This Christmas, my family came to visit me in my new state. My sister, my two late-teen nieces, and their dog. I was excited! But honestly, I was also a little scared.
For the last 13 years, I’ve lived alone. Not counting my dog of course. Which meant my time was my own — no demands, no one talking to me from the other room, no disappearing granola bars. Just a lot of quiet, and a lot of space to check in with myself and recharge.
I’m an introvert, first of all. And after leaving my common-law marriage, I discovered that once I got used to it, living alone actually suited me.
I liked it.
So… how in God’s name was I going to share my house for six entire days?
But of course… it turned out fabulous.
Constant conversation. Constant movement. Constant shared oxygen. Someone always talking to me, asking something, or following me into the bathroom (the dogs, thankfully, not the humans).
Fun. Full. Connected.
The good kind of alive.
And then — they left.
It felt like someone had turned off the sound system at a pumping techno party (I haven’t been to one since the early 2000s, so don’t fact-check me), and suddenly the lights came on, the people vanished, and I was standing alone in a basement so quiet I could hear a pin drop.
It was a shock to my nervous system, and honestly, I felt myself tear up.
Constant stimulation acts like electricity in your system — and when the silence hits, it’s a physiological crash.
I sat down.
Quiet. TV off. Pup asleep.
A very uncomfortable 45 seconds passed.
And then I reached for my phone and checked into ChatGPT.
My questions were practical at first — mortgage rates, housing markets, moving logistics. Then I drifted into: “Did I handle that conversation with the teenagers right?” Not being a parent myself, I always want to get those “moments” right.
And finally, I told ChatGPT how I was feeling… and asked it to give me permission to do nothing the next day.
Shocker, it said “Yes.” Of course.
But I realized I wasn’t looking for advice — I wanted someone to say it. Someone to talk to.
And that’s when something clicked.
I had shifted the social tsunami of six full days of family… straight into a chatbot.
I wasn’t using AI because I needed answers, or help.
I was using it because I needed the continuity of connection.
The presence, the stimulation, the “someone-there-ness” — it hadn’t stopped.
I had just changed the source.
So I set my phone down and forced myself to sit in the silence.
And that’s when the next realization hit.
Through all the stimulation — the company, the laughter, the decisions, the holiday chaos — and then my pseudo-conversation with AI…
I hadn’t heard my own voice in almost a week.
A full week of being externally occupied — by family, by fun, by decisions, and then by digital companionship. All of it enjoyable. All of it distracting.
It’s not that I couldn’t have found time to connect with myself while they were here — but distraction is seductive. Noise is easy. Silence? Not so much.
As I sat there, the relief hit me. And under it sat the truth:
I needed contact — with myself first, and then the world.
Here’s what clicked for me:
When you live alone, the discomfort that hits after connection isn’t a problem to fix — it’s the compass.
It tells you what you need next.
But if you fill it instantly with AI, you numb the very nudge that’s supposed to guide you back to yourself and back to other people.
Psychology has a term for this — substitution and social avoidance.
Humans avoid discomfort. It’s what we do.
Silence, loneliness, transitions — they trigger that discomfort.
So we patch it with stimulation: scrolling, texting, opening an AI chatbot.
But here’s the kicker:
When we substitute real relational or emotional needs with digital interaction, we dull the natural motivation to seek real connection.
And the discomfort we’re trying to avoid?
That discomfort is the signal.
It’s the mechanism that pushes us back toward the people, community, or internal connection we actually need.
And it’s not just me.
A recent Washington Post analysis of 47,000 ChatGPT conversations found that over half of U.S. adults now use AI chatbots. Most use them for quick information.
But the second and third most common uses?
Entertainment. Emotional support. Relational talk.
In other words: plenty of people are quietly using AI as a social substitute.
And that’s the part we really need to pay attention to.
It’s not wrong to lean on AI sometimes. The danger is when it quietly becomes the easy default we reach for every time.
Because the discomfort we feel without it — that spike of silence, that loneliness, that weird emotional drop — that isn’t the enemy.
It’s the compass pointing us toward what we need next: ourselves, people, community.
When we use AI to avoid that discomfort, we blur the signal before we can even hear it.
AI can absolutely support people who live alone — it has supported me through electrical issues, mortgage research, midnight spirals, veterinarian searches, and brain fog.
But there’s a line.
For me, it’s this: If AI becomes the thing I reach for first, every time, before I reach for myself or an actual human, I’m not supporting my independence.
I’m avoiding my life.
Silence is the compass.
It tells you whether you need yourself, someone else, or both.
AI can help you think — but it cannot tell you what you need.
Only the quiet can do that.
Independence isn’t about doing everything alone.
It’s about knowing when to step toward your own life instead of buffering it with digital noise.
And on that note… I’m acting on my own compass.
I’ve looked up local women’s meetups and Facebook groups, reached out to a friend I haven’t seen in a while, and I’m challenging myself to actually call people instead of defaulting to a text or silence. I’m making plans, saying yes a little more often, and pushing myself to clumsily build a community here instead of waiting for the perfect moment.
It’s uncomfortable — but it’s the good kind. The kind that tells me I’m choosing the life I want over avoidance.
If you’re in Northern Colorado and up for coffee, reach out.
I’m stepping into my own discomfort over here — and hey, maybe I’ll see you there.
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