I thought I had solo life nailed—remote work, no booze, dog at my side.
Turns out, independence doesn’t make you immune to loneliness.
This isn’t a cry for help. It’s a real look at what happens when silence settles in.
Are you a chipper morning person or a full-on night owl?
Me? I’ve always been a burn-the-candle-at-both-ends kinda girl. Wildly productive at 5am and come midnight, still pottering about, rearranging kitchen drawers or planning the next day. I have been told at least once to “f**k off” after cheerily singing good morning at the gym. It still makes me smile. But now, thanks to a certain four-legged dictator/aka floof—it’s early mornings all the way.
Mostly.
The dog has a routine. Bedtime is around 9:30 p.m., and his, certainly not my, prep starts at 9:15. It begins with the Stare—silent and intense. Then comes the head-on-sofa moment—sad eyes and a gentle sigh. Eventually, head moves to the knee. He knows how to guilt-trip with the best of them.
Weirdly, when the clocks go back and forth, his circadian rhythm is off. He tries to get up earlier in the winter. He really does.
As for the bedtime guilt trip—eventually, I give in. He’s thrilled. One final check outside, then off to bed like he’s clocking off after a shift. And yes, he sleeps in my bed. That ship sailed when my partner let him on while I was working away for a month. Coup complete.
Read more: Reconnecting in a Remote World.
Point to note – My partner works away a lot now—the dog won’t come onto the bed without being invited. Often makes me think. Is my partner the bigger pushover, or am I the bad cop in this “threesome”? But I’m not here to talk about the dog (even though I could). I’m talking about loneliness.
I’ve always been good on my own. Thrived in it, actually. But there’s a difference between solitude and isolation. I love being on my own in The Chase with the mutt. (The Chase = local Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty, not the ITV quiz show, just to be clear.) I love curling up in bed or on the couch with him on my body. Like one of those weighted blankets. Only furry. And fatter. That’s not the kind of “alone” I mind.
And, truth be told, solitude has always suited me and never bothered me. No issues here with my own company.
I’ve done things for myself for as long as I can remember. I became reliable because no one else was. Not saying that for sympathy—it’s just the truth. After a certain age, I didn’t ask for anything. Why would I? I was either told I was selfish for asking (especially after my dad died—more on that another time), or that I needed to work it out on my own. Help rarely, if ever, came.
I was even told to sort out school bullying myself. Somehow, that counted as “learning independence.” Yeah, of course. There are three lads throwing bricks at us. I’ll just go back out and retrieve my school bag. Thanks daaaadd.
I detest seeing anyone being bullied. You need help if you bully. I mean it. Get help.
I do give bullies some credit. Bullies helped me to arm myself. Sarcasm and a stand your ground type in the face of one. That’s another thing I’ve been told at a gym. I have a “don’t talk to me” face. It’s amazing how your facial idiosyncrasies are interpreted during a heavy gym session. This is especially true if you’re wearing a baseball cap and have headphones on. There is a really, albeit long, in-depth interesting article here from Nature.com, backs me up. Pervasive influence of idiosyncratic associative biases during facial emotion and recognition.
TL:DR version
What the article says (in simple terms) – It suggests that our faces may be read as “angry” or “unapproachable” even if we’re just focused, tired, or neutral.
People make rapid emotional judgments based on facial expressions, even when those expressions aren’t intentionally emotional.
These judgments are often idiosyncratic, meaning people interpret faces based on their own biases, mood, or experiences, not necessarily what’s actually being expressed.
Aaaaaand I have digressed. Again. Back to the point.
I learned to be both quiet and loud. Self-contained, functional. It kept me safe. My birth mother… well, she wasn’t exactly calm. I do recall her marching to a neighbour’s door on more than one occasion, starting a full-blown argument—maybe even a fight.
I think she was projecting her anger—anger she couldn’t take out on my father. In a small way, she was standing up for the house, the property, the family. She demanded redress from the neighbours. Their kids had, for the umpteenth time, launched themselves into the hedge. They flattened it like a deflating bouncy castle. Or for constantly kicking the ball into the garden so hard it would smack off the windows.
It was weird that my dad was the scary one in the house, but she wasn’t. Again, a story for another time.
But it meant our home never really felt safe to lean on anyone. Not emotionally. Not practically. So I stopped trying.
And for a long time, I got on just fine.
Which brings me here.
Sometimes though? I feel lonely.
I’ve worked remotely for 20 years. Long before COVID turned it into a buzzword. And for the last decade, I’ve been almost exclusively home-based. People used to ask, “What do you even do all day? Watch telly and eat biscuits?”—yeah, cheers Tony.
(For the record: I did actual work. With biscuits. Sometimes)
Thing is, for the longest time, it worked. I didn’t crave the office noise or the awkward birthday cake moments. But now? Something’s changed.
Let me rewind a bit.
When I moved to the West Midlands, I landed a job with a private training company—and I loved it. Teaching, learning, growing. Fridays were office days: teams gathering, scanning reports (paper ones!), planning, laughing, eating lunch together like a school trip reunion. At the time, it felt a bit archaic. But now? I miss it. The buzz. The routine. The quiet reassurance of being part of something.
Am I romanticising it? Maybe. But I don’t think so.
During lockdown, I kept a Teams “room” open every morning from 9 to 10am. People could drop in, cameras off or on, say hi or sit in silence. Just… be around other humans. A little digital lifeline. A virtual nod that said, You’re not alone.
But here’s the thing—I’d been doing remote life long before lockdowns and Zoom fatigue. So I assumed I was immune to the side effects. That isolation wouldn’t touch me. I was wrong.
And I think sobriety has a lot to do with why I’m feeling it more now.
When you stop drinking, you start seeing. Like properly seeing.
You realise how alcohol was keeping you company—and keeping you alone. I didn’t hide bottles under the sink or in coat pockets. But I certainly didn’t admit how much I was drinking. A bottle? Two? Quietly replaced before anyone noticed. Or before I had to face it myself.
Drinking at home can be deeply isolating. It feels like safety—no witnesses, no judgment. But what it often is, is a cage disguised as comfort. Too many parties where I got too drunk, too loud, too emotional? Eventually, you pull away to save face. You choose isolation before someone else chooses it for you. It becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy.
You don’t notice how lonely it gets… until you stop.
And then? It’s just you. You and the dog. And silence.
So yeah. I’m posting online, writing all this. But I’ve only told a handful of trusted people about the blog. What am I afraid of? Honestly, not losing anyone. If they vanish, they weren’t really here. But there’s still fear. Shame maybe? Vulnerability definitely.
And yet, deep down, I know I need people. Not hundreds. Not constant contact. But a few steady souls who get it. A little cheer when I’m low. A floof-like presence who brings their own warmth—canine or otherwise.
Because we’re social mammals, aren’t we? Pack creatures, even the introverts among us. We don’t thrive alone. Not really. Not forever.
And I’m doing something about it.
Not in a “I’m suddenly the life of the party” kind of way. But little things. Grounded things.
I’ve started volunteering again—joined the local Wombles, picking up litter in my community. It doesn’t sound glamorous. But it will get me outside and doing something useful. I’ll see the same faces regularly, even if we all pretend not to look directly at each other.
I’m also hunting down sober meet-ups. Local ambassadors, champions, like-minded folk. And I’ve started reaching out more on social media—not just about sobriety, but fitness, art, other things that make my brain light up. Connections that don’t just orbit my past but help shape where I’m going. Took a wonderful online drawing class recently. Highly recommend it. Art makes me feel like a kid still.
Granted, there seems to be a distinct lack of actual social meet-ups where I live. If I want to drive 20 miles down the road, I’ve got options. But for here? Not much.
Maybe there’s a gap I could help fill. Start something. A sober-ish, introvert-friendly, “I’ll come if my dog approves” kind of group. Who knows.
Speaking of which—I’d love to be more social with the dog. But bless him, he got my social awkwardness. Hates everyone except close family and my son’s best mate (let’s call him SP—the chosen one).
Still. Small steps. One bag of rubbish, one online chat, one waggy tail at a time.
At least I don’t need the drink. But I do need the people.
And maybe, just maybe, that’s the scariest and most beautiful part of all this.
🤍 Feeling it too? You’re not alone.
If this blog hit a nerve—or even just gave you that weird comfort of knowing someone else gets it—stick around. You can:
- Subscribe to the blog for new posts on sobriety, solitude, and figuring out life without the bullshit
- Drop a comment or message me—I might be an introvert, but I love hearing from people who connect with this
- Share what you’re doing to tackle loneliness, especially sober or introvert-style
- Pass this on to someone who might need to know it’s not just them
We don’t need to go full group hug. But maybe we all need our version of a floof and a check-in now and then.
🖤
W x
Not For Me, Thanks 