No Friends in Solitude
There are parts of the journey no one walks with you.
Not because you’re hard to love.
Not because you pushed people away.
But because solitude is the price of becoming real.
And in that space?
There are no friends.
Just silence. Just questions. Just the sound of your own breath echoing off walls that used to hold your past.
It feels like abandonment.
Like something’s gone wrong.
Like the world kept spinning without you.
But it hasn’t.
You were just pulled out of it—on purpose.
Because before any real success, before any true emergence, there’s always a separation.
Not loud. Not dramatic. Just slow erosion. A quiet undoing.
It starts with the shedding.
You begin questioning the beliefs you were born into—beliefs that shaped your body, your mind, your voice.
Religious guilt that made you fear your own power.
How even your wardrobe was shaped by fear—fear of being too much, too loud, too seen.
Ideas about school, career, safety—given to you like gospel, even when they suffocated your fire.
And it hurts, leaving the systems your family still holds dear.
It hurts to be the one who questions what everyone else obeys.
But if you don’t let it go, you carry it into your future—and call it yours, when it never was.
Then there are the relationships.
The ones that felt like forever.
The ones you thought would hold.
The ones who loved you—until you changed.
Some people don’t want a deeper you.
They want the version of you that keeps them comfortable.
And when you start growing?
When you stop needing their approval to feel whole?
They call it distance.
But really, it’s just evolution.
You leave—not because you’re cold.
But because your soul stopped shrinking to stay close.
And then... there are the narcissists.
The ones who see your light and decide to dim it.
Not all of them are lovers.
Some are friends. Some are family. Some carry bibles.
They don’t just wound you—they make you doubt yourself for being wounded.
They manipulate with affection.
They breadcrumb with apologies.
They distort love until it feels like control wrapped in compliments.
When you finally see it, it breaks you.
Because the betrayal isn’t just in what they did—it’s in what you tolerated.
After that kind of lesson, you’re not the same.
You can’t be.
Because something in you knows:
Trust is no longer a default. It’s something sacred. Earned. Held carefully.
And that’s what solitude teaches you.
It doesn’t just prepare you.
It initiates you.
It wipes the slate clean—not to leave you empty, but to show you who you are without the noise.
This is the part no one warns you about.
There are no welcome parties in the wilderness.
No celebrations while you’re shedding your past.
Just the quiet ache of becoming.
But that ache? It’s holy.
Because one day, the world will call you wise.
Gifted. Resilient. Certain.
And you’ll remember the nights you sat in silence, not even sure you’d make it out whole.
You’ll remember that there were no friends in solitude.
Only you.
And God.
And the slow, sacred rise of the person you were always meant to become.
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