By 
For years, I treated being single like it was a problem that needed fixing. Every Friday night alone felt like failure. Every wedding invitation without a plus-one felt like judgment. Every well-meaning “So, are you seeing anyone?” from relatives felt like confirmation that something was fundamentally wrong with me.
I downloaded every dating app. Read every relationship book. Went to parties I didn’t want to attend, joined clubs I had no interest in, all in the desperate hope of meeting “the one” who would finally make me whole.
But here’s what I discovered: the moment I stopped treating singleness as a disease that needed curing, everything changed. Not because I suddenly found someone, but because I finally understood what I’d been running from all along.
The exhausting pursuit of not being alone
Looking back, I can see how exhausting it all was. I was constantly performing, constantly searching, constantly measuring my worth by whether someone wanted to be with me.
I’d swipe through profiles late into the night, crafting the perfect opening messages. I’d analyze every text, every emoji, every response time like it held the secret to my happiness. When dates didn’t lead to relationships, I’d dissect what went wrong with the intensity of a crime scene investigator.
The irony? I was so busy trying not to be alone that I never actually sat with myself long enough to figure out who I was or what I genuinely wanted.
In my book Hidden Secrets of Buddhism: How To Live With Maximum Impact and Minimum Ego, I explore how Buddhist philosophy teaches us about attachment and suffering.
Back then, I was living proof of this principle. My attachment to the idea of being in a relationship was causing me more suffering than actually being single ever could.
The turning point came unexpectedly
The shift happened on an ordinary Saturday morning. I’d just had another mediocre date the night before with someone who looked nothing like their photos and talked exclusively about their ex. I woke up feeling defeated, ready to delete all my apps and resign myself to a life of solitude.
But instead of immediately reaching for my phone to scroll through more profiles, I just… didn’t.
I made coffee. Sat on my balcony. Read a book I’d been meaning to finish for months. Called an old friend I’d been too “busy” (read: too focused on dating) to catch up with. Went for a run without podcasts about “optimizing your dating profile.”
For the first time in years, I spent an entire weekend just being with myself. No swiping, no analyzing, no strategizing about how to become more dateable.
And something strange happened: I actually enjoyed it.
What I was really running from
That weekend of solitude opened a door I’d been desperately trying to keep shut. Behind it was the truth I’d been avoiding: I was terrified of being alone with my own thoughts.
During my 20s, I battled anxiety and an overactive mind that constantly worried about the future and regretted the past. Being in a relationship, or at least pursuing one, gave my anxious brain something to focus on. It was easier to obsess about why someone hadn’t texted back than to face the bigger questions about my life, my purpose, my fears.
The constant hunt for a partner was actually a sophisticated avoidance strategy. As long as I could blame my unhappiness on being single, I didn’t have to look at the real sources of my discontent.
I didn’t have to admit that I was unhappy with my career trajectory. I didn’t have to face the fact that I’d let friendships fade because I was too focused on finding “the one.” I didn’t have to acknowledge that I had no idea who I was outside of what I thought would make me attractive to others.
Learning to be alone without being lonely
Once I recognized what I was doing, I made a conscious decision to stop. I deleted the apps, not as a dramatic gesture, but as a practical step toward getting comfortable with solitude.
The first few weeks were rough. Without the dopamine hits from matches and messages, my brain went into withdrawal. I’d catch myself reaching for my phone, muscle memory trying to open apps that were no longer there.
But slowly, I started filling that space with other things. I reconnected with old hobbies I’d abandoned. Started learning Vietnamese (which would later help when I met my wife, though I didn’t know that at the time). Began a meditation practice that actually stuck because I wasn’t constantly interrupted by notification pings.
Most importantly, I started having honest conversations with myself. What did I actually want from life? What were my values? What kind of person did I want to become, regardless of whether anyone else was watching?
The paradox of letting go
Here’s what nobody tells you about desperately wanting something: the desperation itself often pushes it away. When you’re frantically grasping for connection, you emanate a energy that repels rather than attracts.
When I stopped treating relationships like oxygen I needed to survive, I became someone people actually wanted to be around. Not because I was playing hard to get or following some dating strategy, but because I was genuinely content with my own company.
I started showing up to social events because I wanted to be there, not because I was hunting for a partner. I had conversations because I was interested in people’s stories, not because I was auditioning them for the role of significant other.
The quality of all my relationships improved — not just romantic ones. When you’re not desperately trying to fill a void, you can actually connect with people authentically.
What true connection really means
I’ve come to believe that relationship quality is the single biggest predictor of life satisfaction. But here’s the key: that starts with your relationship with yourself.
You can’t give what you don’t have. If you’re not comfortable being alone with yourself, you’re not bringing a whole person to a relationship. You’re bringing someone who needs the other person to feel complete, and that’s an impossible burden to place on anyone.
When I eventually did enter a relationship again, it was from a completely different place. I wasn’t looking for someone to save me from solitude. I was looking for someone whose company I enjoyed as much as I’d learned to enjoy my own.
Final words
If you’re reading this and recognizing yourself in my story, know this: your desperation to not be alone might be the very thing keeping you from the connection you seek.
Try stopping. Just for a while. Delete the apps. Cancel the setups. Spend a weekend, a month, maybe longer, just being with yourself.
It’s terrifying at first. But on the other side of that terror is freedom. The freedom to choose relationships because you want them, not because you need them. The freedom to be alone without being lonely. The freedom to finally face whatever you’ve been running from.
Because here’s what I learned: being single was never the problem. The problem was that I was so afraid of myself that I’d do anything to avoid being alone with my thoughts. Once I stopped running and started listening, I discovered that the person I’d been trying to escape was actually someone worth knowing.
And that changed everything.