From around 2015 until the early 2020s (pandemic years), I went through several shifts as a person. Before that, I always had a constant friend. Someone who naturally fit into everyday routines. We knew what to do when we had nothing to do, where to go when we had a little free time and how to simply exist in comfortable companionship.
Over time, that kind of consistent friendship gradually faded and instead of one close connection, my life filled with larger social circles.
What began as socialising slowly turned into a need for social validation. I felt compelled to go out, meet people, stay busy and remain visible. Sitting at home felt uncomfortable, almost unproductive. That rhythm continued until 2020 abruptly changed everything.
The sudden halt in our lives was extremely difficult at first. Evenings felt particularly clueless. I often wondered how to fill the hours between finishing work and falling asleep. Yet those months of complete isolation with no physical interaction, gatherings or distractions quietly reshaped me. Without realising it, I learned how to sit with myself.
When life gradually returned to normal, I briefly slipped back into old habits, trying to make up for everything I had missed. But something inside had already shifted. The urgency was gone.
Over the past few years, I’ve slowly become someone who no longer seeks constant social activity. In fact, I’ve grown somewhat averse to it. At first, this change worried me. I wondered if I was losing my natural personality, if I was becoming someone different from who I used to be. But with time, I understood that this transformation was natural. It was simply age and maturity taking their own course.
I have also realised something else about myself. I am more of a one-on-one person than someone who thrives in groups. In group settings, my mind tends to absorb too much at once and it struggles to keep pace with the constant flow of communication. Often, I would find myself slowly stepping away from social circles, not because I disliked people, but because the mental noise felt overwhelming.
As I write this, I don’t know if pride is the right word, but I do feel a quiet sense of pride when I say that I no longer depend on socialising for emotional validation. I don’t feel a restless urge to step out every evening, spend money chasing temporary excitement and repeat the cycle endlessly.
Now, meeting someone depends on my mood, my need and my time. The energy I once sought from constant social interaction has been replaced by a steadier, calmer sense of being a homebody.
Perhaps that is what choosing self-love really looks like. Not withdrawing from life, not avoiding people entirely, but simply learning when to engage and when to step back. Learning that distance is not rejection and stillness is not emptiness.
Sometimes, self-love comes quietly, in the way you choose to move within your life.