The Wilderness Within: Healing Through Solitude, Not Silence

Written by Sarah Hopton

There’s something that happens when we allow ourselves to be alone—not lonely, not disconnected, but truly with ourselves.

I felt it again recently, walking through the woods near my home. No music, no phone calls, just birdsong, wind, and the quiet crunch of my boots on earth. I wasn’t looking for insight. I didn’t have a question that needed answering. And yet, like it so often does, the forest gave me something. A reminder, perhaps, that solitude is not the enemy of healing—it’s often the invitation.

In therapy, I sit with so many people who are terrified of being alone with themselves. Not because they’re weak or dramatic or avoidant, but because the noise of life has trained them to be afraid of the silence. We’ve been taught that stillness means stagnation. That not “doing” means failing. That if you pause, the darkness will swallow you whole.

But healing isn’t always about action. Sometimes it’s about spaciousness. And sometimes, the loudest truths come in the quietest moments.

When I speak of solitude, I don’t mean cutting yourself off from the world or withdrawing in pain. I mean choosing to be with yourself in a new way. Not to judge or analyse or fix, but to meet yourself. To walk in your own company, gently and with curiosity. This kind of solitude is wild. Not in the dramatic sense—but in the rooted, untamed, deeply human sense. It calls us back to a self that existed before the shoulds and musts and endless comparisons. It calls us back to instinct, to breath, to body, to being.

So many of us are overstimulated and under-supported. We scroll endlessly, work relentlessly, people-please ourselves into depletion. And when the noise finally dies down? That’s when the anxiety creeps in. The ache. The truth. But here’s what I’ve come to believe: that ache isn’t a sign you’re broken. It’s the call of the wilderness within you. It’s your soul’s quiet rebellion, asking for your attention.

Therapy can offer space for that, yes. But so can a quiet walk. A journal entry. Sitting on your back step with a cup of tea and watching the sky. The wildness we long for isn’t always out there—it’s inside, waiting to be remembered.

And let me be clear: solitude doesn’t mean going it alone. It means cultivating a relationship with yourself that feels safe enough to hold all that you carry. It means learning to trust your own rhythms. To know when to rest, when to run, when to reach out. It’s not about silence for silence’s sake—it’s about presence.

In the quiet, I’ve met some of the loudest parts of myself. The angry ones. The grieving ones. The playful, feral, forgotten ones. And instead of trying to hush them, I’ve learned to sit beside them. To listen. To let the wildness be holy.

So if you’re in a season of your life where the noise has stopped—where the company has thinned or the distractions have dried up—I invite you not to fill the space too quickly. What if that space is sacred? What if that stillness is the start of something? What if the wilderness inside you isn’t something to be feared, but something to come home to?

I’ll meet you there.