This summer felt different.

I went on holiday and saw friends here and there, but there was this strange feeling of numbness I couldn’t shake. Everyone seemed to suddenly have someone; partners, plans, new routines, while I was suddenly… still. It’s no one’s fault, it’s just what happens as you get older. People’s worlds shift, while yours sometimes folds in on itself for a while.

At first, I tried to fill the quiet. Work, walks, spending time with family. But burnout had dulled the part of me that used to find joy easily. I didn’t have the energy to go out, or to reach out. I told myself I was fine, that I liked the peace, and part of me really did. But another part wondered when I became someone who stopped showing up.

an anxious avoidant kinda vibe

Being an anxious–avoidant feels like constantly wanting closeness yet evidently fearing it. You text first, reading it over and over again, craving connection but already rehearsing your exit. It’s never quite knowing what’s wrong, just knowing you feel too much, too quickly, and then somehow nothing at all.

I realised I’ve built a quiet safety net out of avoidance. I convince myself I prefer solitude, that I’m protecting my peace, when really, I think I might just be protecting my fear. I guess, deep down, to me letting people in means giving them a chance to leave.

OCD crept in when things went still. My mind filled every silent hour with what-ifs and imaginary mistakes, but it also turned inwards, to my body, what I ate, and how I viewed my reflection in the mirror.

I became obsessed with control. What I put into my body, how much, when, how I’d be perceived if I went outside. Every meal became a calculation, every mirror checked a quiet panic. Every picture analysed from every angle to see any sign of gain. It’s strange how the brain clings to numbers and routines when everything else feels uncertain, how control starts to masquerade as safety, even when it’s exhausting you.

But even through all of that, I started to understand myself. My patterns, triggers, the way I push people away before they can do it first. It wasn’t a summer of socialising, but I noticed what happens when I don’t.

I become a lonely person filled with shame and self doubt.

did the people i love not care anymore?

There was a point mid August when I genuinely thought no one cared about me anymore.

My phone stayed quiet, and group chats drifted. Plans never quite happened, but I also wasn’t rushing to make them. Everyone had their own lives, and I wasn’t a main character in any of them anymore.

I don’t blame them, it’s life. It’s not everyone else's fault that they’ve all found love and I haven’t. I can't force anyone to feel how I'm feeling and truly understand it. But it does make you notice who checks in without a reason, messages without an agenda, and how often you’ve been the one doing the reaching out.

And sometimes I did feel frustrated, because I had tried to open up about the loneliness I was experiencing, but when you’re the funny, silly friend who doesn’t often take life too seriously, you tend to just be met with more punchlines.

I realised I’d stopped letting people see when I needed them, because what was the point in trying to prove my serious side? I was always going to be Shan. The girl who loves to be single, enjoys her own company, and likes to joke about feeling depressed. She's always alright, right?

Unfortunately I wasn’t kidding around anymore about feeling sad, but it kind of felt like no one knew it to be true.

Needing people felt like weakness, and I was so tired of being the one who cared more. It’s a strange level of self-protection that looks like independence but feels like invisibility, and I only had myself to blame.

Still, the memorable moments I did spend with people brought me back to life. Those little reconnections reminded me that the world hadn’t forgotten me; it was just moving at a different pace. I have amazing friends around me and I couldn't fault them. I just need to get better at communicating when I retreat into that oh so lonesome shell of mine.

what i learned from my lonely summer

I learned to like myself, not just tolerate myself.

I realised I’m not hard to love, I just need to stop making love feel like a test.

I stopped apologising for being sensitive or slow to trust. I started to see those things as awareness, rather than flaws.

I learned to stop chasing people who don’t want to be caught.

When someone wants to stay, you won’t have to convince them. Silence told me what words never could.

I learned to build a healthier relationship with myself.

I ate properly again. Slept better. Spent time with my mum. I stopped rushing through moments like they didn’t count unless someone else saw them.

I learned that solitude is perspective over punishment.

The stillness I once feared became a mirror. And I didn’t mind the reflection.

a turning point

The summer I spent alone wasn’t what I had planned, but it’s what I needed.

I started to feel okay about quiet weekends, and realised that being alone doesn’t mean being forgotten, it can mean being in the middle of rebuilding.

It’s not that I don’t want people around anymore; I just want the right ones to stay. Those who make connections feel unforced. The ones who see the world a little like I do, knowing it's full of meaning in the smallest things.

I’m ready for a fuller season, but I’ll carry this quieter one with me too, because it taught me that peace is something you can build by yourself, and starting over begins in uncomfortable shitty silence.

The summer I spent alone was the season I finally stopped needing to be somewhere else.