There comes a moment in every civilized adult’s day when the soul whispers, enough.

Enough small talk.

Enough notifications.

Enough just circling back.

I need my alone time.

Not in a dramatic, glamping on a deserted island way. I just mean 60 fabulous minutes in the pool where the only conversation is between me and my breathing.

Or a quiet stool at the bar where the bartender understands that a nod counts as intimacy.

Or the sacred hush of my own living room where the couch asks nothing of me except gravity.

Or reading a book by the ocean far from the maddening crowd even if it means hiking a mile down the beach.

There is something medicinal about solitude. It is not loneliness. It is maintenance. Like charging your phone, but for your brain and soul.

At the pool, swimming my laps, staring up at a Florida sky that refuses to apologize for being blue, I feel the noise leave my body. The world can spin. I will drift.

At the bar, alone with an Aperol Spritz or a properly made martini, I rediscover the pleasure of my own thoughts. No performance. No curated anecdotes. Just me, the glass, and the low hum of humanity happening at a safe, observational distance.

In my home there exists cathedral level solitude. Shoes off. Phone face down. Maybe music playing something nostalgic enough to remind me I’ve lived a life, but mellow enough not to demand choreography. The refrigerator hums. The clock ticks. The world continues without my commentary. It is glorious.

We are told we must always be on. Engaged. Responsive. Available. Present.

Presence requires absence, too. You cannot give if you never refill.

Alone time is not antisocial. It is pre-social. It is the quiet recalibration that allows us to re-enter the world with grace instead of grumpiness. It is the difference between smiling because you want to and smiling because it is expected.

I promise that when I return to the party I will be infinitely better company, but first I must drift.