CONFIDENCE

H.E.R. DEFINITION

CONFIDENCE is not the absence of doubt. It is showing up anyway, second-guessing and all. It is getting dressed, walking through the door, and trusting that you belong exactly where you are, even when a part of you is still working to believe it.

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I bought two tickets to see Alex Isley. One for me. One for him.

He didn't show up. Not because something came up - because he was doing what he does. Being avoidant. I wasn't about to chase him down and beg him to come.

So there I was, alone in a hotel room that was supposed to be for two, getting ready by myself. I looked good, and I told myself so. He ain't stopping this.

But that was the confident version talking. The other voice showed up right behind it. I should just skip it. I can catch Alex another time. I am going to look ridiculous walking in there alone. And then, the one that followed me all the way to the venue - what if he shows up. With someone else.

I got dressed anyway. I did my hair anyway. And I told myself I was fine.

I was not fine. Not yet.

CONFIDENCE. People look at me and assume I have always been the woman who does things alone without a second thought. Concerts, comedy shows, dinner - I do all of it solo now, and regularly. And because I do it, people call me confident.

What they do not see is what is happening in my head while I am doing it. The second-guessing. The scenarios. The what-ifs, running on repeat, long before I ever get out the door.

That night, I stood in line by myself and made small talk with strangers so I would not have to sit with the thought of him. Inside, I ended up at a table with a group of other women flying solo. We talked and laughed, and for a while it was easy. But when Alex hit the stage, the wishing got loud. I kept thinking how nice it would be if he were there. How romantic it could have been. We both loved music. This should have been ours.

But he wasn't there. And I decided I was going to enjoy myself anyway.

So I took a breath. I let that beautiful voice fill the room. I told myself, over and over, I am here. I should be enjoying this. I AM enjoying this. And slowly, the thoughts quieted.

I closed my eyes. I let the music hold me instead of him. And somewhere in the middle of that set, something in me settled. Not because the ache disappeared - it didn't - but because I stopped needing it to disappear in order to be okay. I was exactly where I was supposed to be. I belonged there, whether or not anyone was sitting beside me. That is not a small thing. That is the thing.

That is, until I was walking out. There was a second show that night, and as I made my way to my car, a small ridiculous part of me wondered if he might be standing in that next line. He was not. I drove back to the hotel, and the sadness crept back in. I had built a whole scene in my head - the kind you only get from too many romance movies and novels - where somehow, some way, we would run into each other and it would all make sense. It did not happen. It was not supposed to happen. I got back to that hotel room alone, and I cried. But I was okay.

I have come to understand that this - the fantasy, the movie scene I build in my head that reality rarely matches - is part of my story. I have read that this kind of scene-building, pinning your peace to how someone else might show up, is actually a codependent trait. If I am honest, that tracks for me. I wish I could just switch it off. I have not figured out how yet. But I have learned to recognize it when it shows up, and that recognition is its own kind of progress.

Crying alone in that hotel room was not proof that I had failed at confidence. Getting dressed anyway, walking in anyway, staying through the doubt instead of running from it - that was confidence. Just not the version anyone shows you in the movies. Nobody claps for the version where you are still a little sad afterward. But that version is real, and it counts.

Since that night, I have been to two more Alex Isley shows. Jill Scott. Several other artists I love. Several times, I was deep into writing a new rom com movie in my head. I am forever the romantic. Or the fool. Maybe both. But I keep going.

What has actually changed is this. I no longer dread going alone. I look forward to it. No planning, no waiting on anyone else's timeline. Just me, flying solo, chatting with strangers, enjoying a room full of people while fully enjoying my own company. After decades of claiming to be an introvert, it turns out I am more of an extrovert than I ever gave myself credit for.

Doing these things alone is not something I do because I have to. I have friends and family who enjoy spending time with me as much as I do with them. But I do it because I get to. I choose what I want to experience, and who I want to be, in a room full of strangers, when no one is expecting anything from me at all.

A day or two after the concert, my should-have-been date said via text how disappointed he was to have missed the concert with me, and that he wished I had reached out. I guess to smooth things over so WE could enjoy it as planned. Me. What's crazy is. The old version of me probably would have. But confidence was not just walking into that concert alone. It was knowing that I deserved better treatment than I was experiencing in this so-called relationship.

If you are the woman sitting at home right now, talking yourself out of the concert, the dinner, the comedy show, because going alone feels too vulnerable, too exposed, too much like admitting something - here is what I wish someone had told me before that first Alex Isley show.

Confidence is not the absence of the ache. It is buying the ticket anyway. Getting dressed anyway. Walking in anyway. Even if you cry a little in the car afterward. Especially then.

Just do it. Open yourself up to the possibility of having a wonderful time. You are your own best date anyway. Get out there, and enjoy your own company.