I’ve spent the last decade working remotely, and here’s what I’ve noticed: people who genuinely thrive alone never feel the need to announce it.
They don’t defend their Friday nights in. They don’t explain why they declined another group dinner. They don’t justify their solo vacation plans or apologize for preferring a quiet walk over happy hour drinks.
Meanwhile, I’ve watched countless colleagues and friends who claim to love solitude constantly telegraph their choices, as if seeking permission or validation for spending time alone.
This pattern reveals something deeper about how we relate to solitude. Those who truly enjoy it have internalized something the rest of us are still negotiating: the difference between being alone and being lonely, between choosing solitude and having it chosen for you.
After years of observing this dynamic—both in myself and in the high performers I used to train—I’ve identified eight specific things that genuine solitude-lovers never feel compelled to say.
People comfortable with solitude don’t launch into defensive explanations about their social preferences. They don’t need the disclaimer.
I learned this the hard way during my team-building career. The strongest performers often declined after-work events without elaborate justifications. They’d simply say “Can’t make it” or “Have other plans.” No anxiety. No over-explaining.
Meanwhile, those uncomfortable with their own solitude needs would deliver lengthy monologues about how they really do like people, they’re just tired, or they have this thing they need to do, but it’s not that they’re antisocial.
The difference? Genuine solitude-lovers have accepted their preferences as legitimate. They don’t view alone time as something that requires defending because they don’t see it as a character flaw.
Think about it: when did you last hear someone apologize for being extroverted? The need to defend solitude only exists when you’re still seeking external permission for an internal preference.
2) “I wish I had more friends”
This one catches people off guard, but those who thrive in solitude rarely express this sentiment—not because they have tons of friends, but because they’ve calibrated their social circles intentionally.
I keep a small circle with high trust because surface friendships drain me. This isn’t a limitation; it’s a design choice. People who genuinely enjoy solitude understand that friendship quality matters more than quantity.
They’ve done the math: maintaining deep connections with three people beats juggling twenty acquaintances. They recognize that “more friends” often means more obligations, more small talk, more energy spent on relationships that don’t nourish them.
When someone constantly wishes for more friends while simultaneously choosing solitude, they’re usually wrestling with societal messaging about what their social life “should” look like rather than building what actually works for them.
3) “Sorry I’m so boring”
You’ll never hear this from someone who’s made peace with solitude. They don’t apologize for preferring a book to a bar, for finding crowds exhausting, or for considering a solo hike the perfect Saturday.
The “boring” label is external judgment internalized. It assumes that quiet activities lack value, that excitement requires witnesses, that a life lived quietly is somehow less valid.
I write best with low noise—either full silence or the same repeating instrumental playlist. Some would call this boring. But productivity isn’t a spectator sport. Neither is contentment.
People who enjoy solitude have separated their self-worth from their entertainment value to others. They’ve stopped performing their lives and started actually living them.
4) “I should probably get out more”
The word “should” is the tell here. Genuine solitude-lovers don’t operate from obligation when it comes to their social time.
They get out exactly as much as they want to. When they need social connection, they seek it. When they need retreat, they take it. There’s no guilty “should” hanging over their choices.
This “should” typically comes from comparing our insides to other people’s outsides—seeing social media full of group activities and assuming everyone else is living some perpetually social existence.
But those comfortable with solitude have opted out of this comparison game. They’ve recognized that “getting out more” isn’t inherently virtuous, just like staying in isn’t inherently problematic.
5) “I’m just going through a phase”
People who genuinely enjoy solitude don’t frame it as temporary. They don’t promise that they’ll be more social once they get through this busy period at work, or after they finish this project, or when they feel more energized.
They’ve accepted solitude as a stable preference, not a deviation from their “real” personality that needs correcting.
I recently read Rudá Iandê’s “Laughing in the Face of Chaos” and one line stuck with me: “You have both the right and responsibility to explore and try until you know yourself deeply.” His insights reminded me that knowing yourself includes accepting your relationship with solitude, not treating it as something to overcome.
The phase framing suggests that preferring solitude is somehow immature or broken—something you’ll grow out of once you become the “right” version of yourself. But genuine solitude-lovers know this is who they are, not who they’re temporarily being.
6) “I don’t know why I’m like this”
This phrase reveals an underlying belief that preferring solitude needs explaining—that it’s an anomaly requiring investigation.
People who thrive alone don’t pathologize their preferences. They don’t search for childhood trauma to explain why they’d rather read than attend a party. They don’t need a reason because they don’t see it as a problem.
I prefer early flights because they force focus and clean planning. Some might analyze this preference, looking for deeper meaning. But sometimes preferences are just preferences, not symptoms.
When we genuinely embrace solitude, we stop treating it like a mystery to solve and start treating it like a preference to honor.
7) “Everyone must think I’m weird”
The mental energy spent worrying about others’ perceptions is energy that genuine solitude-lovers simply don’t waste.
They’ve realized a fundamental truth: most people are too busy worrying about their own lives to spend much time judging yours. And those who do judge? Their opinions don’t pay your bills or contribute to your peace.
This isn’t about not caring what anyone thinks—that’s its own kind of performance. It’s about recognizing that living according to others’ expectations is a game you can never win.
People comfortable with solitude have internalized this. They’ve stopped treating their lives like they’re being scored by invisible judges.
8) “I need to explain why I can’t come”
Watch someone who genuinely enjoys solitude decline an invitation. They say “I can’t make it” or “Thanks, but no” without launching into elaborate excuses.
They don’t fabricate previous commitments. They don’t exaggerate illness. They don’t create fictional obligations. They’ve learned that “no” is a complete sentence.
The compulsion to over-explain comes from believing that choosing solitude isn’t a valid reason to decline social invitations. So we create “better” reasons—ones that seem more legitimate to others.
But those who’ve embraced solitude know that protecting their alone time is as valid as any other commitment. They don’t need elaborate cover stories because they’re not hiding anything.
Bottom line
The difference between those who genuinely enjoy solitude and those who don’t isn’t about how much time they spend alone. It’s about how they relate to that time.
Stop defending your need for space. Stop apologizing for your preferences. Stop explaining what doesn’t need explaining.
If you find yourself saying these eight things regularly, you’re likely still seeking permission for something that never required it in the first place.
The path forward is simple: honor your preferences without commentary. Decline invitations without guilt. Choose solitude without justification.
Your relationship with solitude is exactly that—yours. The moment you stop explaining it is the moment you start actually enjoying it.
