It’s 2:00 am again. Sleep has betrayed me, and I find myself wide awake, staring at the ceiling, my mind spinning in circles like a restless child.

The Advocate of Solitude speaks first, bold and confident:

“You are strong because you are alone. You have made it this far without anyone propping you up. You answer to no one. Your finances, your decisions, your lifestyle — all yours. Marriage is no insurance against stress. If anything, it adds to the burden. Look around at your married friends. Are they any happier? They complain about ungrateful spouses, nagging in-laws, rebellious children, endless compromises. You, at least, live on your own terms.”

I nod in partial agreement. It’s true — freedom has its own charm. I don’t have to consult anyone before booking a trip, buying furniture, or changing jobs. Every choice I make belongs entirely to me.

But before I can get too smug about it, The Voice of Longing sneaks in, softer but persistent:

“Yes, but at what cost? Your strength is admirable, but look at what it’s doing to your health. You are strong because you have no choice. You are reliable because there’s no one else. But strength born out of compulsion is not resilience — it’s survival. And survival alone is not living. When was the last time you felt safe enough to fall apart in someone’s arms? When was the last time you knew someone would catch you if you fell?”

That question lingers like a splinter under my skin. When was the last time? Have I ever truly felt that way? I honestly don’t know.

My married friends often grumble about their spouses — endless fights over money, kids, relatives, time. When I ask them if they’d trade their lives for mine, the room usually falls silent. Some say they envy my freedom, my peace. Others admit they can’t imagine not having that person — flawed as they may be — to share the load.

But does sharing really happen? Or is it a myth we tell ourselves to romanticize companionship? Many couples live parallel lives under the same roof, sharing neither dreams nor fears. They are just glorified roommates with a marriage certificate. Do I want that? Do I want someone who is present but absent, who brings their own stress into my already saturated life?

The Advocate of Solitude pounces on this thought:
“Exactly! Relationships are no guarantee of health or happiness. If anything, they could make your stress worse. You’ve seen friends whose partners drained them financially, emotionally, mentally. You’ve seen marriages collapse under the weight of unrealized expectations. You know the loneliness that exists even inside a marriage. You’re better off alone.”

But the Voice of Longing refuses to back down:
“Yet, you yearn. You crave connection. Your body aches not just from stress, but from the absence of warmth — of someone to say, ‘Don’t worry, I’ve got this today.’ Health is not just physical; it’s emotional too. Humans are not designed to carry life’s burdens alone. Independence is powerful, yes, but interdependence is healing.”

This debate plays in my mind every single day, louder now at 45 than ever before. My health, my stress, my sense of isolation — they’re all intertwined. Would I feel less burdened if there was someone to share it with? Or would adding a partner just multiply my existing worries?

I wish there was a clear answer. Some mornings, I wake up thankful for the silence in my house — no arguments, no expectations to fulfill except my own. Other nights, like this one, the silence is deafening, and I long for the simple comfort of knowing someone is awake with me, even if we sit in silence together.

I don’t know what’s healthier — to fight the world alone or to fight alongside someone, knowing they might fail you too. What I do know is that this stress, this relentless pressure to be my own everything, is slowly unraveling me. My body keeps the score, and lately, the score isn’t in my favor.

The Advocate of Solitude and the Voice of Longing both have valid arguments. Perhaps health, at 45, is not about choosing one over the other, but about finding smaller ways to lighten the load — through friendships, through creative outlets, through self-compassion. Maybe true health comes not from having someone to rely on, but from learning how to ask for help — whether from a partner, a friend, or even from life itself.

As the night slips into dawn, I sit with both voices. I don’t silence either. They both belong to me, and they both speak a truth I cannot deny. My encounter with health at 45 is not a crisis of body alone — it’s a crisis of the soul, a longing for balance between strength and surrender, between independence and intimacy.

Perhaps the answer is not in choosing between solitude and companionship, but in allowing myself to be human — vulnerable, imperfect, and deserving of care, whether from within or from others. My health depends on it.

The ceiling doesn’t answer back. But admitting it, even in silence, feels like the baby step to awareness & healing.