Intentional Time Alone
Written by Nia Mahmud
Graphics by Rino Fujomoto
A few months ago, I realized I had been intentionally avoiding myself. I had been throwing myself into schoolwork, mindless habits, and other people’s company. On a random Sunday, I woke up and decided to dress in clothes that made me feel good. My Taylor Swift Red cardigan, a thrifted low-cut brown sweater, jeans my mom had worn when she was in college, and shiny black loafers. I decided I was going to walk to my favorite sushi restaurant and eat lunch with myself. I desperately wanted to improve my confidence and prove to myself I could do something that scared me. More importantly, I wanted to treat myself kindly in a way I had neglected for far too long
On the way to the restaurant, all I could think about was the homework I was neglecting in favor of an over-the-top show of self-love. How could I treat myself to my favorite food and time alone if I hadn’t earned it? I hadn’t finished any of my assignments and here I was, podcast in my ear, strutting towards a date with no one else but my own unbearable company. At these thoughts, I quite literally stopped in my tracks, a revelation dawning on me. I tied my self-worth so closely with productivity, I couldn’t even banish the guilt in a single afternoon on my own. What a sad reality. I continued walking with a renewed sense of purpose and understanding of why the day was so necessary.
At the front of the restaurant, I was expectantly asked if I wanted to order takeout. Awkwardly, I stammered, “Uh, actually, I’d like to dine in.”
The restaurant was mostly empty; not many people ate in a semi-fancy restaurant for lunch on a Sunday, I suppose. “Oh,” the hostess responded quickly, surprised, “is there anyone joining you?..” she trailed off.
“No,” I smiled, “Just.. a table for one, please.” Internally, I cringed at my assertion, the way the words fell from my lips. Table for one? God, did I think I was a quirky lead in some rom-com? Wait, be nice: actually, she probably thought I was so admirable for spending time by myself. ‘Look at her, so confident and stepping out of her comfort zone’ is really what the hostess was thinking. The hostess led me to the table and I sat, tapping my feet and drumming my fingers on my thigh.
There I was, on a date with myself. What do we even talk about? How I was still reeling from a breakup in a way I deeply resented? How I had two essays due in two days and missed home so fiercely that the thought of it made me double over? How spicy tuna sushi couldn’t give me confidence, couldn’t make me better, couldn’t morph me into someone who was easy to love, easy to hold? My internal dialogue was interrupted by the waiter coming up to the table, a self-amused smile on his face. He didn’t seem unkind, instead, I got the impression he was fascinated by a young woman sitting alone in a restaurant during lunchtime, awkwardly ordering the most standard thing on the menu. Or maybe all of it was in my head, whatever.
While waiting for my food, I journaled nicer thoughts to fulfill my day’s mission and have someplace to look instead of aimlessly gazing at the light fixtures. Here is what I wrote: “I suppose the lesson I’m trying to hammer into my brain (and yeah, life in general is trying to hand me the takeaway too) is that I deserve love. That’s it. No caveats, no exceptions, no add-ons. I deserve love.”
It’s a lofty ideal. Self-love. We live in a society that’s managed to turn self-care into a capitalistic pursuit—but candles, face masks, and five am routines weren’t cutting it or fixing my relationship with my reflection. How was I supposed to reclaim self-love? Outside of spontaneous dates where I battled my negative self-talk, outside of clothes that hold memory, outside of a journal entry where I say I deserve love without any idea of how to believe it.
The food came and in my eyes, the waiter was kinder, not as critical of the empty seat across from me. I thanked him and sat staring at the food for a minute, appreciating the intention with which it was laid out. Someone had put work into arranging the sushi in a neat row, and the spring rolls on a small plate, and it was work I was deeply grateful for. What a beautiful thing: to act with intention. Intentionally spending time with yourself when it’s the last thing you want to do—eating food that brings you joy and remaining grateful for the privilege.
The food tasted even better with the knowledge that I believed I deserved it. There was no remedy or quick fix that allowed me to internalize it: it just came to me. And sometime later it might leave again, and I’d be drafting my essays with self-hatred and negative self-talk. I’d frown at my reflection and pull at my clothes and sit around other people for the sole purpose of forgetting myself. But it didn’t matter. It doesn’t matter, and this is what I got out of my first lunch date with myself: self-love is not constant. It isn’t something I can buy, it is especially not something I have to earn.
I paid for my food and took two mints from the clear bowl in the front as I was leaving (one for right then and one for later). Too often I deny myself joy like it’s something I need to earn or budget, but that’s so unnecessary. There are limitless amounts of joys and limitless love I could give myself. It was the love I deserved. Self-love isn’t tacky, and I wasn’t a clumsy, well-intentioned lead in a rom-com. Self-love is necessary, even when it feels over the top (maybe especially when it’s over the top).
One lunch date with myself didn’t fix everything. It probably didn’t even fix much in the grand scheme of things, but maybe I had to stop seeing myself as something to fix in the first place. Maybe one afternoon where I was kind to myself is a perfect start.