Closing the Door Without Disappearing

I was in one of my support groups this week when someone brought up the difference between isolation and solitude.

It stayed with me.

I have learned that when I attend some kind of support space each week—and sometimes each day—I am much less likely to fall into isolation. I do not necessarily have to say much. Sometimes simply being around people who understand is enough.

• People who listen.
• People who nod and say, "Yes. I get it."
• People who do not need every detail before they understand why something hurts.

Isolation has been an easy place for me to fall into, especially during the years when my children were struggling, my family was struggling, and I was carrying my own pain privately.

Sometimes separation feels easier.

I do not have to explain myself. I do not have to hear another opinion about what is happening or what I should do differently. I do not have to pretend I am okay.

And I do need time to feel what I feel.

I need space to cry, be angry, grieve, or admit that something is hard. Not everyone needs to be a part of those moments.

But when I stay alone too long, isolation begins to sound like:

• Nobody wants me.
• Nobody wants to hear from me.
• Nobody understands what I am going through.
• Nobody cares.

Once those thoughts begin running the show, reaching out becomes even harder. My world gets smaller, and my interactions with other people are not always the healthiest when I am living in that headspace.

Solitude feels different.

Solitude is not about disappearing from the world. It is about stepping away long enough to hear myself again.

Solitude can be coloring a mandala.

It can be watering a plant and noticing what it needs.

It can be crying without trying to stop myself or explain why.

It can be allowing myself to feel angry, disappointed, scared, or exhausted without believing those feelings will last forever.

For me, solitude is also what I am doing right now—traveling, helping other people with their homes and animals, spending time with people I care about, working remotely, and quietly building whatever comes next.

There are people around me, but there is also space.

• Space to heal.
• Space to reflect.
• Space to notice what is happening inside me instead of immediately reacting to it.

Solitude allows me to ask: Whose voice is running the show right now?

• Is it the voice that tells me I did everything wrong as a parent?
• Is it the voice that tells me I am too much, too emotional, or too needy?
• Is it the voice that says I have to handle everything on my own?

Or can I hear the quieter voice underneath all of that?

The one that says:

Solitude gives me the chance to understand what I need before I reach outward.

Sometimes I do not need someone to fix anything.

Sometimes I need another human being to hear me cry.

I need to say something that may not sound completely rational yet.

I need someone to sit beside me while I am angry or sad without trying to pull me out of it.

I have worked hard to practice this with my children. I often ask them, "Do you want me to listen, or do you want help figuring something out?"

What I am realizing is that I need to offer myself the same choice.

And I need to allow other people to be present for me in the way I need.

When I am isolating, I have often already decided that no one will understand, no one will show up, or no one wants to hear it.

When I am choosing solitude, I can spend time alone and still remain connected. I can care for myself and then reach out more honestly.

I can say:

I recently did this with my youngest. I told him I was feeling disconnected rather than keeping it to myself or expecting him to somehow know. We made plans to spend time together.

It was a small moment, but an important one.

As parents, we spend so much time trying not to burden our children. We stay quiet. We keep ourselves composed. We tell ourselves they already have enough going on.

And our children are not responsible for managing our feelings.

But there is a difference between asking them to take care of us and simply allowing them to know us.

There can be something healing about saying, "I miss you," or "I would love to spend some time together," without blame, pressure, or expectation.

I am still learning the difference between isolation and solitude.

Isolation closes the door and convinces me no one is on the other side.

Solitude closes the door for a little while so I can breathe—and then reminds me that I am allowed to open it again.