An Argument for Hermit Behavior
Why I left society for two weeks to read nine—technically, 14—books.
There’s a particular solace I find in solitude—a sense of calm that feels rare and hard-earned in a world that constantly demands our attention. Being alone allows me to sink into the quiet hum of my thoughts, unfiltered and unshaped by external expectations. It’s here that I feel most like myself, where ideas find clarity and emotions have room to unfold. I treasure this time as sacred, a retreat into my inner world that feels both restorative and essential. But this instinct to retreat comes with its challenges, particularly in a culture that values visibility as a marker of meaning.
Lately, I’ve been wrestling with the tension between my natural inclination toward solitude and the undeniable pull of being seen. To share your voice, your ideas, and your work with others is to invite validation—and, perhaps more importantly, to affirm that what feels important to you matters to someone else, too. It’s a deeply human desire, but one that feels complicated in the modern age, where visibility can feel performative and fleeting. I’m learning that the balance lies not in choosing one over the other but in allowing space for both: honoring the quiet that nurtures me while remaining open to the connection that sustains me. In this way, solitude and visibility shouldn’t compete—they can coexist, each enriching the other in surprising ways.
Ottessa Moshfegh’s quote from Eileen resonates with this dance between solitude and connection, offering a vision of a life fully embraced in its own company.
“Here is how I spend my days now. I live in a beautiful place. I sleep in a beautiful bed. I eat beautiful food. I go for walks through beautiful places. I care for people deeply. At night my bed is full of love, because I alone am in it. I cry easily, from pain and pleasure, and I don’t apologize for that. In the mornings I step outside and I’m thankful for another day.” - Ottessa Moshfegh, Eileen
Her depiction of days spent immersed in beauty, gratitude, and deep care reflects a self-sufficiency that feels both inspiring and aspirational. Yet, it’s not a rejection of connection but a reframing of love and fulfillment—one that begins within. Her solitude isn’t lonely; it’s abundant, filled with a kind of love that doesn’t rely on external validation. In her mornings of gratitude and nights of unguarded emotion, she captures what it means to live authentically in the present, unshackled by the need for constant acknowledgment.
Her solitude is not a void but a space of richness, where self-love and emotional authenticity flourish.
Moshfegh crafts an image of a life unadorned yet deeply fulfilling, reminding us that beauty and love are not merely things we receive but also states we can cultivate within ourselves.
In this sentiment, there’s a subversive argument for hermit-like behavior, for stepping away from the noise of the world to reconnect with something deeper. Reading, in particular, becomes an act of introspection and alignment. To read seriously is to surrender to the text. Serious reading demands that we recede into ourselves, fostering a connection that can’t be hurried or diluted. It’s a practice of presence and intention, a way of living more deeply—even when done alone.
Ahead, I’m sharing the books I read during my retreat. I hope they spark the same desire to connect deeper with yourself.
The Savage, Noble Death of Babs Dionne // Ron Currie (releases 3/25/25)
This reminds me of something Tracee Ellis Ross would say 💗