An ode to solitude

Strolling down Elm Drive at midnight as the wind pierced through my layers of wool and fleece, I was at an odd sense of peace. Whether it was the wintry chills that numbed my senses or the absence of students rushing up and down campus, the environment was just how I liked it: placid. Save for a few barely discernible silhouettes off in the distance, the road was a desolate slope of asphalt.

Passing by fences covering the Hobson College construction, I caught sight of two figures who had just turned a corner, heading uphill and in my direction. While I normally would not awkwardly glance over, I couldn’t help but notice how they were trotting: hand-in-hand, one was affectionately leaning upon the other. I witnessed an overwhelming sense of mutual infatuation when their eyes coyly met.

Normally, I wouldn’t have dwelled on this public act of affection, especially in the dead of night when my mind was at its optimal state of relaxation. But, what rang profoundly was the couple’s genuine adoration for each other. Their endearing glances oozed a sickly sweetness that was nice to observe at first but soon soured. Their physical closeness, the firm grasps with each other’s palms, and their heads laying on the other’s shoulder rendered me an awkward, out-of-place witness to their intimacy. This feeling of discomfort when seeing couples engage in PDA is not of disdain or disgust. Rather, it stems from a whirlwind of thoughts, dilemmas, and paranoia that defined my history of being single throughout my entire adolescence — a status I don’t think will change in the near future.

I can’t recall where my aversion to intimate relationships comes from, but I do know that I’ve never had a desire to have one. The dating game, an obsession for some and a casual activity for others, has never loomed over my consciousness. It has never even been an afterthought — to me, it’s simply never crossed my mind as something worth investing time and energy into.

As an only child, I grew up with no one else in my household had similar interests as I did or engaged in similar activities. Without any other family living nearby, I became accustomed to a very solo-oriented lifestyle. My experience of having moved overseas, back to the U.S., and then to a new town — all within the span of five years — contributed to my lack of romantic relationships.

This isn’t to say that I’m a hermit, as I do have many dearly regarded companions; I just haven’t had any relationships driven by love. Others may characterize this experience as loneliness, but I would describe it as one of independence — an independence that conditioned me into embracing emotional self-dependence. Because of my time spent alone, I learned that I didn’t need to seek an emotional support partner. I have, for all this time, successfully relied on myself for dealing with frustration, fear, and FOMO. This individualistic attitude always makes me wonder, why should I make an effort to date someone when I have felt perfectly fine living in solitude for 18 years?

I recognize that putting yourself out there in the vast field of dating can have unexpected benefits: learning how to be more compassionate, considerate, and trustful of others. However, I have felt complacent in my current realm and never sought these potential advantages for fear of heartbreak, chaos, and distress. In far too many instances, I had witnessed the strain that intense fondness or lust can bring upon couples. The mental toll of paranoia about faithfulness, attachment issues, and commitment difficulties is not negligible. I didn’t want to risk having to put myself through all that potential emotional anguish.

Perhaps my mindset was also driven by my warped coming-of-age. As I transitioned into adolescence, I noticed that most of my peers became captivated with the idea of being in an intimate relationship, whether the motivation was genuine endearment or pure libido. Fueled by this hunger for someone to call their “boyfriend” or “girlfriend,” they did anything to pursue this goal, which they considered a rite of passage as young adults.

De-prioritizing schoolwork, distancing themselves from other loved ones, adopting predatory or possessive behaviors — nothing was too extreme for some of them in the hunt for a romantic partner. For me, becoming a teenager did not entail summer romances or long-term relationships. In my eyes, coming-of-age is when your mentality matures, your outlook on the world sharpens, and external forces both shape you and are shaped by you. To me, flirtations focused on finding a “soulmate” are a low-priority trinket locked away in a box, collecting dust in some deep corner of my mind. But the centerpiece of my mind’s mantel is personal maturation, something that I find is best done solo.

A simple witnessing of intimacy and passion between a couple on Elm Drive during the month of love was not entirely demoralizing. It instead stirred in me a reminder that the idea of seeking satisfying love here in college is just not compatible with my individualistic preferences.

Passing under the arch of Bloomberg Hall, with Poe Field illuminated by the warm lights of New College West and Yeh in sight, I reminisced about the comfort I found in the alternatives. Whether it is mindlessly scrolling on social media while lounging in a nook of the common room or eating a Sunday brunch alone in tranquility, I experience the same feeling as I do on late-night walks in dark winters: the soothing ecstasy of solitude.

Russell Fan is an assistant editor for The Prospect at the ‘Prince.’ He can be reached at rf4125@princeton.edu, or on Instagram @russell__fan.