The Year I Learned How to Be Alone.

I was alone for close to a year in 2020.

Not the kind of solitude people romanticise—the peaceful, creative kind—but a sudden and heavy loneliness shaped by a global pandemic, closed borders, and unanswered questions. It was the year COVID forced the world indoors, and I had just moved from Nigeria back to Britain.

Although Britain is my country of birth, I left when I was quite young. Nigeria raised me. It shaped my habits, my parenting, my social life, and my sense of belonging. So returning as a fully grown adult, with firmly established ways of living, felt less like coming home and more like starting over in a place that looked familiar but felt foreign.

I had family in the UK, and for the first two months, I stayed with them. Their presence softened the shock—there were conversations, shared meals, and reminders that I wasn’t completely alone. But in December 2020, I moved into my own place, and that was when the reality of my situation truly settled in.

Life became very quiet.

Because it was during COVID, I didn’t see my neighbours—not once for months. Doors remained shut. People passed quickly, masked and distant, if they appeared at all. There were no casual greetings, no gradual sense of community forming. Just silence, walls, and long, uninterrupted stretches of time.

My children were still in Nigeria.

They were in the process of securing their British passports so they could join me, but everything moved slowly. Offices were closed, systems delayed, and uncertainty hovered over every step. Being separated from your children is painful under any circumstances. Being separated during a global crisis, in a place where you are still adjusting, cuts deeper.

I spent a lot of time on the phone.

Calls filled my days—long conversations, short check‑ins, voice notes, and video calls that froze or dropped unexpectedly. My phone became my lifeline, my connection to familiarity, warmth, and love. When the calls ended, the house felt even quieter.

Living alone taught me how much of my identity was tied to being around people.

In Nigeria, life was communal. Interaction was effortless. There was always someone calling your name, someone stopping by, someone asking what you were cooking. In Britain—especially during lockdown—life was designed for independence. Privacy was respected. Silence was normal. At first, that adjustment felt brutal.

The evenings were the hardest.

I wasn’t used to the stillness, to nights arriving without interruption. No background noise. No shared laughter. Just me and my thoughts. Some days felt endlessly long, and some nights carried a weight I struggled to put into words.

Food became an unexpected source of comfort—and resistance.

The food culture here didn’t appeal to me, and even now, years later, I still eat African food almost exclusively. Cooking meals from home steadied me. The familiar smells and spices grounded me, reminding me of who I was and where I came from. Preparing those meals felt like preserving a part of myself in a place where everything else felt new.

Living alone taught me that comfort is something you actively create.

I prayed more. I reflected more. Without constant distractions, I had no choice but to sit with my emotions. Loneliness stripped life down to its essentials and forced honesty—about my fears, my resilience, and my capacity to endure.

There were moments when the isolation became overwhelming.

Moments when I questioned my decision to move. Moments when the weight of COVID, motherhood from a distance, and cultural displacement felt unbearable. But slowly, something shifted. I learned how to navigate silence without fearing it.

Living alone taught me self‑reliance as a daily practice.

I learned how to handle challenges without immediate support. How to steady myself on difficult days. How to find routines that anchored me. Strength didn’t arrive dramatically—it built itself quietly, one day at a time.

When my children finally joined me, I realised something important.

That year of isolation had prepared me.

It had taught me patience, empathy, and appreciation. Their presence didn’t feel ordinary—it felt sacred. Every shared meal, every burst of noise in the house, every small moment became something I cherished deeply.

Living alone for a year didn’t make me love loneliness.

But it taught me what I am capable of surviving.

It reminded me that home is not just a place—it is people, culture, memory, and connection. And even in the quietest seasons, growth can still take place.

Being alone, I learned, is not the same as being empty.