Most people aren’t actually afraid of being alone.
They’re afraid of what they’ll find when they get there.
Sit in a quiet room. No phone, no music, no notifications. Just you and your mind. How long until the discomfort sets in? Five minutes? Two?
That’s because solitude isn’t peace—it’s exposure. It’s a forced meeting with the self you spend all day avoiding. The regrets, the half-truths, the small betrayals of who you wanted to be versus who you’ve become.
Jung knew this. He called it individuation—the process of becoming whole. But wholeness isn’t just adding the good parts; it’s integrating the ugly, the shadow, the pieces you pretend don’t exist. And solitude? It shoves all of that in your face.
That’s why most people escape. They fill the silence with noise, the stillness with motion. Because if they stop, they might have to ask: Am I actually living my own life, or just a version of it that’s easy to tolerate?
Solitude will break you. It will strip away the personas you’ve spent years curating.
But on the other side? Clarity. Strength. Authenticity.
The cost of solitude is discomfort.
The cost of avoiding it is never really knowing yourself.
Your choice.