Get In, Get Out, Get Off My Couch

The Real Girls Guide to loving people... and needing space.

There are days I want all the people.

I want a kid next to me, a hand on my back, a partner in the kitchen, a text thread lighting up like a Christmas tree.

And then, in the span of exactly 45 seconds, I want none of it.

I just want to be left the hell alone with $78 worth of panic-bought night cream slathered on my face and zero humans asking me what’s for dinner.

That, my friends, is the midlife magic trick: Desperate for connection one minute, and plotting your solo escape the next.

It’s like a game I play with myself.

Crave touch. Crave quiet.

Love the chaos. Loathe the noise.

Want a hug. Want a soundproof panic room.

When I was little, I was never alone. I was always wrapped in the noise and nearness of my mom, my brother, and my grandparents. I’d crawl into bed with my mom when I was scared, sit in my grandmother’s lap while she watched her shows (and truth: even well into my 20s, hot Friday nights were spent with her), and follow my brother around like a tiny, talkative shadow.

The idea of being alone, truly alone, felt terrifying. I remember sobbing at the thought of going away to college, convinced I wouldn’t survive a night without the familiar hum of my family around me. Solitude didn’t feel like peace then; it felt like abandonment.

The first time I had dinner alone after my divorce? Felt like swallowing glass with a side of sadness.

The first Christmas morning alone? Torture. Full stop.

I watched Love Actually on a FaceTime with my man and then rage-cried into a pile of unfolded laundry that clearly conspired with my hormones to destroy my night.

In fact, for the first six months after my divorce, I’d walk in the door after work and head straight upstairs, not to relax, but to escape. Sitting in the family room alone, in the space that used to buzz with noise and familiarity, made me feel gutted.

But now?

Now I crave solo time the way I used to crave carbs before I stopped pretending cauliflower was pizza.

Give me a quiet morning. Give me coffee in bed.

A scroll session with no questions, no commentary, and no need to explain myself.

Let me run alone, shower alone, sit alone, not talk alone.

Let me be a goddamn island with a Wi-Fi signal.

I’ve learned something, though: When you’re the mom, the fixer, the strong one, the partner, the peacemaker, the human glue stick, you have to ASK for space.

Because no one’s just going to hand it to you wrapped in silence and respect.

And when I don’t ask? I end up jumping out of my skin on a plane ride with one kid poking my arm and a hot flash crawling up my spine like the devil himself lit a match.

I was that little kid too, though, by the way.

The one who fake begged for alone time…and then ran into my mom’s room five minutes later because the house creaked wrong and I got scared.

Still me.

Just with wilder hair, bolder words, and way less interest in other people’s comfort.

So here’s what I know: Space is not selfish. Silence is not rude. Solo is not sad.

Sometimes, alone time is the reset button that keeps me from turning into a gremlin in skinny jeans.

Real Girls, Real Loud: Feeling smothered mid-hot flash? Daydreaming about renting a cabin in the woods with no Wi-Fi and a Do Not Disturb sign the size of a mattress?

Tell me what your dream solo moment looks like: bathroom door locked, glass of wine in hand, car parked three blocks away for a fake “errand”?

Email me at realgirlsguide55@gmail.com, drop it in the comments, or just forward this to someone who keeps talking to you while you’re clearly scrolling in bed.

Your peace matters. And your space? That shit is sacred.

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#RGG55 #RealGirlsGuide55 #GritAndGrace #MidlifeUnfiltered #WrinklesAndLaughLines #BadassAtAnyAge #RealTalkMidlife

We’ve earned every wrinkle. Might as well make more laugh lines together.
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