough.
But that doesn’t mean I don’t value connection. I love deep, meaningful conversations with close friends. I just don’t need them every day.
The Cost of Pretending
For years, I tried to pretend I was more social than I really was. I went to parties I didn’t want to attend, joined group activities that drained me, and said “yes” to every invitation because I was afraid of being seen as rude.
It didn’t work. The more I tried to fit in, the more out of place I felt. By the time I was in my twenties, I was so burnt out from masking that I started avoiding social situations entirely.
Now, I’ve found a balance. I say “no” when I need to, without apologizing. I make plans that feel manageable, like meeting a friend for coffee instead of going to a loud restaurant. And I give myself permission to enjoy my own company without guilt.
What I Wish People Knew About Solitude
- It’s Not a Problem to Be Solved. When I say I want to be alone, it’s not because I’m sad or angry—it’s because I need space to recharge.
- It’s Not a Rejection. If I decline an invitation, it doesn’t mean I don’t value your friendship. It just means I need time to rest.
- It’s Not Loneliness. Solitude is a choice, not a consequence. It’s something I actively seek out because it makes me feel whole.
Visual Snapshot
I’m sitting in my living room, curled up in my favorite armchair with a book in my lap. The late afternoon sunlight filters through the blinds, casting soft stripes across the floor. The room is quiet except for the faint hum of the fridge and the occasional rustle of pages as I turn them.
On the table next to me is a cup of chamomile tea, still steaming. My cat is stretched out on the rug, her tail flicking lazily. It’s a simple scene, but it feels perfect—a moment of stillness in a world that’s always moving too fast.
FAQ
Q: Is it normal for autistic people to prefer being alone?
A: Absolutely. Many autistic people find social interactions draining and need more downtime to recover. Solitude isn’t a flaw—it’s a form of self-care.
Q: How can I support someone who values solitude?
A: Respect their boundaries. Don’t pressure them to socialize, but let them know you’re there if they need connection.
Q: Does preferring solitude mean you don’t like people?
A: Not at all. I love the people in my life; I just don’t need constant interaction to feel connected.
Final Thoughts
Solitude isn’t loneliness—it’s freedom. It’s the freedom to be myself without judgment, to recharge my energy, and to find peace in a world that often feels overwhelming.
If you’re someone who loves being alone, know that there’s nothing wrong with you. You’re not antisocial, and you’re not broken. You’re just wired differently, and that’s okay.
And if you need me, you’ll find me in my favorite armchair, lost in a book, savoring the quiet.
