For the first time in six years, I’m choosing not to live alone. Sharing a home with two other people has forced me to become more aware of myself and how much of a recluse I’ve become over the years. Early pandemic days, when everyone was talking about struggling in isolation, I was the asshole revelling in other’s misery, "finally everyone gets a taste of the life I’ve chosen for myself.” Life in isolation didn’t look much different for me, I’d been isolating for years. The only difference was now avoiding social plans was considered noble, instead of rude; I had social justification for being anti-social.
Within months, I noticed a general concern arise for people living alone. While this is legitimate for those with health conditions, I was bothered by what this concern implied for everyone else—single people living alone must be lonely. It was a sore reminder of our cultural preference for relationships—ironic, given the heavy value we also place on individualism a…