Yesterday I made a roast chicken with all the fixings. There was no occasion. I wasn’t expecting anyone for dinner. I roasted potatoes, made carrots and turnip mash, and put together a large salad with whatever was ready in the garden. At the last minute, I baked a lemon pound cake because there was a lemon in the fridge, and it seemed like a good idea.
A few years ago, I would not have done this. A full meal like that, prepared just for me, would have felt excessive. There was an unspoken sense that something like that should be shared, that it needed a reason. Cooking a proper dinner alone carried a quiet weight, as if it pointed to something missing, rather than something chosen. More often, I would have made a single piece of chicken and a small salad, keeping it simple because I was on my own.
Or I would have invited others, adjusting the menu, the timing, and even the way I cooked to suit them. The meal would no longer have been entirely mine. It would have been shaped by preferences, expectations, and the small negotiations that come with shared plans. I might even have made a gravy, not because I wanted it, but because someone else did.
This time, none of that entered my mind. I cooked what I wanted, the way I wanted. No gravy, very little salt, and no compromise. It was exactly to my taste. The meal was relaxed, unhurried, and entirely my own. And yes, it was delicious. The leftovers will carry me through the next few days, turning up again in salads and sandwiches, each time just as satisfying.
What struck me most was how unremarkable it felt. There was no pause, no question about whether it made sense. It simply felt natural.
When It Used to Be Different
It wasn’t always like this. Not that long ago, doing things alone carried a different feeling. It was quieter, but not in a comfortable way. There was a sense that being alone meant something had gone wrong, or that it was something to be filled as quickly as possible.
Even small things were rarely done alone. Going to a movie, visiting a shopping mall across town, or sitting down to a meal that felt a bit special, all seemed to require company. It wasn’t necessarily stated, but it was understood. Alone suggested absence rather than choice.
Everything involved some level of coordination. Plans were made around other people’s schedules, and then adjusted again when those schedules shifted. Preferences were considered, sometimes set aside, sometimes negotiated. It took effort, but it was how things were done.
The Shift Was Elusive
The change did not arrive with any clear decision. There was no moment when I chose to start doing things on my own. It happened gradually, almost without notice.
At some point, going alone became the easier option. It removed the need to plan ahead, to confirm, to adjust. It allowed for spontaneity in a way that shared plans often do not. If I felt like going somewhere, I went. If I changed my mind, nothing needed to be explained.
Over time, that ease settled in. It no longer felt like a second choice or a compromise. It became its own way of moving through the day.
What It Looks Like Now
There is a lightness to it now. A kind of quiet freedom that comes from not needing to coordinate every decision. Life adjusts itself around a single set of preferences, and that simplicity has its own appeal.
Even everyday activities reflect this shift. Grocery shopping, for example, has changed. It used to feel as though everything was designed for more than one person. Now there are smaller portions, single servings, and ready-made meals that make sense for one. There is more choice, not less. Wandering through the aisles has become something I enjoy, noticing what is available and deciding, in the moment, what I feel like bringing home.
Going to the movies or the theatre alone no longer feels unusual. I don’t think about the people around me, whether they are couples or groups. The experience is no longer framed by comparison. I can sit, watch, and respond without conversation or commentary. If I want to leave early, I leave. If I feel like getting something to eat afterward, I go without hesitation. Chicken shawarma, with lots, and I mean lots, of garlic sauce, is a favourite snack. I’d never order this in the company of others.
The same is true of my daily walks. I am no longer asked who I walk with. The assumption has shifted. I walk alone because I want to. Some days the walk is long, other days longer. The pace changes, the route changes, and the purpose changes with it. There is space to think, or not to think at all. I can have music in my ears, whether it’s Bad Bunny, Bocelli, or a podcast. Or nothing at all. It depends on the day.
Even something as simple as deciding to go to the mall has become effortless. There is no planning involved. I can leave on a moment’s notice, wander through the shops, stop for something to eat, or turn around and go home. The outing does not need to justify itself.
Travel has shifted in the same way. Now that I’ve done it a few times, I enjoy traveling alone, even on the long trip from my winter home in Thailand back to Ottawa, Canada. I can pick the seat I want, arrive at the airport hours early, or walk up just as the gate is closing. I don’t have to explain or justify any of it. And somehow, that makes the 35-hour journey feel far less stressful.
A Different Kind of Ease
There is a noticeable ease in all of this. Not because doing things alone is better, but because it is simpler. There is less waiting, less adjusting, and less need to fit into anyone else’s schedule.
This does not replace time with others. Shared experiences still matter. Conversations, meals, and time spent together continue to have their place. But alongside that, there is now a comfort in moving through the day independently.
Doing things alone is no longer something to question or explain. It is simply another way of living. And over time, it has simply become easier.
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Let’s Have a Conversation:
What do you love doing alone? What do you hate doing alone? How did this transition happen in your life – was it gradual and smooth or rough?
