In a world that values extroverts, it’s taken me nearly 30 years to admit this — I love being alone.
I love traveling alone, I love going out to dinner alone, I love doing almost everything alone. There’s a stigma around being alone: that if you’re alone, you’re lonely.
Yet oftentimes it’s when I’m alone that I feel the least lonely.
When I’m in the presence of others, my mind is in overdrive. I’m running through each interaction over and over in my head – does everything I’m saying sound unintelligent? What should I do with my hands? Can they see the beads of sweat on my upper lip? While I may be surrounded by people, the anxiety-driven chaos in my mind makes me feel trapped and isolated. But when I’m alone, my mind quiets. I’m able to be present with my surroundings in a way that makes me feel…connected. To the world, to its inhabitants, to the ways we’re all intertwined.
Earlier this year I spent an entire month alone, backpacking and trail running around New Zealand’s South Island. Sure, I had meaningful interactions with fellow travelers, but the majority of my time was spent in solitude: just me, my backpack, and a tiny 35mm point and shoot camera to capture it all.
While attempting to lean into those feelings of presentness and connectedness, I found that there’s no better companion than a film camera. The intentionality behind each shot matched the intentionality of my journey: Slowing down, setting up my frame, waiting for the light to hit just right. Surrounded by zero humans but so much life, feeling less alone than ever.
