I stepped into the corporate world at the age of 22 and I changed a few environments before jacking in my first job soon after only to return to the industry yet again. My profession dictated long hours alone, and that was when I woke up to the joys of solitude.

I grew more used to the idea of going abouts alone and I began a new chapter of self discovery that didn't include a single self-help book. Instead, it ran a cross-section of experiences that ranged from the erotic to the esoteric to the downright ordinary: a good read alone on the weekend is the most beautifully solitude thing I know. Looking through a window seeing a blue sky dotted with soft cotton clouds, I knew instantly I didn't need to be with anyone to appreciate that scene better. A warm body next to me wouldn't have made the difference, because at this point in my life, the moment was about me.

Women seem strangely hot-wired from birth to believe that they should caretake the entire universe, but never seem to question the mechanics of that state of mind. That they often deny themselves, making decisions by what is expected versus exploring their personal desires or needs, seems the expected hallmark of a woman's emotional set-up. That another side exists, as real and positive and committed and fulfilling, as any relationship could be, doesn't often seem to enter the regular stream of female consciousness as anything other than a temporary fix - a default position to be corrected.

A close pal and I recently concluded that we weren't living for a relationship to fix our existence. We were living for ourselves because, finally, we knew ourselves. As Ralph Waldo Emerson once wrote, "We must be our ownselves before we can know others."