For six years I’ve lived alone. Now, I’m moving in with someone. And I’m finding it hard to let go of the life I’ve lived for so long as it teeters on the edge of becoming ours instead of just mine.
I find myself reminiscing about all the things I’ve loved about living solo. The simple pleasures; being able to spread myself across the whole bed, dinner whenever/and whatever I want, furniture picked out with only me in mind. The peacefulness of being in your home, alone. No-one else’s socks to pick up or mess to clear.
All of it will soon come to an end as I ready myself for a new chapter of moving in with someone.
It’s hard to make room for someone else
Even when you love them, even when it feels right, it’s a struggle I hadn’t planned for, a sense of loss I can’t explain. A finality to a way of life that I’ve grown to love. I feel like I took it all for granted, didn’t appreciate it enough. There is so little time left to enjoy these moments to myself and to treasure this safe space away from the world and all its noise whilst it is still singularly mine, and not an ours.
It’s ironic really, because post divorce, in my ‘single surviving‘ days, I would have done anything to reach this stage of a relationship
I waited, patiently, hoping to elicit an act of real commitment. Desperately dating and wanting nothing more than to share my life with someone in this way. But then I went and got all intentional about my single life, grew to cherish and love my independence. And just when I was quite happily doing me and genuinely didn’t need a relationship anymore, one came along.
Go figure.
I f*cking hate the statement, ‘When you stop searching, love will find you.’ It really pisses me off that this particular story has happened that way. Obviously, it’s a nice irony, reaching want and not need of a relationship, before someone came along, someone who feels worth giving up my singleness for.
But this sadness, this loss of an aspect of independence, is right there with it all.
Don’t get me wrong, we’re very independent people
In fact, it’s one of the things I love most about our relationship. I know we’ll understand when space from one another is needed. He won’t moan when I head on a trip by myself or with a friend, and I won’t mind that he spends a weekend doing some hobby or another without needing me to tag along. But, you’re still compromising in little ways. It’s not the same as living by yourself.
We might strive for an interdependent relationship, but there is always going to be a degree of lost independence and individuality.
And there’s always going to be someone there, even when they’re not
Their things will be there, all the time. Little reminders that you’re not living on your own anymore.
Does this sound ungrateful, selfish? Perhaps it does. Perhaps I am.
I also wonder, am I the only one whose felt this way? Who feels they took their solo time for granted, didn’t cherish it enough, now that there’s so little time to savour these moments, the sanctuary of singularity before it becomes ours.
We talk about the transition from togetherness to solitude, the challenge of regaining self after a partnership, but I can tell you this, returning to shared life, to we after cherishing me, it’s a complexity all of its own, one rarely spoken of.
Amy Roullier
Amy Roullier is a British writer and author of Silent Reflections of a Fragile Heart. For her, writing began as personal therapy and has evolved into a way to connect with others, posing questions and offering reflections that might help readers find clarity. Based in Lincolnshire, Amy is an occasional vegetarian and a dedicated lover of carbs—her true soulmate. She’s currently navigating a mid-life crisis through running, and mornings are simply impossible without coffee.
