Growing up as an only child, I learned early on to find comfort and joy in my own company. For me, being alone wasn't something to avoid but something I cherished. It was a way to be fully myself—no interruptions, no adjustments, just a simple space where I could think, play, and dream.
As a kid, I was perfectly content to play by myself. I would create entire worlds out of my imagination, finding joy in the simplest things, from the texture of sand to the colors of a sunset. My cousin visits were a delightful exception. With them, the house buzzed with laughter and adventure, a welcome shift from my usual solitude. But after they left, I would return to that familiar space of quiet—happy in my little world, alone yet not feeling lonely.
Then, when I entered grade school, something shifted. I began to see people who didn’t seem entirely...normal. They appeared as casually as anyone else, yet something about them felt different. They seemed almost transparent, and sometimes they would vanish as quickly as they had appeared. As a child, I couldn’t fully grasp what I was seeing. Were these people real or something beyond human understanding?
I loved being around others, but as these “visits” continued, I found myself pulled back to solitude more often. In my own space, I didn’t have to question or wonder about who was “real.”
As I grew into adolescence, the reality of these experiences became clearer. I began to recognize that these figures were from another dimension, something outside the realm of the everyday. There were silhouettes of women, sometimes children, and with each passing year, I could see them with more detail. Some were beautiful, others frightening. Some were quiet, simply present, while others were aggressive, louder, and harder to ignore.
I kept it all to myself. I didn’t want to alarm anyone, didn’t want to disrupt the normal lives around me by revealing a world they couldn’t see. There were times when I felt overwhelmed, closing my eyes tightly, praying that the images would disappear, that the voices calling my name or the sounds breaking the silence would leave me in peace.
As I grew older, I hoped these sightings would fade, that whatever I was seeing would disappear with time. But that wasn’t the case. When I entered college, these experiences intensified, and what had once been a quiet presence became unsettlingly dominant. There were times when it felt as if they could control me, even enter my body, taking over who I was. In those moments, my voice would change, taking on tones I didn’t recognize, something I couldn’t control or explain, yet others could see it. The boundary between my reality and theirs grew thin, forcing me to confront a side of the world that few could understand.
When I got married and became a mother, those moments didn’t leave my life; they simply evolved. I discovered that my eldest daughter inherited the ability I once had—the capacity to see things beyond the tangible world. Sometimes she would excitedly tell me about things she saw, and while I reassured her it was just her imagination, a part of me wondered if she truly possessed the same gift. The thought lingered in the back of my mind that she, too, could see and hear things that transcended our reality.
Looking back, I often ponder those moments when I felt as if I were never truly alone. I would sometimes catch glimpses of myself playing with invisible friends, companions with whom I could share my innermost thoughts. Were they real, or merely figments of my imagination? To this day, I’m uncertain. Yet, perhaps they represented my yearning for connection, a means of companionship while preserving the sanctuary of my solitude.
As I matured, my appreciation for quiet moments remained. Many might equate solitude with loneliness, but for me, it embodies a unique happiness that is otherwise elusive. Embracing these moments allows me to navigate the space between worlds—the seen and the unseen, the ordinary and the extraordinary. This delicate balance has shaped my life, granting me the ability to find comfort in both solitude and connection, no matter where I am or who I’m with.
