5 Days Alone
An Unexpected Silent Retreat (With Mocktails)
Last week, I got an unexpected gift—my family left town. That may sound harsh, and you might think, “Robin, you're a mom. Your family should be the most important thing in the world to you.” To that, I say, “I haven’t been alone since the early ’70s, and I said what I said.” (Read that last bit with a lot of sass.)
Now, let’s get back on track.
You may remember the essay I wrote about the time our kids went away to camp, and I thought I’d be living my best spontaneous 20-something life. Instead, Mary and I slept a lot, barely left home, and came to the soul-crushing realization that we were no longer in the spontaneous stage of life. This time, I knew one thing for sure—I was desperate to be alone. This is contradictory because I also don’t like being alone.
I’m like my old cat, Sam (RIP, my fluffy friend). No matter what room you were in, Sam would lazily saunter in, plop down near you, and radiate, So, we're in here now?
That’s me. I love people. I love talking, debating, and laughing. I learned this about myself in my early 30s when I took a two-month sabbatical in Costa Rica. I had grand visions of surfing, becoming a local, and people calling out, Hola, mi amiga! as I strutted down the street.
Instead, I learned two things:
Wherever you go, there you are. My early 30-something angst boarded the plane with me.
I like sharing moments. Beautiful sunsets and crashing waves felt kind of sad without someone to turn to and say, “Holy crap, did you just see that flash of green as the sun disappeared?” Also, it’s hard to make friends when you walk into a bar and the only words you utter are, “Bud Light, please.”
But here’s the thing—I also need alone time. I just don’t always notice when my social tank is empty until I’m irrationally irritated by minor things, like the deli being too close to the house. (“Why couldn’t this walk to get milk take an hour so I could be alone?”)
Heading into my five days of solitude, I was thrilled because I had reached the I’m-mad-at-you-for-chewing stage, and that is a clear red flag that Robin needs a break. I planned some restorative activities: a spa day with a friend, a half-day tennis clinic, dinners out, long calls with friends. Social Robin would thrive, but with the sweet reward of coming home to pure silence.
That is not what happened.
Things started shifting when my spa buddy rolled his ankle. Without thinking, I blurted out over text, “I mean, are hot tubs even good for sprained ankles?” Internally antisocial Robin was clapping with glee and mentally putting on pajamas. Thankfully, Google confirmed my suspicions, spa-day was cancelled, and my first full day alone was mine. No plans. No bra. Nothing.
I woke up, envisioning myself dancing through the house, music blaring, calling friends, watching movies, living my best introverted extrovert life.
Instead, a weird thing happened.
I didn’t want to leave, and I didn’t want to talk to anyone.
I walked around my apartment, listening to the sounds of the radiators. Who knew each one sounded differently? I listened to my neighbors’ footsteps. I cleaned, did dishes, and swept the floors like a monk in a monastery, but without a robe or religion.
I didn’t turn on music. I sat in rooms with no TV, sometimes scrolling, sometimes reading, and sometimes just staring out the window. I took quiet walks.
I only attended the tennis clinic because it’s ridiculously hard to get into their programs (I know it’s city-run, but help me spend my money, folks). That clinic was the most talking I did all week. Otherwise, I hit the gym, walked to pick up a prescription, and hurkle-durkled.
While doing nothing, I decided to stop regularly eating full pints of strawberry Häagen-Dazs. Sure, it’s gluten-free, but it’s pretty clear that action is a sign that mama’s in trouble. I cleaned up my food and became mocktail-and-brown-rice girl. By midweek, I thought, Wow, I’ve hit a well of wonderfulness.
It started to feel like I was attending a silent retreat in jammies. I wasn’t analyzing or debating my thoughts—I was just sitting with them. Questions started to surface.
How much of my life do I spend nagging my kids and (poor) Mary?
How often am I strong-arming reality, trying to steer our family toward my “desired outcomes” purely by force of will?
Why am I doing this?
I do know why.
I hate feeling out of control. I hate the idea that my kids’ lives won’t be perfect. I want them to have everything all at once and in moderation. And somewhere along the way, I decided that if I try hard enough, everything can be shaped, directed, and controlled.
It hit me on day five—the day my family was coming home—they probably needed a break from me too. Not in a we can’t stand her sort of way, but in a she’s a lot kind of way. I imagined that the experience of me must feel like a train conductor constantly calling out stops. Next stop, Metuchen!
So…on my break, I didn’t find answers, just more questions. Like, how do I keep a piece of this hurkle-durkle girl? How do I trust I’ve put enough in place for my kids to thrive without slipping back into barking-out-orders mom?
It reminds me of when our oldest was potty training. I was, what’s the phrase? Insane. I read just enough books to be dangerous. I decided we had to stay on schedule, deviating from the plan would not be tolerated. Meanwhile, Mary, tip-toed up to defiance of my Potty Training Plan (PTP), and said, “You know, it’s not like she’s going to go to college in diapers, babe. Maybe we should ease up?”
Mary was right. Statistically, the number of college-aged kids in diapers is low. (God, I hope it’s low.) But I couldn’t take my foot off the gas. I needed to prove I was a good parent and that I was doing better than what was done for me. I pressed on with my PTP.
Our kid did get out of diapers (and hopefully isn’t scarred), but looking back, I wish I had been gentler. Cue Mary nodding and saying, “I know!”
So here I am, post-silence, feeling like something was unlocked in me—even if it was more questions. Like, how do we find silence in a loud world? Because, let’s be honest, my real life is three roommates (two of whom are teenagers constantly requesting cash in ApplePay), a NYC apartment with one bathroom, and a son who games at 6:30 AM in noise cancelling headphones, yelling, “BRO, YOU ARE SO DEAD!”
Five days of stillness is a luxury I’m thrilled I got. But maybe the real work is figuring out how to find stillness amid the noise. How to surrender while the chaos unfolds? I have no freaking idea.
So what say you, friends?
How do you manage rest during mayhem, breaks on a budget, and silence in a world full of hustle?
How does it show up in your life?
Do you need more? Have too much?
Tell me everything. That’s what the comments are for.
Now, for those worried about me and Mary, well… we were back up to our old tricks in no time. Click here to see.
Got some time on your hands? Maybe not five days of silence, but even a spare moment? Take a listen to the latest episode of Well…Adjusting.
Layoffs are hitting hard these days, and our guest Kristina knows that reality all too well. One day, she was thriving as a UX designer, and the next, she was “made redundant” (which is British for “see ya later”). We unpack the grief, fear, and uncertainty that come with layoffs—and, more importantly, how to move forward. Because, as I think we all know, surrendering to what we can’t control is easier said than done.
Thanks for reading, y’all. See you soon!
Love this entry, especially how we introverts crave and love company. Just keep doing what you're doing with your wonderful sense of humor, insight and candor. These qualities are the greatest inheritance gift for your teen kids.
I definitely clicked with the had to prove I was a good parent that I was doing better than what was done for me ( I think this is probably definitely a thing for people who grew up in certain situations. Also with the mad at people for chewing but I have misophonia. I absolutely need silence and my family knows it. I am an introverted introvert who loves solitude. I find it most often by spending extra time in my car when I go to run errands.