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<h5 style="padding-left: 240px;">Photo by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/people/photosoflessthanamazingjourneys/">photosoflessthanamazingjourneys</a></h5>
I just made one of those crazy Chicago trips, there and back within 24 hours. I drove up to teach a copywriting class for <a href="http://www.mediabistro.com/courses/cache/crs5018.asp?c=mbcrsfc">MediaBistro</a> last night, then spent the night at my in-laws in Evanston and drove back today.

In the days leading up to it, I was dreading this little journey. Because I often have a difficult time being kind and compassionate toward myself, I alternated between scolding myself for being such a whiner and demanding that I get to the bottom of whatever was causing this dread, and extricate it from my system.

A big part of it, I decided, is that we've been way too busy and have been traveling too much. I'm burnt out and wanted nothing more than to spend an entire week of nights in my own bed, driving no further than the couple of miles it takes to get anywhere in our town.

But I had to finally admit, <strong>I was also dreading being alone.</strong> The long highway 57 drive along cornfields, alone. The stress of navigating Chicago rush hour traffic, alone. Dinner before my class, alone, without Jason there to make me feel relaxed, confident and generally likable and brilliant.

There was no way around it: I didn't want to be alone, and I despised myself for feeling that way.
<h4>Once upon a time I didn't know how to be alone</h4>
<strong>There was a time in my life—not that many years ago, really—when I had done almost nothing truly on my own.</strong> At 30, I had never lived alone, never taken a trip or long road trip alone, never made a significant purchase like a computer, a car, or a house alone.

After my divorce, all of that changed in a matter of months. And it was exhilarating. I'm not a fan of the word "empowering," but there really isn't a better word for how doing all of these things alone made me feel. <strong>I realized I had missed so much by marrying young and letting that tiny but insistent internal voice tell me I probably wasn't capable of these things, and there was certainly no reason to find out.</strong> Once that simpering voice had been banished, I vowed to do lots of things alone, boldly and with pleasure.
<h4>Learning to claim independence <em>with</em> someone</h4>
My initial reaction yesterday, when I detected that <em>I don't want to go alone</em> whine welling up in me, was something like this: "You're getting soft! And weak! And dependent! Only two years into your marriage with Jason! Don't let it happen!"

And in some ways I didn't let it happen. I drove to Chicago alone, navigating my way through rush hour traffic downtown and up to the north side. I ate dinner alone, gave myself a pep talk, taught my seminar and drove myself to my in-laws' house for the night.

But as I thought about this more today, driving the two and a half hours home, I realized how different my feelings about being alone are now. <strong>Before, in my "other life," I didn't do anything alone because I really didn't think I could.</strong> I didn't have the confidence or the independence.

<strong>Now, I <em>know</em> I am capable of doing so much alone,</strong> from single parenting to house buying and lawn mowing and long road trips. I can even do long evenings and weekends alone. I just choose not to, if I have the choice, because I'm better with others—with Jason, in particular, but I'm just better with others, in general. I'm finally starting to accept that <strong>being with others doesn't make me weak and <em>less</em> myself, it makes me strong and <em>more</em> myself. </strong>That's just the kind of person I am.

And I'm glad to finally be able to say "I don't <em>want</em> to do this alone," but to also know that I can.