When I made the decision to live on my own, I already knew what to expect from rejecting the cushy, well-appointed life that I had come to known in the last 29 or so years. More than facing practical concerns, I now had to confront a kind of listlessness that long, quiet evenings brought me.
I now had time and privacy that I have always longed for. It’s the kind that made you feel like you finally own your life. It’s just me, and 42 sq. metres of concrete space where anything I say, goes.
The feeling is both liberating and alienating, I realised. I welcomed exercising control over how my day is going to go, without regard for anything at all; but there were also evenings when I only have music, books, and a Macbook for company.
It was no longer about deciding whether to have cottage cheese for breakfast (vs. a hearty Filipino one) or keeping tabs of the week’s expenses.
Solo living became the fastest way I ushered myself into adulthood. More than heartaches and heartbreaks, the wisdom you gain from sudden displacement forces you to make more deliberate choices towards a future that I never thought about (planning six months ahead already feels too distant).
Whilst there’s suddenly a humble appreciation for the things you had and let go of, the level of introspection you achieve and the pride of having real independence make it all worthwhile.