The Gift of Solitude, Sauce, and Staying Present

I arrived at Oliver’s house this morning before the sun had fully claimed the sky. A repeat client—so many stays at this point I’ve stopped counting. There is something sacred about being trusted with someone’s home and beloved pet. It’s quiet work. Intentional work. Honest work.

And today, it felt like oxygen.

Solitude gets a bad reputation. People equate it with loneliness—something to be fixed or avoided. But for me, solitude is expansive. It is space. It is freedom. It is the rare luxury of moving at my own pace—especially in a body that doesn’t always cooperate.

Living with dystonia and Long Covid means my nervous system doesn’t interpret the world the way most do. What others dismiss as “background noise” can feel like an assault. The overhead fan above a stovetop? Many call it white noise. For hundreds of millions navigating dystonia or PASC—and especially for those of us juggling both—it is anything but neutral. It vibrates through bone and muscle. It demands energy I do not have to spare.

And yet.

As Alexia’s homemade Italian sauce simmered over the gas flame, the fan roared—but so did something deeper. Sweet basil. Garlic. Oregano. Tomatoes surrendering to heat. Beef and pork melding into richness. The scent alone sent dopamine firing.

I stood there, breathing it in.

How blessed am I to have all five senses still intact? To smell authenticity. To hear the steady flow of water as I rinsed pasta. To watch noodles transform—small and firm, then softening into vessels for flavor.

There is something holy about witnessing transformation up close.

And then there is that sixth sense—the one that cannot be measured in a lab. The awareness that I am standing not far from where several of my ancestors built their lives—Cleveland, Lakewood, Rocky River. The same soil. The same lake air. The same grit.

It’s humbling.

This morning, when I arrived for this home and pet care stay, I made a deal with myself. Pasta on Sunday—after accomplishing A, B, and C. Discipline first. Reward later.

But as evening crept in, nothing had sounded appetizing all day. Pain dulls hunger until it doesn’t. Suddenly, I was ravenous.

And I paused.

Who knows what tomorrow will bring?

Is it compromise to have the pasta tonight? Or is it a declaration that today matters too?

We who live with chronic conditions are trained to postpone joy. To conserve. To wait for the “right” moment. To prove productivity before allowing ourselves pleasure. But what if nourishment is not something to earn?

What if it is fuel for what comes next?

So I cooked the pasta.

I listened to the fan, even when it grated. I breathed through it. I let basil and garlic overpower the mechanical hum. I plated the noodles just right and let the sauce coat every curve.

And I ate.

Not as a reward. Not as surrender. But as affirmation:

I am here.
I am hungry.
I am alive.
And today is enough.

Solitude did not weaken me. It strengthened me. It allowed me to feel everything—pain, noise, memory, ancestry, gratitude, hunger—and choose presence anyway.

There is freedom in that.
There is joy in that.

And sometimes, the bravest thing we can do is allow ourselves the pasta tonight.