The Hardest Part Isn't Missing Her. It's Having No One to Tell About It.
"Some things are better written than said, and some paths must be walked alone"
Dear fellow travellers,
I’m writing this from my room at the temple, after spending the afternoon walking through the nearby village completely alone. No companion. No phone call to narrate the experience. No one to turn to and say, “Did you see that?” or “Isn’t this beautiful?”
Just me. And the loneliness I’m learning to swallow.
I hate it.
Not the village—the village was beautiful. The autumn leaves, the small temple shrines hidden in corners, the elderly woman who smiled at me from her doorway.
I hate doing things alone.
And I’m slowly, painfully, necessarily learning how.
The Person Who Always Needed Someone
I’ve never been good at being alone.
Not necessarily with a romantic partner—though I’ve definitely used relationships to avoid solitude. But with someone. Anyone.
When I travel, I need a companion. When I experience something new, I need someone there to witness it with me. When something beautiful happens, I immediately think: “Who can I share this with?”
I don’t just enjoy company. I need it. There’s a difference.
Some people are naturally solitary. They recharge alone. They prefer their own company. They find solo travel liberating and meals for one peaceful.
I am not those people.
I love sharing moments. I love the back-and-forth of experiencing something together. I love having someone to process with, to reflect with, to laugh with about the absurd or marvel with about the beautiful.
Sharing experiences doesn’t just enhance them for me—it validates them. Makes them real.
If I see something amazing and no one is there to witness it with me, did it really happen? If I have a thought and no one hears it, does it matter?
These aren’t philosophical questions. These are the actual anxious thoughts that run through my mind when I’m alone.
When Aloneness Feels Like Punishment
At the temple, I’m surrounded by people—monks, volunteers, other temple workers. But I’m also fundamentally alone in a way I’ve never been before.
I wake up alone at 4 AM to the temple bells. I do my 108 prostrations alone while others sleep. I sit through meals with people who aren’t my friends, in silence or making polite small talk that doesn’t reach the depth of real connection.
I have a job here. I have responsibilities. But I don’t have someone.
No one to debrief with at the end of the day. No one who knows my whole story, who understands the context of why every small trigger hits so hard. No one to turn to when something reminds me of her and I need to say it out loud to make the feeling bearable.
And part of me feels like this aloneness is punishment for something.
Punishment for being too much in the relationship. Punishment for my BPD intensity that exhausted her. Punishment for not being able to be happy with my own company.
But I know that’s not true. This isn’t punishment. This is just life teaching me something I should have learned earlier: how to be my own companion.
The Loneliness I’m Learning to Swallow
“Swallow” is the right word. Not “embrace.” Not “accept.” Not even “tolerate.”
Swallow. Like medicine that tastes bitter, but you know you need.
Every day, I swallow the loneliness of:
Waking up and having no one to say good morning to who cares specifically about me
Experiencing something beautiful and having no one immediate to share it with
Having a thought and realising I can’t just speak it out loud to someone who will understand
Making decisions completely on my own, with no one to consult or validate my choices
Going to bed knowing no one is wondering if I’m okay tonight
It doesn’t go down easy. Sometimes I choke on it. Sometimes it sits heavily in my stomach all day.
But I’m learning to swallow it anyway.
Not because I’m becoming comfortable with loneliness. Not because I’m learning to prefer solitude. But because I’m learning that I can survive it.
And survival is the first step toward something else—I don’t know what yet. Maybe strength. Maybe self-sufficiency. Maybe just the quiet knowledge that I don’t disappear when no one is watching.
The Difference Between Being Alone and Being Lonely
The temple monks talk about solitude like it’s a gift. “Time alone is time with yourself,” they say. “Loneliness is an opportunity for self-discovery.”
And I want to throw my meditation cushion at them when they say things like that.
Because here’s what they’re not understanding: There’s a difference between choosing solitude and being forced into aloneness.
Solitude is when you retreat from the world to recharge, knowing you can return whenever you want. Aloneness is when you have no one to return to.
Solitude is peaceful. Aloneness is isolating.
Solitude feels like a gift. Aloneness feels like exile.
I’m not in solitude. I’m in aloneness. And I’m learning—slowly—that they’re not the same thing.
The monks who praise solitude often choose it. They have their community. They have their fellow practitioners. They have centuries of tradition holding them.
I’m learning aloneness the hard way: not by choice, but by necessity. Because the person I used to share everything with is gone. Because my friends have their own lives. Because I’m in a temple where deep personal connection isn’t the point.
And that’s okay. It has to be okay. Because this is what’s real right now.
What I’m Learning NOT to Say Out Loud
One of the hardest parts of learning to be alone is learning that I don’t have to share everything that comes into my mind.
I used to externalise constantly. Every thought. Every feeling. Every observation. Every reaction.
Something would happen, and within seconds I’d be:
Texting someone about it
Calling someone to process it
Writing to her about it
Posting about it
Talking to whoever was nearby about it
I treated my internal life like a radio broadcast—everything transmitted immediately, nothing held privately.
And I think I did that because if I kept things inside, they felt too big. Too real. Too much.
If I said them out loud, someone else could help me make sense of them. Someone else could validate them or challenge them, or just acknowledge them. And then they’d feel manageable.
But here’s what I’m learning: Not everything needs to be said. And saying everything actually makes some things worse.
Some thoughts need to stay thoughts. Some feelings need to be felt privately. Some observations don’t need external validation to be real.
And some things—especially the spiralling, anxious, BPD-brain things—get MORE powerful when I speak them out loud. They become solid. They become real in a way that makes them harder to release.
The temple is teaching me the boundary between internal and external. And it’s uncomfortable as hell.
Some Things Are Better Written Than Said
Here’s what’s saving me: journaling.
Not posting on social media. Not texting friends. Not even these Substack newsletters (though they help too).
Private journaling. The kind no one will ever read. The kind that’s just for me.
Every night before bed, I write. Sometimes pages and pages. Sometimes just a few lines. But I write.
And something strange happens when I write things down that I don’t share with anyone:
They become manageable.
The anxious thought that would have spiralled if I’d texted it to three people? It calms down when I just write it in my notebook and close the cover.
The grief that would have overwhelmed me if I’d called someone crying about it? It moves through me when I let it live on the page instead of in someone else’s attention.
The loneliness that feels unbearable when I’m trying to push it away? It becomes almost bearable when I just acknowledge it in writing: “I am lonely today. I miss having someone. This is hard.”
Writing gives me somewhere to put my thoughts without needing someone else to hold them for me.
And that’s new. That’s growing up. That’s learning to be my own container instead of needing other people to contain me.
The Boundaries I’m Learning
There’s a monk here—one of the older ones—who barely speaks. Not out of some vow of silence, but just... because he doesn’t need to.
I asked him once, “Don’t you ever want to just talk? To share what you’re thinking?”
He smiled and said, “Not everything that crosses my mind deserves to come out of my mouth. Some things are better left as weather passing through.”
Weather passing through.
That image has stayed with me.
Not every thought is important enough to voice. Not every feeling needs to be analysed out loud with someone. Not every observation needs validation.
Some things can just pass through my mind like the weather. Noticed, felt, and then released.
The boundary I’m learning is:
What needs to be shared vs. what needs to be written vs. what just needs to pass through
What’s a genuine need for connection vs. anxiety seeking external validation
What’s worth speaking vs. what’s worth holding in silence
And I’m bad at this. Really bad. But I’m learning.
Because the alternative—externalising everything, needing someone constantly, treating every thought like it requires an audience—that’s exhausting. For me and for everyone around me.
Sitting With Quietness and Loneliness
The hardest practice at this temple isn’t the 4 AM wake-up or the 108 prostrations or even the grief of missing her.
It’s the sitting. The silence. The deliberate practice of being with myself and not running away.
In the meditation hall, there’s nowhere to hide. No phone to check. No person to talk to. No task to do.
Just you and your mind and the uncomfortable reality of your own company.
And my mind does not want to sit still. It wants to:
Plan the future
Replay the past
Analyse what everyone thinks of me
Catastrophize about being alone forever
Make lists of things to do later
Literally anything other than just BE HERE NOW
But the practice is staying anyway. Sitting in quietness. Sitting with the loneliness. Not trying to fix it or escape it or fill it.
Just sitting.
And some days, for about thirty seconds, something shifts. The loneliness is still there, but it’s not crushing me. The quietness is still there, but it’s not suffocating me.
It’s just... there. And I’m... here. And we’re coexisting.
Those thirty seconds are not pleasant. They’re not peaceful. They’re not enlightenment or acceptance or any of the things the meditation books promise.
But they’re proof that I can be alone with myself without completely falling apart. And right now, that’s enough.
Life Is Full of Choices and Loneliness
One of my favourite monks here said something yesterday that I keep turning over:
“Life is full of choices and loneliness. Everyone must learn to walk their path alone, even when they’re walking beside someone.”
Even when I was in a relationship, even when I had her beside me, I was still fundamentally alone in my experience. She couldn’t live my life for me. She couldn’t make my decisions for me. She couldn’t feel my feelings for me.
We’re all alone in that sense. Always have been. Always will be.
The relationship just masked it. Made it less obvious. Gave me someone to share the aloneness with, so it felt less isolating.
But the fundamental truth remains: I am responsible for my own life. My own choices. My own path.
No one can walk it for me. Not her. Not my friends. Not even these monks with all their wisdom.
I have to get used to making decisions alone. To process experiences alone. To sit with my own thoughts alone. To carry my own emotional weight alone.
Not because I want to. Not because it’s noble or spiritual or character-building.
But because that’s just reality. And avoiding reality doesn’t make it less true.
The Small Victories of Aloneness
I’m not going to pretend I’m suddenly comfortable being alone. I’m not going to romanticise this and say I’ve discovered the joy of my own company.
I haven’t. I still hate it most days.
But there are small victories:
Last week, I went to a café alone. Ordered tea. Sat by the window. Didn’t pull out my phone to text someone about how lonely I felt. Just... sat. Drank my tea. Watched people pass by. And survived the discomfort.
Yesterday, I took a walk alone and saw something beautiful—autumn leaves falling like confetti. And I felt the immediate urge to photograph it and send it to someone. But I didn’t. I just looked. Appreciated it privately. Let it be mine alone.
This morning, I woke up and didn’t immediately reach for my phone to check if anyone had messaged me. I just lay there for a moment, breathing, acknowledging: I am alone right now. And I am okay.
These are not big victories. They’re not Instagram-worthy moments of self-discovery. They’re not the kind of progress that anyone else would notice.
But they’re mine. And they matter.
Writing As My Companion
These Substack letters—and my private journal—have become a strange kind of companionship.
When I write, I’m not alone. I’m in conversation. Not with another person exactly, but with the version of me who will read this later. With the readers who might see themselves in these words. With the experience itself, pinned down on paper where I can look at it.
Writing doesn’t eliminate loneliness. But it makes it bearable.
Because even if no one responds, even if no one reads these words, I’ve still witnessed my own experience. I’ve still made it real by recording it.
I’ve been my own companion through the act of writing.
And maybe that’s enough. Maybe that’s what I’m learning here: how to companion myself through the hard stuff, even when I desperately wish someone else would do it for me.
The Path I’m Learning to Walk Alone
I don’t know if I’ll ever truly enjoy being alone. I don’t know if I’ll ever stop preferring company to solitude.
But I’m learning—slowly, reluctantly, necessarily—that I can be alone. That aloneness doesn’t destroy me. That I have resources within myself even when there’s no one beside me.
I’m learning to walk my path alone, even though every instinct I have fights against it.
I’m learning to make decisions without constant external input. To sit with my thoughts without immediately externalising them. To witness my own experiences without needing someone else’s validation to make them real.
I’m learning that some things are better written than said. That not every thought deserves to be spoken. That silence and loneliness, while uncomfortable, are not emergencies.
And I’m learning that journaling, writing, witnessing my own life—that’s a form of companionship too.
Not the companionship I would choose. Not the kind I prefer.
But the kind I need right now. The kind that’s teaching me I can be whole even when I’m alone.
For Anyone Else Learning to Swallow Loneliness
If you’re reading this because you’re also learning to be alone when you’d rather have company, I want you to know:
You’re not weak for finding this hard. You’re not broken for preferring connection to solitude.
Some people are naturally solitary. Some people recharge alone. Some people find being alone peaceful and restorative.
And some of us don’t. Some of us love company. Some of us thrive in connection. Some of us need to share experiences to make them feel real.
That’s okay. You’re not doing life wrong just because you’re not comfortable being alone.
But if circumstances force you into aloneness—through breakup, loss, relocation, whatever—you can survive it. You can learn to swallow the loneliness. You can find small ways to console yourself through it.
It won’t feel natural. It won’t be easy. You might never truly enjoy it.
But you can do it. One uncomfortable day at a time.
Write in a journal. Take walks alone and let yourself be bored. Sit with your thoughts even when it’s uncomfortable. Make decisions on your own, even when you desperately want someone to decide for you.
Not because you should enjoy it. Not because it’s noble or spiritual.
But because sometimes life requires us to walk alone. And we’re stronger than we think we are.
The View From Here
I’m writing this as the sun sets over the temple mountains, completely alone in my room.
A few months ago, this would have felt unbearable. The sunset would have made me immediately reach for my phone to share it. The aloneness would have sent me spiralling into panic.
Today, it’s still hard. I still wish someone were here to see this with me. I still feel the loneliness like a physical weight.
But I’m here. I’m breathing. I’m sitting with it. And I’m okay.
Not happy. Not peaceful. Not enlightened.
Just... here. Alone. Surviving it.
And tomorrow I’ll wake up at 4 AM and do it again. And the day after that. And the day after that.
One solitary day at a time, learning to be my own companion.
Learning to swallow loneliness. Learning to sit with quietness. Learning to know when to write instead of speak. Learning to walk my path alone even when every cell in my body wants someone beside me.
It’s hard. It’s uncomfortable. It’s not what I would choose.
But I’m learning. And that has to be enough.
These letters from the temple are how I’m learning that being alone doesn’t mean being abandoned—it just means learning to companion yourself through the uncomfortable silences.
Next week: “The Things I Should Have Said When I Had the Chance” - because sometimes loneliness is realising you’re out of time
Learning to swallow (one lonely day at a time),
Suinny
If you’re struggling with loneliness, isolation, or learning to be alone:
Crisis Text Line: Text HOME to 741741
National Suicide Prevention Lifeline: 988
Find therapists specialising in attachment: Psychology Today directory
7 Cups: Free emotional support chat: 7cups.com
Preferring a company doesn’t make you weak. Finding loneliness hard doesn’t make you broken. You’re allowed to struggle with being alone while learning how to cope with it.