taking up space
Back in March, J and I decided to book our first non-Ohio vacation together, our departure slated for mid-June. The destination? New York.
On our first full day, while out at breakfast on the Lower East Side, my boyfriend noticed a woman on her laptop in the makeshift bike lane patio. “A lot of people do things alone here,” he acknowledged. I agreed, but I felt a wave of equal parts jealousy and admiration towards the woman in her simple-chic sundress with her MacBook opened, completely unbothered by the cadence of the city enveloping her. That used to be me.
Prior to the pandemic, I was secure in the sense that I could do things alone. Run errands, haul my groceries in my Baggu bags on and off the bus, take my laptop somewhere, not have any intrusive thoughts about what people would think. But the pandemic completely changed that for me—outside of commuting to work, I spent almost all of my free time with my boyfriend, and I attached my self-worth to anyone who acknowledged me, even friends I’d known for years. It occurred to me then, sitting in the window seat of this tiny restaurant, that I had packed insecurities in my carry-on bag like a bad omen.
This trip back to New York was a culmination of firsts—first time traveling with a significant other, first time back to the city since before the pandemic, and J’s first time in New York. Getting to show someone I love a place that I loved so much was a big deal to me. But our conversation about how it’s more socially acceptable to do things alone in big cities compared to our hometowns stuck with me for the remainder of the trip.
On the last full day in the city, I woke up early and walked to the coffee shop nearest to the hotel. I ordered a drink and a messy pastry and sat down in the window seat with a book. It was satisfying to experience being completely anonymous, looking up every so often to exchange a shy smile with a passerby going on with their Saturday morning. I could be anyone I wanted, and I was taking up space on my own terms.
The pandemic is still ongoing, and while life has continued to move along for those who are vaccinated or want to throw caution to the wind, the fear of missing out has never been more prominent. I’ve noticed that, to an extent, spending time with another person or a group has become more important than alone time. Which is understandable considering that the past year has more or less been defined by isolation and separation, but still.
When we got back from New York, I kept thinking about how I felt during the entirety of the trip. My insecurities were, and still are, rooted in comparison, which Theodore Roosevelt once said is the thief of joy. I’ve been in a constant, anxiety-ridden state of comparing myself, and my friendships, to how they were a year ago, or even before the pandemic. I have always liked to consider myself as someone who can quickly adjust to change, but the pandemic would say so otherwise.
Needless to say, quarantine provided me much-needed time for self-examination, which at times can be uncomfortable. I would ask myself questions like Am I a bad friend? or What parts of myself do I need to change? What aspects of my personality are ugly? Most of the time I would bury my discomfort when it came to answering those questions.
Since that trip to New York, and being home for nearly two months after, spending time by myself has taken on a new meaning. I had a habit of covering up how I was really feeling by putting on a nice outfit or doing a full face of makeup. I didn’t want anyone to think I was flawed, or uncomfortable with myself.
On one of my days off last month, I planned a whole day of going to the art museum alone. I didn’t bring headphones so I could be fully present and observe everything around me—the people experiencing the day together differently, the art, the noise. And it was one of the best days I’d had in a while—because I embraced everything I liked and disliked about myself. I am a different person than I was during college—I justified everything I did (self destruction included) by believing I was lost and sad and confused about where I was going to end up, and never took responsibility for those parts of me that were flawed.
To be alone with yourself is to embrace your innermost strengths and even your personal malaise. It can’t be chalked up to “romanticizing your life” or “being the main character” — phrases that have been circulating TikTok far too much for my liking. Experiencing moments in your own way means so much more than that—it involves processing that you’re changing in new ways. It won’t always be glamorous.
I hope the New York sundress girl is doing well.