I am often asked what the hardest thing is about living the quiet, reclusive life that I do. In order to answer that, I have to go back to 2016, when I moved from Bangkok to Manila to take care of my parents. At first, I shared their apartment, but I quickly realised I could not revert to the role of a daughter living under her parents’ roof. So I rented a small unit two floors up and created a little place of my own that I adored. It was there that I discovered how difficult it is, after decades of cooking for a family and larger gatherings, to learn how to scale back and cook just for myself.
My mother once shared that, adventurous as she was in her youth, the one thing she could never bring herself to do was eat alone in a restaurant. I never saw her eat alone at home either. I definitely inherited that from her. To this day, though I pride myself on being a strong, independent woman, eating alone in a restaurant is something I still avoid. The most I can manage is a short stint at a café with a large coffee and a pastry—but even that has a time limit. That said, I admit there is a quiet beauty in sitting at a table for one, sipping coffee while the world hums in the background.
During the Berlin years, I began to learn the art of cooking for one. I slipped up often, still cooking more than I needed, freezing the leftovers for days when I lacked the energy or will to cook. But those years brought lessons in control and mindfulness, and a quiet acceptance of a new phase of life. The first step was to buy the smallest rice cooker I could possibly find. When it arrived, I laughed out loud because it looked as though I was playing house. Gone were the days of the large rice cookers that could feed four or more. The pots and pans changed too. Once, I had massive pots to cook spaghetti for fifteen people, or a biryani for just as many.
The question I kept asking myself was: what really bothers you about eating alone?
At first, it was the absence and silence at the table. I wasn’t used to it. In restaurants, I would feel a wave of shame, a sense of pity for myself, as I imagined what others might think of a woman sitting alone with nothing but a book or a notebook for company. But Berlin was the perfect place to take those first steps. You could walk into so many places and find a room full of solo diners. Many, I came to realise, prefer eating alone at a restaurant rather than at home, where the silence is deafening and the loneliness far more intense.
Then I moved into the Frobbit House, where my home truly became my castle. I eat alone on most days, unless Sir Reddington joins me. It is here that I have finally mastered solo cooking and, more importantly, learned to enjoy my own company at the table.
I eat alone, but I am not lonely.
And in that single sentence lies a profound truth, one that many of us come to understand only with time: being alone is not the same as being lonely. To be alone is simply to be by oneself. It can be a choice; a moment of peace, reflection, or even celebration of independence. Loneliness, on the other hand, is the ache of feeling unseen, disconnected, or unfulfilled, even in the midst of a crowd. It is not about who is around you, but whether you feel emotionally and spiritually met.
As we age, we often encounter both states. We lose people. We move cities. Our social circles shift. There are dinners without partners, friends who cancel, and entire days spent in solitude. At first, loneliness creeps in. But something quietly transformative happens when we stop running from it. We begin to listen. Over time, we start to recognise that our worth is not tethered to constant company. We notice the texture of our thoughts, the rhythm of our breath, the things that nourish us beyond conversation. We learn to enjoy our own presence.
The journey from loneliness to comfortable solitude is deeply personal, and often uncomfortable. But it leads to a place of inner freedom. When we no longer fear being alone, we begin to live more authentically. We seek connection out of desire, not desperation. We choose people who enrich our lives, rather than fill a void.
So yes, I eat alone. But I am not lonely.
I am full of thoughts, gratitude, and peace.
It is in that fullness that I have found something rare: contentment that begins from within.
FrogDiva Thoughts 