What it Means to be Alone

When I was nine, my parents would argue, and to escape, my mom would put us in the car and drive around for hours. It wasn’t strictly a nine year old thing, but an awareness hit me at nine, and when I close my eyes, I remember myself as that girl, bangs in my face, hair down my back, and a face that hid my secrets. My sister would sometimes fall asleep in the back seat, but I would be wide awake on the passenger side, gazing out the window, trying to remain still, to go unnoticed.


During daylight, the drive was just another drive; the same sights, the sun making it seem almost normal to drive the same highways and roads over and over. But at night, I’d feel hope hidden in the darkness, a magic quality of what if things could change this night. What if this was the night that altered everything.

Sometimes my mom would reminisce about her life before she’d met my dad. At those times, I’d hear happiness in her tone that I’d never heard at any other time. It was a version of my mother that I could imagine as happy instead of the worn out, defeated one in the car.

At other times, the stillness in the car was like a person sitting between the bucket seats, and I’d stare out the window wondering what she was thinking. The sadness at those times weighed heavily in the car causing my chest to hurt.

I always thought that what she needed to hear was that it would be okay, but the nine-year-old girl in the passenger seat could never muster the courage to assure her that it would be okay if her parents weren’t together, that they should find a way to be happy.

Even though the drives went on for years until eventually we were teenagers, I never found a way to tell her. Eventually she began to disappear alone, leaving us behind, and I didn’t have to sit in the passenger seat and wonder. I sat at home and wondered if she would come home this time, or would this be the time she found what she was looking for in the darkness.

Tonight, I found myself in my own car. I needed to get out the house, and with really no reason to, I spontaneously decided to go get something to eat, though I wasn’t hungry. It was dark, with only the pin pricks of headlights and street lamps. I was brought back to those drives, and I understood for the first time why she’d get into the car and drive. Hope still existed in the darkness somewhere, and if I could drive long enough, and maybe get out of the car before it disappeared, I could catch it.

Now I know what my mother was thinking because I’m now in the driver’s seat. I no longer sit in the passenger seat, but the little girl who sat there all those years still exists inside of me. Glancing over at the passenger seat, I thought of that little girl, expecting to see her.

It was fear of being alone that always drove my mom back home. She weighed her choices, and fear of being alone always won out; it always led us back, parked in that driveway. She’d stare at the house for minutes, unable to leave, but not wanting to stay. She could never find the hope in the stillness of the night.

The girl never told her it was okay to be alone.

A few days ago, someone told me that it takes courage to leave the comfortableness of your life. During those car rides, my mom taught me that it takes more courage to stay gone than to leave, because eventually, loneliness swallows you. It’s at those times you have to maintain hope that it won’t be this way forever. I always saw the hope in the darkness as I stared out the window at the stars, blurring my eyes with the headlights so that the night could sparkle with the magic of hope.