No Room for a Roommate

—When you outgrow who you used to be and peace takes priority—

When Shared Space No Longer Feels Like Home

I never thought I’d say this, but here it is: I don’t think I can have a roommate ever again.

I realized it somewhere between the Denver Airport’s Pre-TSA line and my first sip of coffee at Gate C40. After a weekend mountain getaway packed with shared spaces, conversations that never paused, and one too many moments of people talking to me when all I wanted was silence—I felt it in my bones. The version of me that could handle constant company? She’s gone. I didn’t even hear her leave.

The shift wasn’t dramatic. It was subtle. Gradual. A soul-level evolution. But suddenly, I’m someone who craves stillness over chatter. Space over small talk. Solitude over shared sinks.

“I have calmed and quieted myself, I am like a weaned child with its mother; like a weaned child I am content.”

—Psalm 131:2

It wasn’t always like this. I used to thrive on group trips, communal meals, late-night talks. But something about living alone has reshaped my rhythms. The quiet I once feared has become my sanctuary. And now, anything that intrudes on that stillness—too much noise, too many voices, not enough room to breathe—feels like an assault on my nervous system.

I’m not antisocial. I’m just… tired.

Tired of the noise, the closeness, the overstimulation. Tired of having to “be on” when my soul is begging for quiet. I don’t need constant conversation—I need room to return to myself.

The Moment It All Clicked (Over a Teriyaki Bowl)

After the trip, I was back in LA by lunchtime, hungry and slightly relieved. I stopped at a mall’s food court and ordered teriyaki chicken, expecting comfort food. What I got instead was a spiritual test.

The exchange went something like this:

Me: “Less rice, more vegetables please.”

Cashier: “That’ll be 55 cents extra.”

Me: “Okay, then… just regular vegetables. But still less rice.”

Cashier: “So, more vegetables?”

Me (internally screaming): “No. Just regular vegetables. Less rice. That’s all.”

It was a minor thing. But I felt myself snap—not loudly, but sharply. It wasn’t about rice. It was about capacity. My patience had expired. My bandwidth was gone. I wasn’t just tired—I was overstimulated to the edge of reason.

That moment? It sealed the deal: I need space. Emotional, mental, physical. I need room to be without explaining, without performing, without being charged for extra vegetables just because I asked for less rice.

“Stillness is not the absence of life. It’s where life finds its voice again.”

—Morgan Harper Nichols

Soul Insights

1. Solitude is not loneliness—it’s soul preservation.

There’s a sacred difference between being alone and being with yourself. This weekend reminded me that solitude restores me in ways people simply can’t. And that’s not rejection of others—it’s realignment with my spirit.

2. The way I used to live no longer fits the way I now thrive.

What used to bring me joy—noise, company, shared space—now leaves me drained. That’s not regression. It’s transformation. I’m allowed to grow out of what I once clung to.

3. Peace isn’t a luxury. It’s a non-negotiable.

It’s not just nice to have peace—it’s essential. For my creativity, my health, my clarity. I now understand why Jesus often withdrew to lonely places to pray (Luke 5:16). It wasn’t avoidance. It was survival.

“Peace is the interior condition that allows truth to rise without panic.”

—John Mark Comer

4. Sensitivity is a strength, not a flaw.

I used to criticize myself for needing more space. But now I see it: sensitivity is how I feel deeply, write truthfully, love intentionally. The world doesn’t need me louder. It needs me more in tune.

5. Your soul will whisper when it’s time to shift.

Sometimes change doesn’t come with fireworks. It comes with discomfort. Resistance. A quiet knowing that something no longer fits. That’s when the invitation comes: Make room for peace. Even if it means saying no.

“Do not conform to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind.”

—Romans 12:2

Final Thoughts: What Growth Really Looks Like

Growth doesn’t always look like doing more or being bolder. Sometimes it looks like saying, “No thanks, I’ll stay home.” It looks like noticing when a once-cozy room feels too small. It looks like needing silence—not because you’re broken, but because you’re becoming whole.

So no, I don’t think I can share a room anymore. Not because I don’t love people—but because I finally love my peace more. And if that makes me a little quieter, a little more protective of my time and space, so be it.

“The need for solitude is not a weakness of the soul—it’s a witness to its depth.”

—Sue Monk Kidd

Your Turn to Reflect

What have you outgrown lately—not in a dramatic way, but in a soul-deep, quiet shift?

Where is your spirit craving more space, more silence, more sovereignty?

I’d love to hear what you’re learning. Leave a comment below or share this with someone who needs a reminder that it’s okay to change—and it’s holy to protect your peace.

Soul Path Insights