The Unfulfilling Luxury of Distraction
August 6, 2024
Writer: Martha Chessen
Editor: Gretchen Quill
I blame boarding school—where “alone time” becomes a rare luxury. Constant companionship spoiled me; I thrived on late-night chats with roommates and calls home when my room was briefly empty. Solitude was an alien concept. I never had to be alone, so I never realized I couldn't handle it.
In college, they say you learn to be independent. While I can handle tasks on my own, I can't stand being alone. I intentionally fill my days from 8:00 AM to 11:00 PM with classes, meetings, extracurriculars, and socializing. When I come back to my room, I have my roommate and best friend to talk to until our eyes fall heavy and we wish each other a good night. As far as weekends go, well, it's college. I am never alone at school because I don't let myself.
For my first two months in New York this summer, I had the privilege to live with four of my best friends. When their internships ended, I faced the reality of living a month alone in a friend's empty apartment. I had eagerly anticipated this moment—the chance to unwind, reflect on my summer, and prepare for school. But within 20 minutes of being by myself, my anxiety set in.
In a city where it’s impossible to avoid seeing people or standing shoulder to shoulder with strangers in public, I've never felt more alone. On this Sunday night in New York City, I desperately want to talk to someone, anyone, about anything, just to avoid writing this and seeing my thoughts laid out in front of me.
Over the past year, I’ve realized my crippling fear of rejection and my reliance on external validation. Sitting here alone, it takes every ounce of me to resist calling someone for a distraction. I don't seek alone time; I view it as a consequence of my actions—proof that I annoy others or fail to make people want to be around me. The longer I’m alone, the more rejected I feel.
I couldn't take it anymore, so I called my wisest friend, Jessie. She asked, "What would you say to me if I got rejected?" I froze. I give good advice but can’t take my own. “You’d tell me it’s their loss, not yours,” she reminded me. Jessie explained that when you're comfortable being on your own, everything else—friendships, relationships, job acceptances—becomes a positive addition rather than a defining factor. Yet, I let these things shape my self-worth. If a friend is too busy to hang out, I assume they’re annoyed with me. If a boy doesn’t text me, I convince myself I am ugly. If an employer rejects me, I blame my incompetence.
To fill this void, I've relied on various forms of validation—social, sexual, and professional. Making new friends to convince myself I'm likable, seeking romantic attention to feel desirable, and applying for more jobs just to prove I can get accepted. I know that the only validation that truly matters should come from within, but why isn’t this enough?
Reframing rejection as someone else's loss instead of your own is challenging. It's even harder when you constantly fill the void with distractions: partying, meeting boys, hanging out with friends 24/7, or calling someone whenever you have a moment to yourself. I can't remember the last time I walked without blasting music in my ears or slept without earplugs to tune out my thoughts. My thoughts and beliefs are my worst fears, but I know I need to face them sooner rather than later.
Despite what people say about finding oneself in college, I’m lost. There's no epiphany here, no clear next step. I’ve tried everything—journaling, meditating, walking without my phone—but I can’t stick with it long enough to see change. The challenge ahead is to find comfort in the uncomfortable, to be okay with being alone and facing my thoughts. Yet, seeking distraction is like an addiction—knowing it's harmful but rationalizing it because I'm young and think it won't affect me long-term. I fear I've been falling into this abyss for so long that I'll hit a point of no return. Admitting my weakness is the first step. Reframing rejection is the second, and though I don't know how to do it yet, I have to believe there's still time to find my way out.
