In the Company of My Own Soul

The other day, I received a call from my childhood friend’s mother. She had just lost her husband this past December and was only now beginning to focus on her own well-being after years of caregiving. She shared that before her husband got sick, she used to go to church every day—and recently, she’s returned to that ritual. She spoke with such strength and clarity, describing her daily routine: attending church, walking, exercising with weights. She told me she wants to stay healthy and independent—not because she fears aging, but because she doesn’t want to be a burden to her kids.

I was deeply moved. Here was a woman navigating grief with grace, leaning into structure, faith, and self-care as her compass. It made me reflect on my own routines. I have a steady daily and weekly rhythm, but hearing her speak reminded me how vital it is to be consistent not just in what we do, but in how we connect with ourselves—through prayer, meditation, or whatever form of stillness speaks to our soul.

Throughout my life, I've experienced a lot of loss—people passing away, relationships ending, and the quiet unraveling of once-close connections. My Sundo training has also taught me about impermanence; the instructors rotate regularly, so you're constantly adapting, constantly letting go. In that space, I learned that detachment isn’t cold—it’s a kind of respect. It's understanding that holding on too tightly can stop growth, both yours and others’.

In my lifetime I have heard this over and over again, “You’ll be lonely if you don’t have kids,” or “Isn’t it hard being without a partner?” But what they don’t understand is that loneliness isn’t about who is or isn’t around you. I’ve felt more alone in a crowded room or even with a beloved pet than I have in the quiet of my own heart. When we had a dog, I loved her deeply, but I was also constantly overwhelmed—so busy and scattered that I couldn’t connect with myself. After she passed, I grieved, but I also returned to myself. I was able to listen inward again. I think of her often, and always with love. Some memories are tinged with sadness, but mostly they’re sweet reminders of love shared, not love lost.

What I’ve come to understand is that the real loneliness—the aching kind—comes not from being alone, but from being disconnected from yourself. When your inner world is a stranger, even the most vibrant outer life can feel hollow. Conversely, when you're grounded in your own spirit, when your days are rooted in intention and reflection, solitude can become a sanctuary.

This doesn’t mean we don’t need others. We do. Relationships enrich and challenge us. But the foundation of all meaningful connection is the one we have with ourselves. That’s why rituals, whether it’s a walk, a chant, a prayer, or a quiet cup of tea, are so essential. They remind us that we are here—not to perform, or prove, but simply to be.

As we grow older, life changes—people come and go, routines evolve, bodies change—but the one constant is us. Who we are when we close our eyes. Who we are when everything else falls away.

And that presence, when nurtured, is never lonely.