Empty nest, Full weekend.

Everyone thought I was going to fall apart. The first year my son went off to university, the predictions were unanimous: “You’re going to be devastated without him.” Some said it kindly. Some said it gleefully. Some handed me wine and tissues like it was a foregone conclusion.

And yes, it was quiet. And yes, I missed him terribly. But no, I didn’t fall apart.

In fact, on one particular weekend early in that first year, I took myself off on a getaway. A birthday celebration.

It started with a beautiful little road trip. A couple of plays. A wine tasting tour. A beautiful dinner out. I bought some art supplies—because I’d quietly decided I wanted to learn how to paint. I didn’t do it to prove anything. I just… wanted to. The trip was lovely. The company—me—was even better.

A few days later, I called my son to say hello. He was having a blast: rugby, lacrosse, hockey, beer, a class or two, if absolutely necessary. He was happy, full of stories, exactly as he should be.

I told him all about my weekend—with as much detail as he could tolerate. The gorgeous fall colors on the road. The plays, the food, the wine. He laughed. “So, you’re really miserable without me at home, right?”

I laughed, too. “Oh, by the way,” I said, just as we were about to hang up, “You bought me a lovely set of water paints for my birthday.”

There was a pause. Then a groan. “Oh, Mom. I’m sorry. Happy Birthday! Great present I got you, though, right?”

Perfect, really. Just perfect.

I didn’t mind that he’d forgotten, he was busy and having fun. I’d never needed him to remember for me to feel loved. And this birthday, I’d given myself a weekend full of joy—and maybe for the first time in a long time, I’d remembered me. I’d celebrated me, just me.

Enjoying time alone can be a positive and restorative experience. It allows for time for self-reflection, creativity, and personal growth. Engaging in activities you enjoy, like reading, hobbies, or mindfulness practices, can make this time more meaningful. That’s not indulgence. That’s love—the quiet, necessary kind we so often forget to give ourselves. It’s about returning to yourself—and that’s one of the purest forms of love there is.

We don’t talk enough about self-love. The love that doesn’t wait for someone else to show up with flowers. The kind of connection that’s not about finding your other half but about reclaiming your whole self. It’s not flashy. It doesn’t trend. But it’s steady. Deep. Sometimes even joyful.

We don’t talk enough about self-love. The love that doesn’t wait for someone else to show up with flowers.

And in a quiet way, those paints were the beginning of something beautiful.

So, here’s a thought: what if the longest, most important love story of your life isn’t about another person at all? What if it’s the one you’re already living—with yourself?

You might be the one person who never forgets your birthday again. And you might be surprised how much fun you are when you’re not busy being everyone else’s everything.

What about you? When’s the last time you gave yourself the gift of your own company?
Tell us your favourite solo celebration—or what you’re dreaming of next time.