Recently I found this note in my 2021 diary: “Moved into this apartment five days ago, waiting for loneliness to catch up, but it hasn’t come.” I had written it in September of that year. I had just moved from Berlin to Istanbul, alone. It was meant to be a three-month stay – the plan was to return to Berlin by Christmas. But I didn’t return. It has now been more than three years and I’ve never felt more alive.
Before the move abroad, I’d lived with my partner for more than a decade. I was well acquainted with sharing life and space. Being truly alone within four walls was as new to me as my neighbourhood on the Bosphorus.
My simply furnished apartment – a sublet from a young Turkish couple I’d connected with on Instagram – had hardwood floors and French doors, and was located on the third floor of an old building designed by an Italian architect in 1911. The living room has a sage-green velvet sofa, a light-wood bookshelf half-filled with Turkish classics and poetry, and a fig tree that had one leaf when I arrived and 10 three months later. In the bedroom, a white wardrobe and a bed with a view of the Bosphorus. Off the living room, there’s a small dining room with a bay window and a blue-and-white-striped daybed from which you can see Galata Tower.
I remember squealing with joy those first mornings, bouncing around the apartment in disbelief. The view. The endless blue sky. The silence. These rooms that, suddenly, were all mine.
For years, I couldn’t have imagined life without a partner – and I think that’s true for many people. Once you’re settled in one way of living, it’s nearly impossible to imagine another. A life alone seemed as risky as hiking without a map. Surely you’d get lost.
In those first weeks, I explored the neighbourhood, wandered the streets and made the apartment my own with small additions such as a vase and colourful bowls for olives and nuts. After eight weeks, I got new bedding in my favourite shade of light pink, a sharp knife, four wine glasses, a bedside lamp and a stool for beside the bed. I rearranged things in the kitchen cabinets, moved the dining table closer to the window, visited exhibitions and pinned postcards of art I liked on the walls.
That December, I wrote in my notebook:
Toast with marmalade
Boiled egg
Fennel salad with walnuts
At home, I was always hungry. Here, I forgot to eat.
That’s not quite true – I didn’t forget, but my habits changed, hence the random list of foods I’d noted. I relearnt what I actually need, like and want. With someone else, you coordinate routines that suit a couple, not necessarily an individual. Breakfast at eight, dinner at seven.
But when it’s just for me, what do I like to eat? What do I buy and cook? It might sound trivial, but each body has its own pace. It’s liberating not to have to consider someone else’s. Talking, being polite, smiling, refilling a plate – all of it fell away. You might call it selfish, but as a woman in a patriarchal society, caring solely for myself felt gloriously rebellious.
Strangely, I began to enjoy cleaning. I became tidier and found I needed less. I used to crave spacious rooms, but now I preferred the smaller ones – perhaps because more space invites more chaos.
Loneliness is a demanding guest, often showing up when things don’t go as hoped. Small moments would trigger it: visiting the doctor and struggling to express myself fully in Turkish, standing on a packed subway wondering what I was doing here, or experiencing a beautiful moment – alone.
There’s only one solution: get out and walk yourself to exhaustion. Living alone means you must be able to endure yourself – all your emotions and thoughts, the worries and fears that don’t exactly scream “Hurrah”. If I choke on a piece of bread, or forget the stove and cause a fire, there’s no one to help. If I slip in the bathroom, no one will notice. It’s a fact you must come to terms with.
One night I dreamed of a stormy sea, only to wake up to the bed rocking – it was an earthquake. Who would find me in the rubble? When you live alone, you can’t dwell on these things, or you’ll go mad. Fear, like loneliness, is a poor companion.
Sometimes, Friday night would arrive with a bottle of wine and no plans. One glass turned into another. You’re dancing to Whitney Houston, tearing up to Adele, and ordering a midnight burger. You take two bites before falling asleep with the burger still on your chest. Funny, but also a bit sad. That kind of theatricality fades quickly. Living alone, you learn to take care of yourself.
But then, you get this: three cups of coffee in bed on a Sunday, smoking a cigarette without anyone complaining, watching silly movies, picking your nose without shame, listening to the same three songs on repeat, leaving the bathroom door open.
I found new friendships. I met my neighbour on the same floor as me. An architect who moved here after her divorce, she calls this apartment her haven. She told me: “Living alone after the divorce helped me find and protect my own land.” She meant an inner land, a kind of personal territory, like Virginia Woolf’s A Room of One’s Own.
Over time, I got to know the other residents: the film-maker upstairs, the journalist downstairs. An artist across the street invited me into her studio one day.
Some weeks, I overbooked myself to stave off loneliness, only to cancel plans and spend a quiet evening at home. And that was fine too.
Living alone does come at a cost – not just emotional, but financial. It’s a luxury you have to afford, especially in cities such as Berlin, Paris or London. For now, I’m grateful to have experienced it here in Istanbul.
In a New York Times article headlined “Alone Again, Naturally”, Dominique Browning argued that once women make the leap to living alone, they often don’t want to give it up, despite occasional loneliness. Partnerships are a lot of work, and honestly, you can feel horribly lonely even in a pair. Isolation within a “we” is somehow worse. I’ve learned that we expect endless things from romantic partnerships but underestimate the value of friendship.
You learn a lot about yourself on your own in a big city – sometimes in hauntingly beautiful ways.
One might think Christmas would be the hardest time of the year to spend alone. I remember my first Christmas in Istanbul. I felt a little anxious, unsure of what to expect.
There was no tree, no gifts, no parties, no crowded supermarkets and no plans for gatherings. No rush. No one cared about this holiday or the idea of “holy silence”. People went on with their routines, stopping for tea, wishing each other a good day. No “Merry Christmas”. It was a relief.
As a child, I used to love Christmas. But as an adult, I found the pressure, the forced kindness, the expectation to create harmony less and less enjoyable – it felt artificial. Yet in Germany, I never dared to break away from the blind adherence to rituals. It’s easier to step outside tradition when you’re in a different environment.
On Christmas Eve, I went to a concert by the Turkish pianist and composer Fazıl Say. He played his famous piece İnsan İnsan. One verse in it goes: “I now know what life is.” Sitting in the warm concert hall on a dark blue chair, I understood.
On Christmas Day that first year, I bought myself a bright red wrap skirt. It swung like a bell with every movement. In the afternoon, I went grocery shopping and spontaneously invited five friends over for dinner. I prepared some meze, made a big salad, picked up cookies, good bread from the German bakery in the mall, and some wine. We ate, chatted, listened to music and danced in my little living room. We were, as they say, merry. At one point, I caught myself pausing, as if trying to observe myself from above. Was this woman, surrounded by a handful of people who weren’t family, suppressing sadness? Was I one of those lonely spinster types people whispered about behind her back – She’s a bit weird, you know? No. Here’s the reality: there was no sadness. Not at all. When the usual reminders are absent, you forget what you were conditioned to feel. It’s all so silly.
This year, I’ll be in Istanbul again. There won’t be any sacred stillness. Some friends might stop by after work. Life will continue as usual – or as unusual as it always does. And so will I. Or, to borrow Anna Seghers’ words: Here I am. What happens now, happens to me.
Carolin Würfel is a writer, screenwriter and journalist. She is the author of Three Women Dreamed of Socialism
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