The Stillness That Stayed

If the last post was about what cracked, this one’s about what stayed standing. Me: sharp, strange, and finally settled.

I was a dancing monkey. Charming, upbeat, performing on cue. Unless I drank too much or the resentment built up. Then the crowd stopped clapping. The mask slipped. And the wild part of me didn’t just come out. It tore the stage apart. Sharp tongue. Words that cut. Abandonment that lingered.

I thrived in chaos and noise. I’d joke that my worst fear was an awkward silence. I overshared. I filled every pause. I could hold a conversation with a houseplant if I had to.

I mistook overstimulation for energy and attention for connection.

But in the stillness of my thirties and sobriety, I’m starting to realize I was never really extroverted. I was just the queen of avoidance—crowned and committed.

When I got sober, I swapped parties for twelve-step meetings. For the first year, I went almost every day. I hated being alone at night, so meetings became my safety net. They gave me structure. A place to go on Friday nights that felt like it mattered, even if I didn’t feel quite like myself yet.

Eventually, though, that started to feel forced. As much as I credit AA with saving my life, I couldn’t seem to make real connections there. I kept hearing about lifelong friendships forming in the rooms—and I just… didn’t feel that. Seventh-grade me showed up, convinced it was my fault.

Let me be clear: that’s not why I left AA. If anything, trying to form connections was one of the main reasons I stayed as long as I did. I was in unfamiliar territory and wanted people around me who were going through the same things. I wanted friends to do sober things with. I didn’t know who I was without alcohol, so I clung to others—hoping I could mirror their behavior and shape a version of sober me. I believed everything I’d done up to that point was wrong, so now felt like the time to follow, not lead.

When I stopped going, the silence got louder—and the people around me kept fading out. It was wildly uncomfortable at first, like wearing wet jeans on a hot summer day. I couldn’t sit in silence. I needed music, a podcast, something playing at all times because I didn’t know how to just be alone.

But over time, I started forgetting to turn on the background noise. I’d catch myself cooking or cleaning with nothing but my thoughts for company. And weirdly, it felt okay.

I started finding joy in the small, mundane things like stacking my food into glass containers, each one a tiny act of order. I began writing down my dreams, peeling them apart to see what lived beneath the surface. I read about spirituality and the human condition—what drives us, what breaks us, and all the quiet intricacies that make us who we are. 

But not all of it was a Carl Jung fanfic. I sat alone on the beach on Saturday afternoons, watching boats filled with friends drift by. There was a quiet ache between my heart and my stomach—a kind of emptiness that didn’t leave, but loosened over time. I sat with it. I breathed through it. Eventually, it faded into the background.

Then I’d scroll through Instagram and see people living big, loud, beautiful lives surrounded by friends. The shame would creep in. So would the self-judgment.

Still, while that season was painful and uneasy, it was also strangely beautiful. Through the solitude, the discomfort, and all the trial and error, I started to learn who I actually was.

Lately, something has shifted. Over the past year, I’ve become deeply content being alone—maybe even a little too content.

Some days, I’ll go a full day, or even an entire weekend, without talking to anyone. Not because I’m sad. Not because I’m isolating. But because, for the first time in my life, being alone feels like peace.

There’s a lot I do in the quiet. I write. I work out. I hang with my cats. I try to figure out what makes me me. I’ve learned I’m curious, a little offbeat, deeply internal and obsessive. But I’ve also come face to face with some hard truths: I can be impatient. I’ve put others down to feel better about myself. I’ve gossiped to ignore my own problems and chased validation like it owed me something.

I still get sad. Still feel nostalgic—lately, more than usual. But the feelings pass, like old songs on a summer playlist: sweet, familiar, a little sad.

I don’t chase the high anymore. I let the quiet hold me. And most days, that’s enough.

I’m starting to get a clearer sense of who I am—my quirks, my flaws, my preferences, my instincts. It’s not always comfortable, but it feels real. And safe. Not performative. Not curated. Just… me.

I still have a lot of work to do. And I know not everyone will vibe with this version of me. My circle might shrink, but honestly, that feels like a win. Because the fact that I can spend days alone with myself without wanting to crawl out of my own skin? That’s new. That’s growth. And the loudest truths have shown up in the silence. Finally, I’m ready to hear them.

The work now is staying open. Letting people in without losing myself. Solitude isn’t what happens when I’m left behind. It’s what happens when I choose myself.

I still catch myself slipping into old patterns: over-accommodating, seeking validation in the same worn-out places, calling my sister every time the loneliness hits a little too hard.

I’ll probably be a work in progress forever. But I’m learning to go easier on myself when the old me reappears. She’s not the enemy. Just a reminder of how far I’ve come.