in my solitude

In March 2025, I had a glorious solo dinner in Vancouver. I had travelled there for work, to present my PhD project at a conference, and it was the first time I’d travelled overseas without any plan to meet loved ones or colleagues.

The dinner was at Ask For Luigi, a Michelin Guide-recommended spot I’d carefully landed on as my splurge meal for the trip. There is something equal parts exciting and nerve-wracking about walking into an upmarket restaurant and declaring that you've booked a table for one. I’ve dined out alone quite a bit over the years, but always out of convenience or necessity. This felt different: I was taking myself out for a deliberate, indulgent solo dinner.

It was wonderful.

I ordered an Aperol spritz, which arrived a rich orange (not all Aperol spritzes are created equal; it’s all about the ratio, baby), and fresh tagliatelle with a white wine beef ragu. As a coeliac, fresh pasta itself was enough of a treat, but fifteen months later I am still thinking about that ragu. Please, god, let me experience that ragu again before I die. I asked the waiter for help choosing a red wine, and enjoyed watching the restaurant around me through a gentle, warm fuzz, full of wine and pasta and perfectly content. I had an espresso to finish, and the waiter brought me a tiny violet meringue with the bill.

There is so much joy to be found in being in your own company. In being able to order sparkling water for the table, because you are the table, and choosing a glass of wine without having to consider what everyone else is eating and drinking, and whether you should compromise on what you really want to share a bottle. It feels like an exercise in learning your own taste, and trusting it. I paid $70 for that dinner; I’d pay double to have that experience again.

On that trip as a whole, I revelled in being able to choose exactly what I wanted to do, and to make every small decision during my time there. I wandered the Vancouver Art Gallery and paused at the paintings that caught my eye, walking on when I had taken the time I needed. I watched the entire Twilight Saga in my hotel room after the conference sessions each evening, given my location in the Pacific Northwest and my penchant for high-culture cinema. I bought a box of 16 macarons from a stall in Granville Island Public Market, and may have consumed them all by the time I flew home.

I also had so much time to listen to my own thoughts. In the Billie Holiday song from which I borrowed this piece’s title, she sings about how she’s haunted by her love’s presence when alone. She sits and revisits the memories of their time together, praying for God to send him back to her. It’s melancholy and beautiful, and beyond being a love song, it speaks to how being alone opens up an opportunity to feel our feelings. To know what’s important to us when the noise of daily life and other people’s input is quieted. Loneliness is not the only emotion that can bloom in solitude.

Before I moved in with my partner, I remember having a conversation about how much we both need alone time. We decided to move in together about 4 months after meeting, which, yes, was insane. 4 and a bit years on, I’m very grateful to my younger self for being insane. However, this would not have gone well had we not spoken about our need for alone time. About how, regardless of how much we love being in each other’s company, this was not about how we felt about the other person; it was about how we felt about ourselves. A basic need. I know that some people do not feel this way, and I’m immensely grateful to have a partner who completely understands me on this level.

I’m at a transitional phase of life right now: about to submit my PhD thesis (pending actually finishing writing the thing), and making decisions about my career path ahead. Letting myself be alone has given me two things which I think would have otherwise felt very difficult.

I’ve had space to feel the complicated emotions involved in coming to the end of these four years. I oscillate between anticipation, fear and worry, excitement, regret, and pride in what I’ve done. This is tiring, but I also think it would be strange if I didn’t feel at least most of these as I come to the end of something so huge. These mood swings are underpinned by a simultaneous readiness to be finished, and a sadness to be leaving the place that has shaped my adult life so far. It feels so personal, and letting myself be in my own head for a little while, fairly often, lets me feel all of these things rather than trying to press them down.

Secondly, spending more time alone has given me a kind of clarity that I haven’t experienced before. Not certainty, exactly; I’m not sure I’ll ever stop feeling a little apprehensive about the future. But I have found myself feeling much more confident in my ability to work out what is actually right for me. I won’t go into the specifics of my next career steps just yet. I think that reaching the end of my PhD has made me want to think carefully about which parts of my life I choose to share publicly going forwards. But having enough quiet has allowed me to arrive at decisions privately, before inviting other people’s opinions into the room. I’ve had the space to think through what I want, without immediately worrying about how my family, partner, colleagues, or friends might react.

There is something deeply reassuring about discovering that your own voice is sometimes the one you most need to listen to. Not because the people we love don’t matter, but because there are some decisions that become much clearer once everyone else has stopped talking. That, more than anything, has felt like a weight lifting from my shoulders.

In going to Vancouver, I didn’t need isolation, but enough quiet to hear myself think. There is a particular kind of confidence that comes from spending time in your own company, making small decisions for yourself, and learning to trust your own taste. I think that's why I still think about that dinner in Vancouver so often. It was about the pasta, yes, and the gorgeous red wine, but it was also about remembering how much I enjoy my own company. About sitting in my own thoughts for a little while, which, at this particular moment in my life, is exactly where I need to be.