Dating Yourself While Maintaining Long-Term Partnership

It’s no secret that I have been in a committed relationship for four years. My partner has aided my growth over the years, championed my goals and professional wins, is the goofy to my goober and just an all-around best friend to me. Though no relationship is free of challenge, merging our lives felt so seamless and organic that it became easy to fall into the inevitable “we”. Before we knew it, our lives became a shared calendar, complete with coinciding maintenance appointments. We enjoy the same hobbies—our love of travel, the arts and trying different cuisines—which caused us to inadvertently create a barrier. I did not have to put much thought into who I would take to the restaurant that I was dying to try, the gallery that I was curious about, or work hard to find a travel buddy.  She was sleeping right next to me.

One day it hit us both, that feeling of “who am I without you”. Not because we no longer enjoyed each other’s company but because there is a specific heaviness associated with navigating life in a we. Two big personalities, two independent women with two very distinct voices started to merge lives, which can lead to the paring back of one’s individualism and mistaking those concessions for compromise.  So, on a sunny Sunday afternoon, I decided to go off on my own. Before you think anything catastrophic, I just spent the afternoon in an Alphabet City based bookstore. That trip, though small, reignited something important—my security with being on my own.

I lived in Los Angeles for four years during my undergraduate studies. If you have ever heard that in California the nights get cold, I am here to affirm that you are correct—literally and figuratively. It can be an isolating place. While I made amazing friendships during my time there, it was slow to start and much harder, in my opinion, than meeting people in New York. I moved to a new city without a support system, so I was a true stranger tasked with building a network from the ground up. In the first year, I became highly accustomed to visiting places—beaches, restaurants, clubs, and museums—alone. At first, it was awkward, especially at restaurants. Society does not make the case for navigating life alone yet so many people are forced to do it. Keep in mind, I moved three months before my eighteenth birthday, so for a brief period of time, there were so many places that were off limits to me. Thereafter, I was newly eighteen, discovering the rites and expectations of adulthood, while feeling displaced because it was hard to find people who felt similar to me. I did know that I signed up to experience a city that I had always dreamed about and I would just have to make the best of it.

Fast forward to a decade later, I am in a city I am quite familiar with, but the stage of life is different. I’m mature, comfortable in adulthood but uncomfortable with societal expectations. I began second guessing everything again and suddenly I am not the confident, jaded woman that does not worry about an invite because she knows she’ll be getting one. No, suddenly, I am eighteen again and afraid to ask the hostess if I can have a table for one. Some of those nerves lingered as I stumbled into a unique bar, designed for reading, and requested a glass of orange wine (a newfound favorite). Two hours later, I went to a small stationery shop recommended by a friend and allowed myself to browse slowly. I did not have to explain why I needed to visit this shop or explain any of the contents found inside. I simply strolled through quietly with a good playlist. After, I continued my walk and landed at one of my favorite places to grab a burger and smiled when the hostess asked if bar seating would be okay. I was expecting the awkward inquiry about my party size, but it never came. I took my seat at the bar, ordered my favorite cocktail and a burger and allowed myself to continue reading.  I made great small talk with the bartender and engaged in one of my favorite activities—people watching.

As a writer, I draw so much inspiration simply from observing life as it continues to go on around me. Human behavior, unfiltered and unassuming, is a prolific thing to study and it is hard to witness when you are otherwise socially engaged. By the end of my meal, I had scribbled a page worth of thoughts. Thoughts about a peculiar laugh I heard, the glances between two people obviously on a first date, an older midwestern couple clearly in over their skis by the atmosphere of a bustling NYC bar. I could see myself in each stranger, allowed myself to imagine what was happening internally for each person.

I felt lighter by the end of my day alone. The nerves were completely gone, and I remembered how much I enjoyed my own company. I checked my watch and noticed I had been out and about for about seven hours. In that moment, I had a beautiful realization—I would get to go home and tell her all about my day. As expected, she listened, asked questions and relished in my recounting of events. Such a small but intentional decision paid off in a way that was twofold—I rediscovered the beauty of my own solitude and unlocked a new layer of intimacy within my established relationship.

The takeaway from this is that I’ve decided to reserve at least two days a month, which will be dedicated solely to the things that I want to do. There is a newfound confidence in saying, “Actually, I plan to spend that day with myself.” I can be lazy when it comes to documentation however, over the next few weeks, I will dedicate some posts to walking you through my solitary days. Stay tuned!