Prezly Writes

The desire to be alone isn’t new, but it feels more present than ever. 

In the 1950s, Sylvia Plath was already writing about “a colossal desire to escape, retreat, and not talk to anybody.” 

Even long before her, solitude wasn’t just a need but a discipline; a core tenet of Stoic philosophy in Ancient Greece, a path to truly becoming oneself. 

I don’t disagree. I’ve known many phases of solitude in my life, and they’ve shaped me more than I can say. 

My relationship to solitude  

Sometimes I cherished being alone. It felt like freedom. I had all my time to dream, to wander, to get lost. It allowed me to turn inward, to slow down, to notice the beauty in small things. 

Just like May Sarton beautifully wrote in Journal of a Solitude (1973) : 

“When I am alone, the flowers are really seen. I can pay attention to them. They are felt as presences.” 

Sarton also said: “Loneliness is the poverty of self; solitude is the richness of self”. 

But the truth is, I think that the distinction isn’t always clear. What begins as chosen solitude can slowly morph into something heavier, a state we no longer control.   

Being alone, or being lonely ? 

These days, we hear it everywhere: being alone is empowering. Being lonely is dangerous. But I’ve often hovered between the two. I’ve spent long stretches alone, until what once felt spacious became heavy. 

Most of us, at some point, need someone, to speak to, to connect with, to feel inspired. To feel real. 

And as we grow more distant from each other, the gap becomes harder to bridge.  We then must relearn, and shield from extinction, what was once our native tongue: the quiet language of connection. 

And trust that somewhere, someone else still speaks it. 

To be quite honest, I am among the students still learning that language, and I’m grateful for the lesson. 

The romantization of solitude  

In this era of hyper-connection, social media, endless messages, notifications, instant news, we might think we’re less alone. But as Sherry Turkle once said, we’re “alone together.” So connected, yet further apart than ever. 

Beyond that, this solitude is now romanticized, it’s even called art, “the art of being alone.” If you search for it on TikTok, you’ll find a thousand aesthetic videos. And if you listen to beautiful songs like those of Lana Del Rey, whom I love, you might long to live within its poetic, aching depth. 

It can feel romantic… I’ve known it quite a few times. Time slows. Quiet breaths are heard. Feelings echo. And the secrets of the soul begin to reveal themselves. 

Now, I need new secrets. My soul has told me everything it could, and  is begging me for more. 

I don’t deny it though: solitude holds some strength. 

Virginia Woolf once wrote that a woman needs a room of her own to write fiction. A space, resources, silence, to create, to breathe. 

Yet, even Woolf didn’t advocate for a life of isolation.  

It is while being alone that I found new inspiration, a renewed meaning to life, and created with passion. 

But it could not last without new flames. 

As May Sarton wrote, “We need the little interruptions”, those brief moments with others, that bring texture, rhythm, and meaning to our days. 

Solitude can only nourish us when it is occasionally broken. 

A social adaptation or a choice 

Today, I wonder: are we truly choosing solitude, or merely adapting to a world that offers us no other way? 

Can we really choose to be alone while denying the deeply human need for connection? 

Perhaps for the most introverted among us. But for many, solitude was never meant to become the norm. 

Since the dawn of time, we’ve needed each other, for health, for joy, simply to survive. 

Yet nowadays, more people live alone. More remain single. Many quietly search for friendship, for touch, for presence. 

Instead of asking why, we cast blame. Perhaps, like loneliness, this too is a symptom of something deeper. 

The right balance 

In the end, we just need balance. Some time for ourselves, to reflect, to grow, to compose. 

And the quiet presence of a few sincere friends. 

The kind who, as May Sarton would say, don’t measure you by externals. 

The kind who simply stay. 

And if you’re reading this while feeling alone, not by choice, but by circumstance, know that you are not invisible. I see you. Many of us do. And your need for connection is not weakness, it’s human.