Today, I want to discuss how strongly I feel suspicious of those who fear being alone.
Because when you’re alone, the world finally lowers its volume around you, the rush ends, and in that quiet, you can finally hear your own voice. You’re forced to sit with your thoughts. I enjoy being with my thoughts. Sometimes it feels as if the world inside is much more interesting than the one outside.
Anyone afraid of being alone fears their own thoughts, and anyone who fears their thoughts seems somewhat suspicious to me.
When you are alone—that is when you genuinely encounter yourself, facing your true, unmasked self. In those moments, there is no performance, no mask covering your face. You are not dressing up for others or assuming different roles. You are not the busy professional, the witty friend everyone relies on, the dedicated volunteer in the rain, the lively party-goer, or the caring mother. You simply are yourself.
The silence intensifies as the world drifts to sleep, with only your lit window remaining. In this quiet solitude, you’re left alone with your thoughts, fears, questions, and answers. It is in these moments that your true character is tested and defined—what you believe yourself to be, hidden beneath the surface, known only to yourself.
We wear masks everywhere and chase likes constantly, yet at night, alone at home, the suppressed noise of the day can be heard. I find it suspicious when someone immediately switches on the radio, TV, or any noise upon returning home, just to avoid facing their own thoughts.
What are you afraid of? Is it because you truly know yourself, and confronting that self might be a harsh disappointment? It takes great courage to reject loud music and face the mirror of your thoughts, even if that reflection may be uncomfortable.
I still recall the moment when my ex—who later proved to be an abusive and violent man—first confided that he disliked being alone. I remember my throat tightening because, even then, I had this intuitive sense, this impatient little inner warning. Yet, I tried to dismiss it, to silence the unsettling feeling before it fully surfaced.
This is a woman’s love: she perceives signs and signals clearly yet often chooses to doubt them because accepting them might force her to face harsh truths. She hesitates to open her eyes, fearing that what she sees could break her, so she closes them tighter, so hard that it hurts.
His fear of solitude eventually turned into my prison. The repeated pleas to stay home, the begging not to leave, the declarations of joy that I’m there when he returns, the worries expressed for my “safety” when I’m away, the requests for my location, all control masked as kindness, and surveillance wrapped in care—all formed a cage and I was stucked and alone, paralyzed by chains made of “love.”
For a long time, I thought that solitude with your thoughts represented the highest form of self-awareness. Currently, writing as an art form is experiencing a surge in popularity—that it’s trendy to write, to expose your innermost feelings publicly, to pour everything onto the page, even your own blood if needed—and then proudly show it off, saying: this is who I am.
But a real writer can achieve much more than that.
When I first started writing about ghostwriting—next to the future of healthcare, about Aussies, about being alone in New York, about exile, about Somatic Writing— (by the way, I really need to work on a precise niche here!!:-D) … so, when I first started talking about ghostwriting, something interesting happened. When I said that in ghostwriting you have to give up your ego, a flood of comments came in saying: But it’s still you who writes it. No. That is a mistake, a fundamental one.
This is exactly why I think most writers don’t make good ghostwriters. They tend to infuse the story with their own voice, inserting themselves between the lines. Some even attempt clever tricks — hiding secret messages or sending subtle hints to show they were involved.
You only become a skilled ghostwriter when you’re willing to relinquish your own identity completely. This means fully immersing yourself into another person’s perspective. As a ghostwriter, you’re not the one creating the book; you’re facilitating someone else’s vision. The book belongs to them, not you. If you’re truly excellent at what you do, your role is simply to press the keys.
You have to write things you don’t like, things you personally disagree with, things you would never say as a private individual. You have to use rhythms that aren’t yours, expressions that make you uncomfortable—because if that is how they speak, then that is how the book must sound. Don’t forget: they are writing the book, you are only striking the keyboard.
And this requires an even more unshakable level of self-knowledge. Because to abandon yourself completely, to slip into another human being’s skin, to think their thoughts, feel their feelings, live their inner life and to step into their roles—you only dare to do all that if you are so deeply anchored in yourself that you know this: wherever you go, whoever’s life you live for a while, however far you travel into their worlds, however many selves you temporarily become, you will always find your way back to who you truly are.
If you’re interested in exploring these themes more deeply, consider joining my paid Substack membership. We are going pretty deep there. Nine learning resources are available now, and the library continues to grow. As a special thank you to my valued paid members, there’s a coupon code behind the paywall that gives you free access to my book, Soulbird. This book shares the story of Rusty, the American kestrel, and the lessons he taught me during a difficult period in my life.
Also happy to announce that after rising in Education, now @Nora in New York is rising in Business category too, so come and celebrate with us!
