There was a time when leisure simply meant having nothing to do. Now it seems to require a strategy. We have evenings that are “for ourselves”, weekends that are “protected”, mornings that are “sacred” and carefully negotiated periods of “me time” that must not be disturbed. We schedule downtime almost as efficiently as we schedule work. We guard an hour with a book, a television programme, a walk or simply the phone as though it were an appointment with someone extremely important. Which, in a sense, it is. After all, we have spent decades learning that rest is not laziness, solitude is not loneliness and saying no does not make us selfish. We have discovered boundaries. We have learned about burnout, overstimulation and emotional exhaustion. We have been told — quite correctly — that constantly being available to everyone else is not necessarily a sign of a healthy life. So we have become rather good at protecting our peace. Perhaps a little too good. The phrase “me time” would have sounded faintly self-indulgent to an earlier generation. Today it is almost a category of necessity. There are books about it, podcasts about it, therapists discussing it and an entire industry devoted to helping us achieve it. A bath is no longer merely a bath. It can be self-care. Reading for half an hour is self-care. Going for a walk is self-care. Sitting in silence is self-care. Even lying on the sofa doing absolutely nothing can now be defended as an important contribution to one's mental wellbeing. And perhaps it is. The modern day is not particularly generous with unclaimed time. Our phones have made sure of that. The working day may officially end at five, but the notifications do not. Family groups remain active. Colleagues remember things at 9.30pm. Friends send reels. News keeps arriving. There is always another message to answer, another email to read, another little piece of the outside world asking to be let in. Even when nobody is physically asking anything of us, somebody, somewhere, probably is. The result is that being unavailable has become a form of luxury. A phone on silent mode. A closed bedroom door. A Sunday afternoon with nowhere to go. An evening in which nobody needs an answer. These small pockets of solitude can feel disproportionately precious because they are increasingly difficult to come by. This is where “me time” becomes more interesting than the self-help phrase it initially appears to be. It tells us something about how we now live. For much of human history, people did not have to consciously schedule every moment of rest. Life followed rhythms of work, daylight, meals, family and sleep. The digital age has replaced some of those natural pauses with a state of almost continuous responsiveness. We are rarely doing only one thing, and we are almost never entirely unreachable. The brain, unsurprisingly, seems to like a break. Neuroscientists and psychologists have increasingly examined the value of periods of solitude and reduced stimulation. Intentional time alone can provide space to process experiences, regulate emotions and recover from the demands of constant engagement. In other words, that apparently unproductive hour in which nothing much happens may be doing quite a lot. Perhaps Eleanor Oliphant understands the appeal. In Gail Honeyman's Eleanor Oliphant Is Completely Fine, Eleanor has turned solitude into a carefully organised way of life. Every weekend is hers. She enjoys her food and drink, eats frozen pizza, does phone crosswords and follows her familiar routine. Nobody interferes. Nothing unexpected is required of her. Her solitude is both a refuge and a structure that keeps the complications of human connection at a safe distance. Eleanor's story is obviously more complicated than a celebration of a quiet weekend. But there is something recognisable in her devotion to routine: the pleasure of knowing that, for a few hours, nobody wants anything from you. That pleasure has become increasingly familiar to the rest of us. “I limit socialising and invites to the weekends as much as I can,” says Fariha, who is in her sixties and works at a university. “After a busy day, which includes hectic commutes, I must relax in the evenings. So when I am done with an early dinner, I spend time watching TV or scrolling to catch up on my socials. I switch my phone off at 10.30pm to shut out the outside world, which at that point I find intrusive. If I am invited somewhere during the week and it’s not possible to avoid it, I pine for my time to myself as opposed to meeting people and having to do conversations.” There is a certain irony in needing solitude to recover from socialising, when socialising was once considered part of the recovery. But perhaps the difference is that socialising now requires more from us. Conversation itself can feel like work when the brain has spent the day processing emails, traffic, deadlines, notifications and a dozen competing demands. Even pleasant company requires attention. Someone has to listen. Someone has to respond. Someone has to be interested. Sometimes, after a long day, the sofa wins. Me time is not selfishness; it is part of psychological maintenance, according to Dr Muhammad Hamza Atiq, Senior Instructor, Department of Psychiatry at AKUH. “Just as the body needs periods of rest, the mind needs periods in which it is not continuously responding to demands, information and other people's expectations,” he explains. “Having some control over our time allows us to recover attention, regulate emotions and reconnect with ourselves.” However, healthy boundaries should not become walls. “There is an important difference between choosing solitude to recharge and withdrawing from people because relationships have become burdensome,” adds Dr Atiq. “The healthiest approach is to protect some personal space while remaining connected and flexible. We don't need a life without interruptions; we need a life in which we have enough autonomy, rest and meaningful connection to cope with them.” For parents, the situation is even more complicated. “Alone time” can become something that has to be engineered with military precision. Children need attention. Partners need things. Work continues. The house produces an endless list of small jobs. The bathroom is not, in fact, a private space. The kitchen is certainly not. And the possibility of being alone with one's thoughts becomes surprisingly precious. “I have set a bedtime for my kids,” says 36-year-old Ayesha, an accounting professional. “Balancing work and home is a circus and kids are demanding attention, conversation and play all the time. When I come back from work, I try to spend quality time with them but I do find myself in a hurry to complete dinner time, story time followed by bathing and bedtime so that I can relax with my phone or read a bit and then sleep.” Then comes the confession that many parents will recognise. “This time I have to secure for myself helps me unwind after a long day,” adds Ayesha. But if one of my kids can’t sleep soon, I want to turn the lights out and tell him to close his eyes and sleep will come real soon. At that point I’m worrying that this delayed sleeping is eating into my small, own, time window.” That little window can become fiercely important precisely because it is the only part of the day that belongs entirely to you. And this is where the rise of “me time” has another, more significant dimension. For women especially, the idea that your time belongs to you can be quietly radical. Women have historically been expected to be available: to children, husbands, parents, extended families, guests, friends and workplaces. The ability to say, “I don't have the energy for this tonight,” without producing a courtroom defence of the decision represents a genuine shift. “I don't owe anyone my time” can therefore be an empowering statement. But like most modern wisdom, it can also become a little too neat. Because there is a difference between having boundaries and building walls. There is a difference between protecting your recovery time and arranging your life so carefully that nobody can ever inconvenience you. There is a difference between knowing when you need solitude and beginning to regard other people's needs as interruptions. And perhaps this is the uncomfortable question hiding underneath our enthusiasm for “me time”: when does healthy solitude become social withdrawal? We are increasingly encouraged to ask whether something serves us. Does this invitation energise me? Does this relationship drain me? Do I really want to go? Do I have the emotional bandwidth? Is this worth giving up my evening? These are useful questions. But human relationships have never operated entirely on usefulness. Sometimes you go because someone needs you. Sometimes you stay longer than planned. Sometimes you listen to a story you have heard before. Sometimes you spend an evening doing something that was not on your schedule at all. Not everything that interrupts our leisure is an intrusion. Some interruptions are life. And perhaps that is what we risk losing when every spare hour becomes protected territory: the possibility of spontaneity, inconvenience and the slightly untidy pleasures that come with other people. The point is not that we should return to a world in which everyone is endlessly available. Nobody needs that, least of all people who have spent years being expected to put everyone else's needs first. Nor is the answer to feel guilty about enjoying one's own company. Me-time matters. So do rest and solitude. The ability to close the door on the world for a while can be a genuine necessity rather than a selfish indulgence. But perhaps leisure does not always have to be defended quite so vigorously. Perhaps some of it can simply be left unprotected. An evening can occasionally be interrupted. A weekend can contain an obligation. A quiet hour can disappear. Plans might change and someone else's needs can briefly take precedence. And perhaps, after years of being told that we must optimise our time, protect our energy and guard our peace, there is something rather liberating about admitting that not every hour needs to be optimised at all. Sometimes the nicest thing about having free time is not spending it perfectly. It is wasting it.