Solitude can be a scary place; its icy wastelands are daunting. Some people get so scared the first time they find themselves walking there that this place inadvertently becomes the forbidden place, the bad place. But those of brave heart or the foolishly curious, who venture deeper into the barren planes and survive, it can be a place of peace and healing.

Growing up in a two-room apartment with five other people and a dog is a peculiar experience. I craved if not for physical privacy but mental privacy—to think and hear my thoughts. I worked with what I had; I learnt to escape into myself—not a healthy practice, I'm sure—to have some alone time. This practice permeated into school life, play-time with friends, and as a result, I slowly lost most friends and became a loner. Not by my own will, I often stood in the cold wastelands, trapped, crying out for a loving nurturing embrace, but nobody on the outside heard me. Standing in place was futile, so I explored. The longer I wandered, the more I cried—often just for warmth. Days turned into years. I grew used to the cold and barren expanses and hadn't noticed when the barren land turned into meadows by the ocean. Exhausted, I bathed, lay in the grass, watching clouds and listening to the birds. I nourished my body with the most succulent apricots and reddest apples. It still was cold; It was the same place, but now it was a place of nurture. This duality doesn't make sense, but it didn't have to. I finally could stop running.

I don't know much, but I know that lasting personal change is done alone. In solitude, you learn the ins and outs of yourself because you can only rely on yourself to keep yourself alive. As the ancients said, knowing oneself is the ultimate virtue.