The lifelong intimacy of dining alone

This Saturday night starts in your bedroom, where you get dressed layer by layer. At the restaurant, you approach the host and ask the most liberating question there is: “Is there space for one?” And there is. Of course there is. You promptly walk over to a small table already set, with just enough room for you. You scan the menu not with hesitation, but with intention, oh and don’t forget your perfectly paired drink. Eventually, you nod to the waiter that you’re ready to order. Now is the time to brave yourself for the next 30 minutes of waiting for your meal alone. The room is crowded with strangers and their company, awkward first dates or 23rd birthday parties. But eventually, an intricately crafted dining experience arrives before you, rich in solitude and flavour. While others, still waiting in the line outside, clinging to comfort zones and plus-ones, are hit with the sharp cold of the winter’s wind. Often, as we sit at an empty table, we can feel an overwhelming sense of vulnerability with the thought of people we’ve never met before judging our next few choices. Why are we here alone? How long will we stay, too long or suspiciously fast? How much loneliness are you compensating for? A thought that sears through us like salt poured onto a fresh wound, lying bare our rawest selves. Especially if it’s been a while since we’ve dined alone. Much like our emotional state during a period of isolation in our lives, do you drown out the noise, dive in and enjoy the intimacy and possibilities that are born from being alone, or do you not even get dressed for the evening, wrapping yourself in a blanket of avoidance? Being pushed into a position of social isolation, whether you’ve lost friends in your 20s, moved to a new city, changed jobs, or missed an opportunity, can sometimes be exactly what you need for your success. How am I changing right now? What pushed me out of the situation I just left? How much did I change from each step that took me here? The visceral feeling of having lost familiar sources of intimacy brings forward a raw selfism. An eerie and heart-throbbing peace that comes with starting over in any aspect, and nobody is expecting anything from you, yet you can't help but feel as if they’re expecting everything from you at the same time. Look too hard, too long, and your heart will sink for a moment. You’re forced to sit with the thought that only you can make the next few decisions in your life, as the rawest version of yourself. And the strange part? The suspense is thrilling. There’s no one leaning over your shoulder insisting you get the pasta because they love it. No one is correcting your choice, second-guessing your appetite. Just you and the intoxicating weight of freedom. When you let your guard down and brave up for the walk in the winter’s wind, you can come to terms with the fact that growth lies on the other side of learning how to create your own experiences, and it was never going to meet you in comfort. In my eyes, this is the beginning of every true success story - the moment the protagonist finally understands that the only way out, the only way forward, is to silence the echoes of “it’s not meant to be,” “try this company instead,” or “that idea is ridiculous.” Self-doubt and overthinking to the point of never even letting yourself eat (literally and metaphorically) will ultimately starve you of any fulfilment. The lesson comes from learning how to dine alone and how to ask for what you want. But it can only be learnt from practice, learning how to be strong enough to be comfortable in that room. Isolation, in fact, will only make your sense of self stronger if you buckle up.