I watched an old sci-fi episode recently where the protagonist isolates himself on a planet because he is consumed by guilt. He meets a strange creature who tells him: "To be alone must not be feared. The Host is slow to recognize one who is alone."
It hit me harder than I expected.
For a long time, I thought my anxiety was just noise. But looking back, I realize I was trying to find "Oneness" — a sense of self, safety, and unconditional acceptance — in another person. I wanted a partner, but I was looking for a sanctuary. I wanted depth, but I was asking for salvation.
We didn’t fit. Not because we were bad people, but because our foundations were made of different materials. I was building a home; they were looking for a place to rest without obligation. I was asking for clarity; they were offering ambiguity.
The guilt I carried wasn’t just about mistakes I made. It was the guilt of expecting someone to be something they never promised to be. I projected my need for stability onto someone who valued freedom above all else. And when the structure collapsed, I blamed myself for the weight.
But here’s what I’m learning: You cannot find your "Oneness" in someone else’s shadow.
If you rely on another person to define your worth or calm your fears, you become part of their "Host"— absorbed, lost, and eventually discarded when the balance shifts. True strength isn’t in holding on tighter. It’s in being willing to stand alone, even when it’s terrifying.
I’m done trying to negotiate my way into someone’s life. I’m done apologizing for needing depth. I’m taking my guilt, my lessons, and my silence, and I’m using them to build something real. Something that belongs to me.
The planet might be sinking. The Host might be stirring. But for the first time in a long time, I’m not afraid to be alone. Because being alone means I’m finally awake.
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