I’ve gotten used to going to the movies and restaurants by myself. At first, I wrote “in solitude,” but it felt a little too resigned—like I was giving something up. So I changed it to “with myself.” It’s a small shift in language, but it changes everything.
People often ask me at the door, “Table for two?” or “Are you waiting for someone?” And I say, “Just me.” It doesn’t sting. It doesn’t make me feel anything, really. I like being in my own company. I enjoy the film. I savor the meal. I gift myself presents. I pamper myself. There’s no sense of lack in those moments.
But I won’t lie and say that this is the dream. It isn’t. I do want to buy two movie tickets. I want to share dessert and laugh over pasta. I want to look across the table and see someone there. Still, despite that desire, I live a beautiful life—even without “two.” I don’t even know if “two” is necessarily better. I’ve spent my whole life dreaming of “two” (sometimes even “three”—kidding, mostly), and I’ve lived inside those dreams. It never really occurred to me that there might be no “two,” and that “not two” could be… normal. Acceptable. Even good.
Most of my life hasn’t been “two.” And the pain that caused could probably stretch across a few lifetimes. But something has changed.
Now, when I dream, there’s no second person in the picture. There’s me. A house with floor-to-ceiling windows that open to the ocean breeze. I’m working on something meaningful, writing, creating. I’m driving a little open jeep along the shore. Friends fill my home with laughter. And it’s just me. Not lonely. Just whole.
Yesterday, this clarity landed hard. I was eating marinated lamb on the terrace of an Italian restaurant. A small table. Just me. People walked by, immersed in their own lives. The world moved around me, and honestly—it didn’t care that I was there. I didn’t feel sad about that, just aware. For most of my life, I’ve been deeply interested in the world—its people, its stories. But in that moment, something felt cut. Like an invisible umbilical cord had snapped. I had been born into my own selfhood.
I’m not looking for a grand metaphor here. I don’t think I’ve “transcended” or “grown up.” I’m not attaching meaning to it. I’m just telling you how it felt.
Sometimes, when my mind slips into longing or lack, I remind myself: Look at your life. I live in one of the most breathtaking places on Earth. In late October, I’m in sandals and a silk dress. The Pacific is fifteen minutes away. There are palm trees outside my window. From my desk, I can see the Hollywood sign. My team is easygoing, talented, and kind. My culture is evolving—gentler, more refined. Even the echoes of old Russian melancholy are softening.
I’m healthy enough not to need help. Most of what I’ve wished for has come true. And more is ahead. According to my values, the most beautiful thing that could still happen would be love, family, children. Everything else—fame, success, money—I’ve tasted already. That was more than enough.
My life is rare and precious. I’ll be thrilled if love comes. But I also understand this: “not being alone” comes with many joys—and one major cost. The cost is “not being alone.”
So maybe the most sacred thing a person can do, while still alone, is to live that solitude fully. To not spend it waiting. To not treat it like a gap year before life begins. But to savor the quiet. Celebrate the calm. And enjoy the beauty of being with yourself—for however long you get to have it.
