The Solitude Between Us: On Stoicism, Love, and the Interior World of a Woman

There is a kind of silence I’ve grown to honour. A silence that breathes, expands, and heals. It's in that quiet—away from the noise of the world and the emotional demands of others—that I meet myself. That silence is solitude. And it has saved me.

Had it not been for philosophy—particularly Stoicism—I would not be who I am today. It gave me language for what I’ve always known instinctively: that the richest life is lived inwardly. That reflection and stillness aren’t things to be feared or filled, but sacred rituals. Every day, I practise meditation and reflection not because it’s trendy or expected, but because it’s necessary for my mind, my body, and my spirit. It’s how I realign, how I breathe.

In many ways, I’ve always been emotionally self-sufficient. I went through the better part of my adult life without needing or seeking romantic love from men. And yet, when I did begin relating with them, I quickly noticed the same pattern repeating itself—an expectation that I ought to need them more than I do. That my affection should look like emotional reliance. That silence means rejection. That privacy is a problem.

It’s never been that simple for me.

I process things differently. When life becomes overwhelming, I don’t pick up the phone or open up a social media app to "vent." I retreat. I think. I allow the mess to settle in my mind and reveal its meaning. I return when I’m ready—not to isolate, but to reconnect. But try explaining that to someone who’s never sat with their own thoughts for more than five minutes. It’s exhausting.

At times, I've felt the pressure to perform vulnerability, to mimic emotional dependency just to assure a man of his importance. But it never ends well. Because it’s not real. Because I can’t be what I’m not. And I’ve learned—often painfully—that the more of myself I disclose to men, the more they weaponise it. What I offer in trust, they return with control. What I keep to myself, they interpret as defiance.

But this is simply who I am. I do trust—but only a few. People of intellectual depth. Those who understand nuance. Those who know that love is not a conquest of secrets, but a refuge where even silence is understood.

Culturally, I know this doesn’t fit the script. I’m a Kenyan woman, and the blueprint many men hold for love is one where the woman’s emotional world orbits around the man’s presence. I’ve felt this expectation deeply—especially among Muslim men in my context. There’s an unspoken code: if a woman isn’t constantly seeking your validation, then she must not love you. If she asks for solitude, she must be seeing someone else. If she keeps something to herself, she must be hiding. It’s such irrational logic, but it’s widespread.

And yet, I’ve chosen to resist it.

Solitude has cost me a relationship before. But even then, I knew I wasn’t ready. I wasn’t in a place to be vulnerable on someone else’s terms. And I would make the same decision again. My mental health will always come first.

This isn’t to say I don’t want love. I do. But not one that requires me to fragment myself to be understood. I want a love that respects my rhythm. A partner who understands silence as a form of communication. Someone who values intellectual stimulation as much as physical presence. And above all, someone who will never mistake privacy for rejection.

Men often say they want independent women—until they meet one. Then it becomes a battle of control. But I believe love isn’t about winning. It’s about honouring. It's about holding space for each other’s interior world without trespassing. That kind of love feels rare, but I haven’t given up imagining it.

Until then, I will continue to live fully and deeply in my solitude—because I’ve found more truth there than in any lover’s arms.