the space between solitude and showing up

on being alone, being held, and the quiet courage of staying connected

When I share with people that I’m an introvert, they’re often surprised. I think many assume that being socially comfortable, engaged in conversation, curious, and genuinely present must mean you’re an extrovert. But presence and energy are different things. I’ve learned, through both the nature of my work and years of self-inquiry, to communicate from an open and authentic place. That doesn’t mean it always feels natural. In fact, it didn’t come naturally at all. It came through practice.

Living Artfully (the name of my upcoming book) invites us to infuse our lives, our work, relationships, and creativity with intention and curiosity. To show up as we are. To approach life like art... not for the result, but for the process itself, where, in my opinion, all the good stuff lives. This way of living asks us to relate to others not from obligation or performance, but from truth. Our own truth, not someone else’s, and not at the cost of others, either.

What I’ve learned over the past four decades is that it’s not about plowing through the world and causing collateral damage in the name of authenticity. It’s about being honest and intentional. Walking through the world with integrity.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not perfect. I haven’t always prioritized integrity or made it a kind of weathervane. Nor have I always appreciated the value of friendship. In fact, I still struggle with balancing time for the people I love alongside my personal pursuits. And yet, I’ve been lucky. My friendships, particularly with women, have carried me through some of the most difficult epochs of my life. They’ve been my mirrors, my balm, a source of inspiration inviting me to touch wild, sacred, and ecstatic joy.

At the same time, one of the things about being an introvert is that I can go days without company and genuinely be okay. I value solitude. I relish the space to pour myself into creative work, to listen, to recalibrate. There’s something sacred about tending to our inner world... investing in our craft, our care, our clarity. But even in the richness of my solitude, I know we aren’t meant to go it alone. We need each other.

We need spaces where we can be witnessed... messy, real, imperfect. We need people who hold us through our in-between seasons and celebrate our small returns to ourselves. That’s not weakness. That’s being human.

Yesterday, I read a New York Times essay about the erosion of male friendship in America. The author, once surrounded by deep, emotionally rich male friendships, found himself years later in the quiet ache of disconnection. He still had friends but no longer knew how to reach out. Life had happened... marriage, fatherhood, ambition. And somewhere along the way, emotional closeness gave way to polite distance.

What struck me most was this: he had the discipline to work out for 1,000 consecutive days, but the thought of calling a friend felt harder.

That line stayed with me.

It reminded me how deeply conditioned men often are to prioritize performance over connection, solitude over intimacy, and productivity over vulnerability. So many have been taught that being strong means going it alone, that reaching out is weakness. But it’s not.

As someone who is still learning to navigate how to stay connected to my friends, show up for my relationship, pour into my creative work, and tend to my well-being, I can say... it’s a slippery slope. The pull toward self-isolation in the name of productivity is real.

But friendship, like creativity, like love, like truth, needs tending. We don’t have to choose between pouring into our work or our relationships. The real art is learning how to hold both. How to cultivate a life where solitude doesn’t become isolation, and connection doesn’t require self-abandonment.

As a recovering people-pleaser and overachiever in a culture where achievement gets the applause and love stories get the poems, I’ve come to realize... you don’t have to subject yourself to the hustle and grind of life. You don’t have to muscle through it alone. You’re allowed to enjoy it. You’re allowed to lean in. To pick up the phone. To say, “I miss you,” or “How are you really?”

We weren’t meant to do this alone.

Friendship is the unsung hero. The invisible thread that holds the edges of our story together. The quiet presence that, in my experience, reminds me of who I am.

Nurture the bonds that hold you, even if it’s just one. Love on your people... deeply and often. More importantly, let them love you back.

To those of you who have cared for me, held me, and shown up for me (who may be reading this), thank you for loving me throughout the seasons of our lives, even in the moments when time gets the best of us. You hold a special place in my heart.


© Alana Foy 2025