Echoes of Silence

Being by myself had never been a problem. I could disappear into books, slipping from one story to the next, living in worlds that weren’t my own. It was the perfect escape—a way to keep my feelings at arm’s length, promising myself I’d deal with them later. Just like clicking “Remind me tomorrow” on a software update, with no real intention of ever addressing it.

Somewhere along the way, the line between solitude and loneliness blurred. And let me tell you, it’s a thin line. One moment, the silence is peaceful, a welcome retreat. The next, it’s suffocating. You start filling it—singing along to music even during the most mindless tasks, drowning out your own thoughts, afraid of what they might say if given too much room. Because when the world quiets, your mind takes centre stage, and sometimes, that’s the last place you want to be.

I hadn’t meant to reopen old wounds, but a book reminded me of my long-standing relationship with loneliness. In The War of Art, Steven Pressfield writes:

“We’re never alone. As soon as we step outside the campfire glow, our Muse lights on our shoulder like a butterfly. The act of courage calls forth infallibly that deeper part of ourselves that supports and sustains us.”

Those words tugged at something deep inside me. It made me wonder—had I ever truly been alone, or had I just spent my life running from it? If loneliness wasn’t an absence but a presence, then maybe solitude wasn’t about being by myself but about how I existed in that space. Pressfield’s words forced me to confront a truth I had long avoided: I wasn’t afraid of being alone. I was afraid of what I might hear in the silence.

For years, I carried a void in my heart, convinced it could only be filled by love—a partner, friendships, people who would somehow patch up everything that felt broken. If only my book boyfriend were real, maybe I wouldn’t wallow in self-pity as much. But no one told me that love and companionship weren’t magic cures. That no amount of affection could fix what was missing inside me. Instead, I would have ended up tethering my existence to another person, mistaking their presence for purpose. And that’s not love. That’s losing yourself.

I’ve seen people become that version of themselves. I once had a friend who couldn’t stand being alone. He would send a flurry of messages just to fill the silence, desperate for conversation while sitting alone at a café. It made me wonder—why is it so terrifying to sit with ourselves? Why do we need constant noise to feel alive?

When I was forced to sit with my thoughts for three days after a visit to the ophthalmologist, I realised just how much I had pushed my emotions under the rug. With screens off-limits and only audio content to keep me company, boredom crept in, and I slipped into silence more often than I liked. And that’s when the weight of it hit me—the sheer, suffocating presence of everything I had avoided. Is this what it feels like to truly face my emotions? The recovery was brutal, not just physically but mentally. The bandages over my eye was nothing compared to the chaos in my mind—like 15 browser tabs open, three on fire, one in crisis, two in full-blown panic, and the rest… well, who knows what they were doing.

If solitude is so frightening, then the scariest horror movie for an extrovert wouldn’t be about ghosts or serial killers. It would be a single question:

“What would your weekend look like if you were the last person on Earth?”

I used to believe that loneliness was a lack of company. That if I surrounded myself with enough people, it would disappear. But loneliness isn’t just an empty room or an unanswered message—it’s a presence in itself. It lingers in crowded spaces, sits beside you in conversations, and seeps into moments that are supposed to be filled with laughter.

I’ve known this kind of loneliness for a long time. The kind that doesn’t leave, no matter how many people you let in. It’s a quiet ache, a hollow space that refuses to be filled. I remember looking in the mirror and barely recognising myself—my life muted, colourless, like a poorly painted canvas. But what scared me most wasn’t the emptiness. It was that I didn’t want to fix it.

I labeled myself a stereotypical writer—the kind portrayed in books and movies. Isolation as a prerequisite for creation, a life consumed by words, but that doesn’t mean I’m incapable of anything else besides writing. A New York Times bestselling author isn’t born from locking themselves in a room and cutting off all human interaction. And yet, the fear lingered. Would that be my future? Down to my last penny, whiskey burning down my throat, never truly sober—because how else do you deal with emotions that refuse to be silenced? The weight of rejection, the burden of feeling too much. It’s a familiar story. An alcoholic writer moves to a secluded town and somehow stumbles into a murder mystery.

Okay, now I’m just describing Beautiful Ugly by Alice Feeney.

But it’s something to think about. I don’t want to wake up on a curb one day, another artist drowning in their vices, justifying every self-destructive habit as part of the creative process. It doesn’t have to be alcohol. Addiction takes many forms. Binge-watching, endless scrolling—distractions disguised as comfort. And if I’m being honest, that’s the addiction I struggle with the most.

For so long, I thought happiness was found in gatherings, in shared experiences, in the presence of others. But I was wrong. Because no matter how many people surrounded me, the void remained. The noise of company never silenced the voices in my head; it only drowned them out for a while. And when the silence inevitably returned, it was deafening.

Then I came across a thought that allowed me to introspect. A new perspective that led my mind to ponder. 

“Loneliness is not the absence of people. It’s the inability to enjoy your own company.”

That line felt like a slap to the face. Because I had spent so much time trying to escape solitude that I never learned how to sit with it. I feared my own thoughts, feared what I might have to confront if I allowed myself to be still. So I filled every moment with distractions—music, TV shows, endless scrolling—anything to keep the silence at bay.

But solitude is not the enemy. The fear of it is.

We are told that human connection is essential—and it is—but somewhere along the way, we’ve forgotten how to exist as individuals.

I used to fear loneliness, believing it was something to escape, something that needed fixing. But now, I see it differently. Solitude isn’t a void—it’s a space to grow, to listen, to understand myself beyond the noise. Maybe the real challenge isn’t filling the silence but learning to sit with it, to let it shape me rather than scare me. Because in the quiet, in the stillness, I am not lost—I am finally learning to be found.