A Season of Solo Exploration
by Melissa Carr,
I have always been a huge fan of community and connection with others. I have seen the value and even preached on the need for others to be in your support system, and that the way we get well is through connection. A significant part of my career has been rooted in the recovery community, with the idea being that we do not get well in a silo. A popular phrase you will hear in recovery rooms is "the opposite of addiction is connection."
While I still find these ideas to be truthful, I have found that, over the years, I have hidden behind those beliefs. What once started as a preference to be with others turned into a need to be with others. It begins slowly and slyly — first as “it’s more fun to be with other people” — and eventually, I found myself never sitting in the quiet place of my own thoughts. I filled my time with work, chores, volunteering, friends, and family, never allowing for a quiet moment. I almost became afraid of just sitting with my thoughts. I rationalized this away and did not sit still long enough to think much about it.
I definitely struggled on weekends when the house was empty — my husband away on a work trip, my friends busy with their own lives and schedules — and then the gnawing feeling came in: What do I do with myself? My initial response was that it was nothing a podcast and cleaning the whole house couldn’t solve, or maybe diving into a major project or seeking a new certification or research opportunity.
It was not until I was sitting in a couples therapy session, when my spouse stated that I have an “abnormal dislike of being alone,” that it really caught my attention. My first reaction was RUDE. My second was to acknowledge that I really do not like it — but is that so abnormal?
Being the "do-er" that I am, I started looking at that idea in therapy — which spun up a whole host of core beliefs. Negative core beliefs, to be exact. In early exploration, I thought of little ways to “sit” with myself. I struggled to implement them because, while in theory they sounded like good ideas, in application, they sounded terrifying. I had heard of people going to the movies by themselves or to dinner alone, but that sounded way too hard.
In a moment of total burnout, I decided I needed to go on a wellness retreat. My burnout provided the divine intervention I needed — just book a trip and not think too deeply about it. I decided I was going to go to a wellness retreat in Arizona and literally disconnect for a few days. While those close to me were supportive, they seemed surprised by this move. I booked a solo trip, got my plane ticket, and started preparations.
This was not your typical wellness spa. I chose one without Wi-Fi, TV, or any distractions. It was just you and nature. The absolute fear didn’t set in until I was already in the air flying to Arizona. What was I thinking? I had never even gone to the movies alone, and here I was going on a several-day retreat with zero distractions.
I arrived at the retreat bringing all my fears, anxiety, and exhaustion along with me. As I checked into my room and hurried to dinner, I stumbled (literally) upon baby boars roaming the 172-acre retreat grounds. It made me stop in my tracks and take a deep breath. I could stop hurrying, rushing, doing.
That night, the retreat began with myself and eight other like-minded strangers who needed to stop and reconnect with themselves. The retreat included several exercises: meditation, yoga, energy work, and narrative exercises that forced you to confront the question, Who am I really? Coupled with nature, no outside distractions, and intentionality around sitting with oneself, some of the fear began to strip away.
The more I could hear my own thoughts, the less scary they were. It opened up a great question: How can I trust myself if I cannot sit with myself long enough to hear my gut speak to me?
This experience kicked off a season of solo exploration — first the retreat, then a race, and next week, going to NYC to hear one of my favorite authors speak.
While the solo exploration has been transformative, it’s the lessons from it that hold the real value:
I can be alone and be okay.
I can sit in discomfort and soothe myself.
I can really listen to my gut prior to impulsively making choices.