An Ode to the Solo Grocery Shop (& Why It’s Basically Therapy)

The Calm in the Chaos Aisle of Coles

I know the supermarket isn’t everyone’s idea of a good time. Some people dread the trolley traffic, the kids throwing tantrums near the ice creams, and the painfully slow walkers in the dairy aisle. But for me? It’s bliss. A solo grocery shop is less an errand, more a personal pilgrimage. I slide those sliding doors open like I’m entering a sacred temple of routine and spontaneity, where I’m in charge of what goes in my basket and what doesn’t.

You grab a basket, loop it over your arm, and glide through like a queen on a mission. No list, no plan, just vibes. It’s quiet. It’s calm. No screaming kids, no shared cart negotiations. Just me, myself, and a questionable craving for pickles I didn’t know I had until aisle three. No one’s watching your choices or asking if you really need another tin of chickpeas. You can flirt with a new brand of gluten-free granola without interruption.

Even the chaos has its charm. The shelf stackers with their massive trolleys, the toddler flinging grapes near the apples, the high-stakes manoeuvring around a three-person bottleneck at the frozen peas. None of it touches me. I’m in my element. Calm. Centred. Possibly humming. Definitely judging the person who still thinks it’s acceptable to block the entire cereal aisle while reading nutritional panels aloud.

The Sensory Heaven of Spices and Soap

Let’s talk about the high that comes from discovering a new spice blend. I’m serious. One minute you’re searching for paprika, the next you’re holding a Moroccan tagine mix and mentally planning your entire week around it. The herbs! The international aisle! The dangerously tempting “new product” tags that lure you in like a siren song. It’s not just groceries. It’s potential. It’s promise. It’s reinvention in the form of chilli flakes and fish sauce.

And then you hit the shampoo aisle. Instant serotonin. I don’t know what it is about bottles of conditioner lined up in rainbow order that makes me feel like my life could be on track, but it works. Maybe this is the week I finally become a person who uses a hair mask twice a week. Maybe that fancy eco dishwashing liquid will actually make me like doing the dishes. Hope is alive and well in the homecare aisle, and I am here for it.

I once spent 20 minutes sniffing every laundry detergent until I left with three I didn’t need and zero regrets. That kind of quiet, indulgent freedom is rare. No partner huffing and puffing. No kids asking for snacks. No one interrupting your internal debate about whether your soul needs lavender or citrus today. It’s just you and a hyper-efficient, sensory-rich playground of choices.

The Seasonal Romance

Nothing flirts with me quite like seasonal produce. Strawberries on sale? Say less. Heirloom tomatoes glistening in the corner? Take my money. Grocery shopping solo means you get to linger, to feel the weight of a nectarine in your palm without someone breathing down your neck asking how much longer you’ll be. You get to have a moment with a peach. A full, flirtatious, considered moment.

It also feeds something in me that wants to be better. Healthier. More wholesome. I’ll stand in front of the leafy greens like I’m about to turn my life around with a kale smoothie and a three-bean salad. The fantasy is brief, but lovely. Do I usually still end up buying frozen mac and cheese? Of course. But the idea was there. The ambition was felt.

And when the seasons shift, so does the shop. Pumpkins in autumn. Mangoes in summer. Soup mixes that make you feel like a nurturing forest witch in winter. Every solo shop is a chance to realign with the earth. Or at least, the Coles version of the earth, which is slightly more expensive and shrink-wrapped.

The Art of the Slow Shop

There is an art to it. The slow wander. The way you let your body move at its own pace instead of the frantic hustle of errands with others. No agenda. No clock-watching. Just vibes. You can double back without explanation. You can stop and read the back of the sourdough crumpets for no reason at all. You can walk down every aisle just to see what’s new, what’s changed, what feels right.

You get to observe things. Tiny moments. A teenager gently helping his nan reach the flour. A staff member whistling as they restock the canned corn. The woman in the cheese section holding two brie wheels like she’s about to make a life-altering decision. These are the vignettes of humanity I didn’t know I needed until they softened me on a Sunday afternoon.

It’s a space where I feel grounded. Even when life is messy or uncertain, the supermarket is predictable. Familiar. Constant. Trolleys might rattle and prices might rise, but the peanut butter will always be in the same spot, and that counts for something.

Healing in Aisle 7

We do need to talk about that one time I had a minor breakdown in the soup aisle at Woolies. I was already emotionally wobbly. I’d run out of tissues. And then my emotional support laksa was just… gone. Discontinued? Relocated? Vanished into the ether? Who knows. What I do know is that I stood there blinking back tears while a toddler screamed bloody murder over a Kinder Surprise over in Aisle 3. That day, the grocery shop wasn’t therapy. It was grief.

But even that was healing in its own way. Because no one interrupted. No one asked if I was okay. I just stood there, quietly falling apart in front of the stock cubes and instant noodles, and somehow that was alright. There’s something comforting about public anonymity when you’re mid-meltdown. I wasn’t at home spiralling. I was doing something productive. With a basket full of cat food and dreams.

Sometimes, therapy is just existing in a space that asks nothing of you but presence. And maybe your Flybuys card. The solo grocery shop lets you feel feelings without explanation. You can rage at the cost of cherries, cry over discontinued favourites, and still leave with the gluten-free BBQ shapes. Healing and nourishment. Two-for-one, if you will.

Final Thoughts (But Not the Checkout)

I know it sounds dramatic to wax lyrical about the self-service checkout, but honestly, scanning my own groceries is a small power trip I refuse to let go of. Beep. Beep. Beep. Each item a tiny affirmation that I’m doing alright. That I can look after myself. That I deserve the fancy yoghurt and the Chicken and Cognac pate and the weird sparkling drink I’ll probably hate but wanted to try anyway.

Solo grocery shopping is not a chore. It’s not a punishment. It’s a love letter to your autonomy. To your tastebuds. To your inner peace. It’s where mundane errands meet quiet joy, and where routine can actually feel like a ritual. The kind that keeps you tethered to your body, your senses, your right to choose.

So next time you see someone slowly pushing a trolley while gently smiling to themselves in front of the canned tomatoes, let them be. They might not be lost. They might just be healing. And if you spot me crying in the laksa section again, just give me a nod and carry on. This is my happy place. Soup aisle breakdowns and all.

We Need to Stop Clapping for Basic Decency – Chaos, Crumbs and Clarity

In today's episode of Chaos, Crumbs and Clarity, we're unpacking why we need to stop clapping for basic decency. You know the script. A man texts back within twenty-four hours and we're screenshotting it to the group chat. A man plans a date more than three hours in advance and we call him a unicorn. A man manages to listen, pay attention, and behave like a fully formed adult, and our nervous systems short-circuit because we genuinely don't know how to receive it.Here's the truth nobody is saying out loud. The bar has been dragged so low that Satan himself needs a chiropractor after a competitive round of limbo. We've been culturally trained to be grateful for behaviour that should not require gratitude. We've been told these things are bonuses when they're actually the entry requirement. And in the meantime, women have been quietly doing the basic decency thing forever, without applause, while men get standing ovations for outputs we generated for them.Today we're talking about why a great man is genuinely just an average woman, who benefits when the bar stays low, the invisible labour women have been performing for free for centuries, and the friend-test that cuts straight through every excuse we've ever made for mediocre men. Let's get into it.For more visit BryJaimea.com or follow over on IG @BryJaimea

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