What No One Tells You About Building a Life Alone

The Life You Thought You’d Have (and the One You Got Instead)

When I was 21, I thought I had it all figured out. I’d get married young, pop out a couple of kids, maybe move to a leafy suburb with a picket fence and a husband who actually knew how to change a tyre. I imagined dinner parties, family holidays, school drop-offs, and matching Christmas pyjamas. You know, the whole smug Instagram-ready package. But instead, I’m 42, divorced, living in a beautiful townhouse in a bougie Adelaide suburb, with a cat who behaves like he’s possessed by something ancient and vengeful.

And honestly? It’s kind of perfect. Not in a fairy-tale way, but in the way that makes you sit on your balcony in your knickers at 11pm eating cold pizza and thinking, “Well, this is my 9 of Pentacles era*.” I’ve lived a dozen lives already. I’ve travelled, I’ve fallen madly in lust (and also into very stupid situations), I’ve cried on hotel floors and kissed strangers under fairy lights. My life doesn’t look like the one I imagined, but it’s full of plot twists that keep things interesting.

No one tells you that it’s possible to build a life alone that doesn’t feel like a sad montage of empty wine glasses and echoing silence. Mine looks like silk robes, perfectly organised bookshelves, and laughing so hard with my best friend that we choke on our matcha lattes. I’m not lonely. I’m just… uncrowded. And there’s a difference.

*The 9 of Pentacles is the ultimate hot girl tarot card. She’s self-sufficient, thriving, independent, and unbothered. Think: you, in a silk robe, sipping something bubbly, knowing you built your life exactly the way you wanted with zero crumbs left for anyone who didn’t deserve a seat at your table.

Living Alone Isn’t Sad, It’s Sacred

I know what you’re thinking. Living alone? Sounds bleak. But the thing is, no one warns you that living alone can actually be one of the greatest luxuries. No one eats your leftovers. No one leaves passive aggressive notes about the bins. And you get to control the energy of your space. Mine is 60 percent vintage incense scents, 20 percent mood lighting, and 20 percent Lulu knocking things off the shelves like he pays rent.

It’s not always cute, of course. Sometimes the silence is so loud it rings in your ears. Sometimes you light a candle for vibes and end up having an existential crisis about the meaning of a throw pillow. But then you remember that every decision in your home is yours. The bedspread? Yours. The snacks? All yours. The playlists, the temperature, the kitchen cupboards organised by aesthetic? Also yours.

You don’t realise how sacred solitude is until you have it. Until you’re dancing in your undies to Kylie Minogue while watering your plants and yelling at your demon cat to get off the counter. It’s not sad. It’s soft. It’s weird. It’s wildly empowering. And it’s something I wouldn’t trade, not even for a family-sized lasagne made by a mediocre man who calls women “females.”

The Rules Are Made Up and the Plot Is Mine

Most of my life choices are for the plot. Like changing careers in my thirties, flying to the UK because I dreamt of the Highlands, adopting a cat I absolutely didn’t need but now can’t live without, and eating cheese for dinner because I simply didn’t feel like cooking. I no longer measure my success by what other people think I should’ve done by now. I measure it in how many days I feel like myself.

The problem is, no one prepares you for how much you’ll have to unlearn. The timelines, the expectations, the invisible pressure to be partnered up like it’s a personality trait. I spent so long wondering if I’d messed up, if the divorce meant I’d failed. But the truth is, that version of me didn’t get it wrong. She just outgrew a life that no longer fit. And now I’m building one that does.

You get to be the architect of your own joy. You get to decide what matters. Maybe it’s making your flat look like a Pinterest board. Maybe it’s midnight walks with a podcast and a box of Cheezels. Maybe it’s giving yourself permission to thrive in ways that don’t need explaining. Your plot. Your pace. Your rules.

Choosing Yourself (Even When It’s Boring)

Let’s be real. Choosing yourself sounds very empowered on Instagram, but in reality? It’s doing your laundry without being asked. It’s staying in when you’d rather be cuddled up with someone problematic. It’s saying no to dating apps because they drain your soul. It’s making your own cup of tea and not crying about the fact no one else offered.

The hardest part of building a life alone isn’t the solitude. It’s the discipline. You are your own backup plan. Your own emergency contact. Your own ride-or-die. You get to hold your own hand through the good, the bad, and the catastrophically hormonal. And sometimes that sucks. But other times, it’s revolutionary.

Because the moment you realise you can handle your own life? That you don’t need someone else to make it whole? That’s when you become truly dangerous. Dangerous in the best way. Unshakable. Grounded. Free. And while yes, it’s annoying to unclog your own drains and put out your own emotional fires, there’s something wildly satisfying about knowing you did it all without a rescue mission.

It’s Not Loneliness. It’s Liberation.

I get asked a lot if I’m lonely. And sure, sometimes. I get pangs. Like when I see couples arguing in Woolies and feel a weird jealousy that someone cares enough to fight about lentils. Or when I scroll past a baby announcement and my uterus whispers, “Remember when you thought that would be you?” But most days? I’m not lonely. I’m light.

I’m not weighed down by someone else’s expectations. I don’t shrink myself to make space for someone who doesn’t know what they want. I don’t wait up for texts or play emotional hide-and-seek. I sleep diagonally across the bed. I wear robes as outfits. I eat gluten-free BBQ shapes with Prosecco at 2am because no one’s watching and carbs are still a love language.

No one tells you that the life you build alone might be the one where you feel the most loved. Not by someone else. But by you. Your choices. Your peace. Your absurd little routines that make no sense to anyone else. And the demon cat who waits outside the bathroom like he’s your bodyguard. It’s not the life I expected. But oh god, it’s good.

If no one’s said it to you yet: you’re not behind. You’re not a nigel-no-friends. You’re not less-than for choosing to build your life solo. You’re the main character. You’re the plot twist. You’re the architect of your own magic. And whether you’re dancing in your kitchen alone or crying into a cheeseboard, you’re doing just fine.

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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