There was a time when silence felt like an accusation. When being alone meant something was wrong with me - that I wasn’t invited, that I didn’t belong, that I had been left behind. I used to fill every empty space with noise: music, messages, people. I mistook constant connection for meaning.

But over time, life - in its strange, stubborn way - started teaching me otherwise.

It began with small moments. Early mornings when the world still slept, and I’d sit by the window with coffee that steamed softly in the cold air. Or evenings when rain traced the glass, and there was nothing but the rhythm of it, like a quiet heartbeat. Those moments didn’t feel empty. They felt whole. I started realizing that solitude isn’t the absence of company - it’s the presence of self.

There’s a sacredness in being alone that no crowd can offer. It’s where I meet myself without pretense, without performance. In solitude, I can listen - really listen - to the thoughts I push aside during the rush of daily life. Sometimes they’re messy or sharp; sometimes they’re tender. But they’re mine. And hearing them makes me understand myself a little more, forgive myself a little easier.

Solitude isn’t loneliness. Loneliness is when you ache for someone to see you. Solitude is when you see yourself and find that it’s enough.

It’s not always easy. Some days, the silence echoes too loudly, and I crave distraction. But I’ve learned to sit with that discomfort, to treat it not as something to fix but as something to feel. Because beneath that unease, there’s clarity. And beneath that clarity, peace.

The world tells us to stay busy, to stay visible, to stay connected. But solitude teaches me the opposite - that sometimes, disappearing for a while is how you return to yourself.

So I guard my quiet moments like a secret garden - not out of isolation, but devotion. In them, I’m not lonely. I’m whole.

And that, to me, is the sanctity of solitude.