The loneliness and Freedom of Solo Travel

'Don't You Get Lonely?

Is a question I get asked a lot.

The honest answer? After travelling solo six months around South America, I can count on one hand the times I genuinely felt lonely. And most of those were caused by other people looking at me like I should be.

Here’s the scenario: I’d be sitting alone in a restaurant, perfectly content, journal open, glass of wine on the go — and a couple at the next table keeps glancing over with that sympathetic look. The one that says "oh, the poor thing." And for a split second I’d think: should I feel lonely right now? Am I missing something?

Then the food arrives and I completely forget about them.

The truth is, I rarely had time to feel lonely. My days were full — sightseeing, trekking, navigating chaotic bus stations, hunting down great food, joining organised tours, and generally just trying to keep up with the world moving around me.

And hostels are brilliant for this. Everyone's in the same boat. Conversations happen fast and honestly in a way they just don't back home. Within a few months I'd bonded with a 21-year-old Politics student on his gap year, a 38 year old Argentinian Chef taking a break from working in Switzerland, a French lady in her thirties taking a breather between marketing jobs, and an American woman in her forties who felt called by God to help people in the Amazon. To mention just a few.

People I would never have met in a million years by staying home and doing my day job.

All of them fascinating. All of them unexpected. All of them proof that solo travel throws you into contact with people you'd never otherwise find.

In the evenings, if I'm not out with new friends, I'm genuinely happy with my own company. I write in my journal. I catch up with people back home. Or I collapse into bed and watch something on Amazon Prime Video — the only subscription I have, because I'm not made of money — while mentally replaying whatever strange or brilliant thing happened that day.

I relish those quiet evenings. They don't feel empty. They feel peaceful.

I don't want to use the cliché about "finding myself" — it makes me think of someone dramatically staring at a sunset while their hair blows perfectly in the wind. That's not quite how it's gone.

But I am learning things. Some of them uncomfortable.

I've learned I have zero tolerance for misogynistic behaviour anymore. I've also learned I don't always know how to call it out without worrying I'll come across as a miserable old cow. Work in progress.

I've learned I'm a people pleaser. That I avoid friction and go along with things even when I don't really want to. I don't love that about myself, although it’s a great trait for an easier life.

But I've also learned that my tendency to slow down, assess situations, and not do impulsive things is probably one of the main reasons I stay safe travelling alone as a woman. So perhaps not every annoying trait is entirely useless.

The thing I didn't expect at all? How much I love trekking alone in the mountains.

I assumed it would feel incomplete without someone beside me to share it with. But walking alone is one of the most peaceful things I've ever experienced. I go at my own pace. Stop when I want. Take approximately four hundred photos without annoying a single person. Notice things I'd have walked straight past in conversation.

And funnily enough, I talk to more people when I hike alone. Solo walkers are approachable. Conversations happen naturally on trails. You share an hour or two with someone, swap stories, laugh about something, and then carry on your separate ways when you're ready.

That ability to drift in and out of connection feels like exactly the right balance for me.

Right now I'm planning a solo trip through parts of Europe — Germany, Poland, Austria, and the Balkans, with a mixture of volunteering, teaching English, house sitting, cycling, and visiting friends along the way.

Am I worried about loneliness?

Not even slightly.

If anything, I'm wondering when I'll find enough time to be properly alone — to write, to think, to have my own space.

I spent over twenty years barely having five minutes to myself. Now I have six months. Funny how that works out.