THE CHRONICLE
I’ve become quite the loner.
At least that’s what I’ve been calling it.
Me, my home, my babies and my thoughts.
And lately I’ve been wondering:
Will I ever feel social again?
Because I can go places.
I can socialize.
I can turn it on when necessary.
Anyone who knows me professionally probably wouldn’t describe me as someone incapable of being social.
I talk.
I laugh.
I engage.
I lead.
I can be very much Social Natalie.
But increasingly, when work ends?
I want to go home.
And I’ve been wondering what that means.
Recently, I had the opportunity to attend a social gathering with people from work.
I like these people.
That’s important.
There wasn’t conflict.
There wasn’t some dramatic reason I didn’t want to go.
I simply didn’t want to spend my personal time socializing with people I already spend my professional time with.
And then came all the practical reasons.
Distance.
Weather.
Traffic.
An inconvenient route.
All of which made me think:
This isn’t important enough to me to justify the effort.
And there it was.
Another truth.
I would have been going out of obligation.
To show my face.
To be polite.
To perform social participation.
And I don’t want to do that anymore.
But that realization opened a much deeper conversation with myself.
Because if I don’t want that kind of connection...
What kind do I want?
And the answer came easily.
I want depth.
I want conversations that make me forget what time it is.
I want people who are curious.
People who can explore ideas.
People who can talk about life beyond the weather and what happened at work.
I want reciprocity.
And that’s when something else surfaced.
A sadness I’ve probably carried longer than I realized.
I’ve had people in my life.
I’ve had associates.
I’ve had friendships.
I’ve had people I love.
But when I think of the kind of best friendship people describe when they say:
That’s my person. We’ve been best friends for thirty years.
I don’t know that I’ve ever truly had the whole thing.
I’ve had pieces.
But not the whole.
And at fifty years old, I sometimes wonder whether I ever will.
That’s an uncomfortable thing to admit.
Especially when you’re capable of taking care of yourself.
I’ve built a life.
I’ve survived difficult seasons.
I’ve made decisions alone.
I’ve moved across the country.
I’ve solved problems.
I’ve carried responsibilities.
I’ve learned how to be there for myself.
I joked recently that maybe I’m my own best friend.
And there’s truth in that.
But self-sufficiency doesn’t erase the desire to be met.
That’s the distinction I’m finally allowing myself to make.
I don’t need someone to rescue me.
But I’d like someone to occasionally say:
I’ve got this. You don’t have to.
There is a difference.
And when I think about romantic love, that’s what I want too.
If I could design it?
I want a man who is my companion, my lover and my best friend.
I want us to have incredible conversations.
I want us to laugh.
Travel the world.
Explore.
And then come home, put something ridiculous on television, sit together doing absolutely nothing and be completely content.
I want the adventure and the ordinary Tuesday.
I want security.
Protection.
Partnership.
Shared responsibility.
Not because I can’t take care of myself.
I’ve demonstrated quite thoroughly that I can.
Maybe too thoroughly. 🤭
But being capable of carrying everything doesn’t mean I should have to carry everything forever.
I want to know what it feels like to be loved by a man in a way that feels safe.
Not managed.
Not tolerated.
Not almost.
Loved.
Reciprocally.
And interestingly, wanting that doesn’t make me want to accept just anyone.
It does the opposite.
That’s where choosing myself comes in.
I’m not interested in filling spaces merely because they’re empty.
I don’t need to attend every gathering because I worry I should be more social.
I don’t need to maintain every connection at the same depth simply because we’ve known each other for years.
And I don’t need to turn companionship into a numbers game.
I’d rather have fewer people who genuinely meet me than a room full of people with whom I have nothing meaningful to say.
But and this is important
I don’t want discernment to become isolation.
I don’t want protecting my peace to become an excuse to never let anyone close.
I don’t want independence to become an identity so rigid that there’s no room for someone else.
Because underneath all of this?
My heart is still open.
That’s what surprised me.
After disappointment.
After loneliness.
After years of being responsible for myself.
After recognizing relationships that weren’t reciprocal.
I’m still soft enough to want love.
I’m still hopeful enough to believe connection exists.
I’m still curious about people.
I’m simply more discerning about who receives access.
Maybe that’s what this season is teaching me.
Choosing yourself doesn’t mean choosing yourself instead of everyone else.
It means no longer abandoning yourself just to have everyone else.
That is very different.
I can choose a quiet night at home and still desire community.
I can decline an invitation and still be social.
I can recognize limitations in a friendship and still love the friend.
I can acknowledge loneliness without letting loneliness choose my relationships.
And I can be deeply independent while still wanting someone to share the weight.
None of those things contradict each other.
They’re human.
And perhaps that’s where the balance is.
Not becoming someone who needs nobody.
Not returning to the woman who gave too much just to maintain connection.
But becoming the woman who can say:
I know how to stand alone.
Now I’m learning what it means to allow the right people to stand beside me.
I don’t know exactly what those relationships will look like.
I don’t know when they’ll arrive.
But I know what I want them to feel like.
Reciprocal.
Safe.
Interesting.
Deep.
Easy enough that I don’t have to perform.
And expansive enough that I can still be completely myself.
Until then?
I’ll keep choosing myself.
But I won’t close my heart.
Because I’m no longer interested in proving that I don’t need anyone.
I’m interested in discovering what it feels like when the right people make me grateful that I don’t have to do everything alone.
With grace,
Natalie
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