Letter to My Solitude

Dear Solitude,

I used to be so terrified of you. If I wasn’t constantly busy or taking care of someone else, you’d come around to remind me where I come from. If I slowed down at all, you’d show me how lonely I was. I couldn’t understand or feel the joy of being with you.

Sometimes, when I least expected it, you’d bring up a memory — my thirteenth birthday, perhaps, when my mother invited the whole village to my party and no one showed up. You’d lay before me the colorful table she set with delicious food, which no one ate. You’d remind me of the terrible silence, as we waited for the doorbell that never rang.

In your reflection, I saw how sad my life was. All I wanted, back then, was to have friends, but I didn’t know how. I was scared of everyone. I was scared of the entitled men who leered and groped. I stopped taking showers so my stink would drive them away, but I ended up driving everyone away. You welcomed me back into your comfortable arms, but I didn’t want to be there. I didn’t want your pity. I wanted to get as far from you as possible.

I had to learn how to be in other peoples’ presence. I remember, in my thirties, being invited to a large party by a woman named Katja. “How did you make all these friends?” I asked her. “It’s easy,” she said. “You make time for people. “You talk a little. Then they talk. If it’s balanced, it’s a friendship. If it isn’t, you move on.” “I don’t think I know how to do that,” I confessed. “Of course you do,” she said. “You’re already my good friend.”

In grad school, I admired another immigrant woman named Julia. After our Human Behavior class one day, I approached her. “I really liked your perspective and what you said earlier,” I told her. “Will you be my friend?” “I would love to, Atash,” she replied, and I was overjoyed — not just because she wanted to hang out, but because she knew my name. I had thought I was invisible.

That was when I started to have hope that I could leave you behind forever, Solitude.

I began to throw my own birthday parties. And to my surprise, people showed up. Every year, the parties got bigger and bigger, till I had trouble talking with everyone who came.

My favorite part of these gatherings was watching my friends meet each other. I felt happy, but off in the corner, I saw you sitting there, staring, reminding me that I was still trying to prove I was lovable. “When are you going to be still?” you’d ask. “When are you going to learn that I’m not your enemy?”

The first half of my life has been a journey from isolation to belonging. I’ve made that lonely teenage girl very proud. But for the second half, I see a different vision.

This May 4th, I want to wake up on my birthday on a beach in Portugal, with you and the sun and the sky. I want to embrace you, Solitude. Not just when I sit to meditate, but in all aspects of my life. Whether alone or with others, I know now that I belong.