I made a list of all the things I’ve done alone. 

Just me. Sola.

I travelled across the world for a job because I wanted to know what it was like to live on the ocean. The middle of the Atlantic is a liberatingly lonely place.

I climbed the highest peak in Africa. I got tired of waiting for someone to agree to do it with me. So I did it. Alone. 

I road-tripped along the south coast of Africa alone. Cape Town to Durban, dodging cows and dogs and potholes in the Transkei, just me and a Chevy Utility.

I don’t remember ever feeling alone. 

I lay in a hospital bed in Mexico after having emergency surgery for a ruptured ectopic pregnancy.

I do remember feeling alone.

I carried a 15kg back pack across Italy. I did it solo because I needed to let go. And there are certain things that no one can let go of for you.

I bought a home in the most beautiful city in the world. And I filled it with the things I love. And it belongs to me. And me, alone.

I did all of these things. Big, scary, brave, beautiful things. All by myself. 

And I’ve done some little things too. 

Like hanging a floating shelf on a bathroom wall. And growing a granadilla bush from the seeds that I scraped out of the fruit. And breaking a man’s ribs while trying to keep is heart beating. And filling the cracks in my own heart with books and music and friendship and fresh air until it was whole again.

I did all of these things alone too. 

And I wrote this list to remind myself that I’m actually pretty good at being alone. Except, while I was writing I realized that I was never really alone at all.