Doing Life Alone

The Life and Times of the Perpetually Single

It’s starting to wear on me, this whole “doing life alone” thing I’ve somehow found myself in. You know when you’ve been walking a path for so long that turning off it feels impossible? Like I’ve paved this road inch by inch, brick by brick, with no space for anyone else to walk alongside me. How would someone else even fit into this life I’ve constructed so meticulously? Every corner is filled with the quiet routines of just... me.

It’s not just about romantic love—though, yes, that part occasionally feels like the missing puzzle piece I can never seem to find. But it’s also about the quiet spaces in between. The dinners I eat alone. The decisions I make without a second voice. I have friends, of course, and I know I could lean on them if I really needed to. But the truth is, I’m the one who reaches out, the one who checks in, the one who keeps the connection going. They’re all loved up, locked into their own little worlds. I can see them orbiting around their partners, while I’m off in my own little universe, carrying the weight of it on my own. It’s not sad; it’s just a reality. But sometimes, it does feel heavy.

It’s tiring being the ‘single one’ amongst friends. You’re always the person figuring things out solo—organizing plans, paying bills, making decisions—there’s no one else to lean on when you need a break. There’s no shared load. And being the perpetually single one adds another layer to it. You’re the friend who shows up to every wedding, every baby shower, every couple’s event, and while you’re happy for them, it’s a reminder that you’re doing it all by yourself. Meanwhile, I’m paying rent alone. Figuring out the logistics of life alone. This move really solidified it for me: I’m out here doing everything solo, and it’s not that I can’t do it—it’s just that sometimes I wish I didn’t have to.

The truth is, I’m rarely anyone’s top priority. I am my own priority. And while I believe that's necessary for anyone—something I’ll always stand by, regardless of relationship status—there are days when the silence becomes so loud, it’s hard to hear anything else.

I’ve had to make my life “full” because waiting around for someone to fill it for me was never an option. I couldn’t pause my life, hoping the right person would come along and complete it. So, I filled it with routines, work, and the logistics of making it through the day. My life is full on paper. But full doesn’t always mean emotionally complete. My days are busy, filled with routines and responsibilities, but no matter how full they look from the outside, they still leave a gap that no calendar can fill. That’s what I mean when I say I’m tired—not from the things I’m doing, but from doing it all on my own.

I’ve spent years cultivating this version of myself. Becoming whole, so to speak. If I ever get the chance to love someone that way, I’ll be stepping into it as the most complete version of me. But sometimes I wonder if that sense of fullness leaves any space for someone else. I used to think love was about two people completing each other, two halves making a whole. But now I see it differently. I think it’s about two people who are already whole, who make space for each other’s lives without shrinking themselves to fit. I love that idea, but in practice, it’s hard to imagine. My life is already so packed—how does someone step into that without disrupting everything?

Sure, I have Raffi, my faithful dog, my companion in all things quiet and constant. His love is simple, pure, and I wouldn’t trade it for anything. But even Raffi can only do so much. He can’t challenge me when I’m stuck in my own head. He can’t reassure me when I second-guess myself. He can’t remind me that I’m not just navigating a life of independence—I’m sometimes drowning in it.

And that’s what I think I long for the most: the idea of someone who knows me as deeply as I know myself. Someone who can catch me in those moments when the world feels too big, too fast. It’s not about needing someone to fix everything. It’s about having someone who’s there, who understands the rhythm of my life, someone to share the weight of the day-to-day. I’ve been my own anchor for so long, but there’s something beautiful in the idea of letting someone else carry part of the load with me.

Society has a funny way of making you feel like your life is missing something when you don’t hit traditional milestones. Like the absence of a partner or kids makes everything I’ve built somehow less meaningful. As if the life I’ve created on my own doesn’t hold the same value. But I know that’s not true. I know my life, as it is, matters. Still, that doesn’t mean I don’t wish, sometimes, that I didn’t have to be the only one holding it all together.

But I’m starting to realize that doing life alone isn’t just about survival. It’s about resilience. It’s about the choice I make, every day, to build this life for myself—not as a waiting room for something better, but as something that is whole and valuable in its own right. Maybe one day, someone will come along, not to complete me, but to add to the life I’ve already built in ways I didn’t even know I needed.

Because isn’t that what we all hope for? Not someone to fill a void, but someone who fits into the life we’ve crafted, someone who sees us as we are—full, complete, but still willing to grow together. Someone who adds to the picture without asking us to redraw the lines.

For now, I’ll keep doing life the way I always have—alone, but not incomplete. And maybe one day, someone will come along who doesn’t want to change the foundation, but is willing to build something beautiful upon it.

---

---

— The Friday Club — A digital hangout where movie nights, shower epiphanies, and life's charming chaos collide. From writer and creator Ash [of @the.ashfiles], expect weekly musings, honest stories, and a reminder that we’re all just winging this thing called “adulthood”. 🎬✍🏻📚

---