I spent the last 48 hours alone. Not the lonely kind of alone but just blissfully, quietly, intentionally alone. I booked a stay at a quaint boutique hotel on Koh Kood, a little escape to recharge. Meanwhile, Khalid and E enjoyed some much-needed “boy time” (which I’ve learned is code for doing boat chores and binging Harry Potter movies).

I’m deeply grateful for my K, not just for holding it down with E, but for recognizing something I didn’t say out loud: I needed this. He actually pushed me to do it-to step away, to be by myself, to breathe.

Because I am someone who craves quiet. Not in a dramatic, go-off-the-grid kind of way. Just… silence. Slowness. Stillness. And as I’ve gotten older and especially since becoming sober almost two years ago…I’ve realized how vital that quiet is for me.

My insight into taking a break from drinking came almost two summers ago. We had chartered a catamaran in the BVI’s with us three and some of our closest friends for a week. We were waking up in the most beautiful locations and having the time of our lives. I was having maybe two drinks at dinner or the occasional one at a beach bar but I’d still wake up in the mornings with crushing anxiety. Like debilitating anxiety, as I’m staring out at the bluest water and the lushest green islands.

And as someone who has spent years (and a lot of money) working on my anxiety… I was just over it. I had put in too much work to let a casual drink undo all that progress. I’d spent a long time building routines that helped me feel grounded, calm, and clear. So after that trip, I decided to explore being “sober curious.” I never went into it thinking it would be long term. But I noticed a difference immediately-in my mental clarity, my emotional balance, and even in my body. Fitness started feeling better. My recovery improved. My brain felt lighter.

I never drank heavily. It was mostly social drinks at dinner, parties, festivals, the occasional dip into the “scene” with party drugs. Clubs, after-hours, the whole thing. But when I stopped drinking, I began to see the deeper why behind my social habits. I wasn’t partying because I loved it. I was drinking to feel comfortable. To be “on.” To match the energy around me when all I really wanted was to be in bed by 9pm with a book and a hot beverage.

In my early 20s, that felt unacceptable. Uncool. So instead of honoring that discomfort, I overstimulated myself to mask the overstimulation. Make that make sense, right?

But it does make sense now.

I remember reading Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World That Can’t Stop Talking by Susan Cain, and it felt like a mirror. I realized I had spent most of my life as an introvert trying to survive in an extroverted world.

Even as a kid, my teachers were concerned that I preferred the library over the playground. I didn’t understand why that was a problem. To be honest, I’d still pick books over most people. I’ve always disliked small talk, even when I didn’t have the language to express that.

My 20s were different.

They were messy and loud. I was dealing with unresolved trauma, and I wanted to fit in. So I performed. I partied. I wore the costume of someone who was carefree and extroverted, when deep down, I was neither of those things.

Living on a boat as someone who loves the quiet has made it even more necessary to take time for myself. As much as I adore my son, I can find myself overstimulated by his energy especially living in such close proximity now. Boat life doesn’t offer much space to retreat, so being able to go hours without speaking a single word on this solo retreat has been wonderful. I didn’t realize how much I needed that until I had it.

Focusing on the quiet allows me to be a better partner and mother, to show up with more grace and patience (something that is a constant work in my progress). I struggle with constant overstimulation that being a mother to an energetic child provides-especially in tight quarters. Many might think that’s not very “motherly” of me, but it’s my truth. I’ve learned that taking time for myself isn’t selfish-it’s essential. It allows me to show up more present, more grounded, and to meet E where he needs to be. My past choices and life are not his burden to bear.

As someone with a “busy brain”-one that’s rarely ever quiet-having time to literally not speak (unless it’s to order a coffee or mocktail) gives my brain the space it needs to sort through everything. I get to rot in peace without the guilt that usually comes with doing nothing.

And I think that’s a gift-not just for me, but for E.

I want him to see that I’m human, that I’m not perfect, and that there are healthy ways to manage overstimulation and honor your own needs.

Khalid is very similar. He prefers quiet, small groups, and calm-not chaos. I think that’s something we both carry from our childhood as he grew up in a large chaotic family, I grew up in a small chaotic one. But Khalid, because of his background, has this emotional control that honestly should be studied. For years, I worried it was a lack of emotion. But I’ve come to realize he just has incredible control. And I know he really feels for my busy, emotional brain. Haha.

My recent journey has been one of finding peace. Of building a boring life-something I used to run from but now see as a privilege. A boring life is soft. Gentle. Predictable in a way that feels safe. And I think that’s something I never realized how much I needed.

E might disagree…he’s been known to say, “being bored is the worst!” But hopefully this new life we’re building shows him otherwise. That boredom isn’t bad. That quiet isn’t empty. That peace can be the most radical kind of joy.

Now that I’ve reached my late 30s (and yes, I’m still a little delulu about that), I feel more in tune with who I really am. I am working on saying “no” without guilt. I get to choose slow mornings, quiet nights, and space to think. I get to read my book and feel more alive than I ever did at a club surrounded by noise.

This little escape on Koh Kood reminded me that I don’t need to be anywhere else but here…with myself.

And for the first time in a long time, that feels like enough.