The Evolution of Self-Harm IV: The Holy Seclusion

We are, by far, the loudest species—and simultaneously the loneliest.

There’s a quiet that we glorify today. It's your localised minimalist desk setups, log-out posts, and the hashtags of “protecting my peace.” It is a kind of monkhood for the modern mind, born not in temples but in studio apartments, bathed not in incense but in the glow of screens turned off.
And, truth be told, I know you love it.

There’s something liberating—pure, even—in the pullback. The act of withdrawing from the noise, pruning the unnecessary, watching life from the safe edges of detachment. Isolation, when deliberate, feels like power. It’s the silence that holds you together when everything else threatens to split you apart. But it is also the most sophisticated form of self-harm I know.

The Seduction of Solitude

Somewhere along the path of healing, we started equating solitude with strength. And it is—until it isn’t. We repeat mantras like “I don’t need anyone,” “I’m better off alone,” or “They’ll never understand me anyway.” At first, these are shields. Then, slowly, they become walls.

High ones.

And eventually, we realise the walls keep out more than the things we feared. They keep out joy. Laughter. Serendipity. Love.

Isolation is not just the absence of others—it is the systematic removal of mirrors. Because sometimes, we avoid people not because they hurt us, but because they reflect us. 

Let’s talk about what no one posts after logging off for "a break."

We stop being accountable. We delay texts, decline invites, and convince ourselves that detachment is wisdom. That we are “filtering energies” or “being intentional.”

But here’s the thing: intentionality doesn’t mean absence. It means presence with purpose, and I know you read that, but read the sentence again. Because it's not that it's something you do not know, but do you really know that you know?

When we isolate, we sometimes forget that others depend on us—not always in obvious ways. A younger sibling who watches how we move through the world. A friend whose brave face is waiting for ours to soften. A partner who’s anchored to our emotional climate without even knowing it. Solitude begins as self-care and quietly decays into self-neglect, then, worse, neglect of others.

I’m not here to villainise silence. God knows the world is overstimulated. There are seasons we need to withdraw to hear our own voices again. In those moments, solitude is medicinal. But medicine becomes poison when taken in excess.

If you find yourself isolating out of fear—fear of being misunderstood, of disappointing others, of vulnerability—that’s not peace. That’s retreat. And we must learn the difference.

The evolution of self-harm has moved from blade to behaviour, from indulgence to abstinence. Now, it’s arriving cloaked in silence. The clean aesthetics of isolation do not always reveal its psychological weight. No one sees your loneliness through your "Do Not Disturb" mode. No one knows you're struggling when your silence is read as “strong boundaries.”

Be alone when you must. But let people in when you can.
Don’t confuse absence with healing. Don’t confuse being unseen with being whole.

There’s value in closing the door, yes. But maybe… don’t bolt it shut. Leave a crack. For air. For voices. For someone to knock.

And maybe—when you're ready—you'll answer.

Thanks for following along on this journey through The Evolution of Self-Harm. If you’d like to keep going, subscribe to join the conversation and stay updated. And if you haven’t read the earlier pieces yet, you can start with Part I, Part II and Part III.