No More Solo Travel

I’ve come to the conclusion that long solo trips are no longer in my future. I’m sitting here in Puerto Escondido, on the last day of my trip, looking back over the past two months and realizing that solo travel doesn’t serve me the way it once did.

Let me take you back.

When I was eighteen, I took my first solo trip to London, Milan, Paris, Spain. I partied hard, said yes to everything, and fell in love with the freedom of being down for whatever came my way. The next solo trip was even bigger. I started traveling with a girl I’d met in London, then continued solo through Taiwan, Singapore, Malaysia, Indonesia, Vietnam, Thailand, and Cambodia. I backpacked without a plan, but I was never alone. I met random travel partners, tagged along on their adventures, and lived every day with zero structure. That trip was chaotic, wild, unforgettable. It got me addicted to solo travel.

During COVID, I moved to Ottawa without knowing anyone besides my roommate. I had no plan, no school, no job just the need to experience life. Eventually, I built a small community, got a boyfriend, and found work. Then everything shut down. When my boyfriend deployed to Ukraine, I had no ties left. So, I packed up and moved to Costa Rica.

Costa Rica was a blur of beaches and late nights. I was drunk six nights a week, surrounded by locals, expats, and backpackers. It was beautiful chaos. But somewhere in the madness, I broke up with my boyfriend. It was a toxic relationship, and I was naïve. It takes two to be toxic.

When my visa ran out, I flew home, worked for seven months, and fell into a complicated situation living with a guy who couldn’t stop lying (I did not know for months). We planned to go to Greece together, but he never even ordered a passport. So, I went alone.

Greece, Albania, Montenegro, Bosnia, Austria that trip was different. My drinking slowed down (thank God). I still had fun. I spent days road-tripping Montenegro with three wealthy German guys who treated me like a princess. I didn’t sleep with any of them (please stop assuming). I was twenty, and still high on adventure.

Two months later, one of those Germans invited me to Mexico for a music festival. I spent a month with him and three other couples yachts, beach clubs, fancy dinners, tequila-fuelled nights. After he went home, I continued solo through El Salvador, Guatemala, Colombia, and Brazil. Guatemala was magic. I met a crew of travellers who felt like instant friends. In Colombia, I reconnected with an Argentinian doctor I’d met in Milan and Barcelona, and we traveled together for a month. (No, we didn’t hook up either.)

Brazil was supposed to be romantic. I went to meet my military ex. But exes are exes for a reason. He ruined Brazil.

When I was twenty-one, the German guy texted again. “Come to Ibiza.” So, I did. A few nights in, things felt off. He wanted something more, and I didn’t. It wasn’t threatening just uncomfortable. He talked about moving to Canada, about love, and I realized we were in totally different places in life. I left the next morning. That night, I had dinner with another Canadian. We drank three bottles of wine between us, insane, and the next day I flew to Morocco.

Morocco and Spain were special. I spent weeks with five amazing solo travellers, then continued to Romania, with one of them. He left and I went solo to Serbia, and Hungary. That trip lives in my memory like sunlight pure joy, pure freedom.

Afterward, I went home and shifted gears. I started Power Engineering school, moved into my own apartment, and began dating Tristan. I finished school on a Friday, started working in a mill on Monday, and found out my dad had Alzheimer’s. I was lost no passion for the job, questioning everything. I lasted as long as I could before finally quitting and moving back in with my parents.

That Christmas, I bought Tristan a ski trip to France. It was an excuse to travel again. We spent a weekend in London, then Paris, then drove through ski resorts in the Alps. He flew home; I continued to Jordan, China, Thailand, and India. I turned twenty-three in Jordan. Every stop had purpose, and every place had good people. I wasn’t tempted to cheat something that had worried me before. I realized I could travel solo and stay faithful, and that gave me confidence.

Later, Tristan and I went to Peru for his birthday. Traveling with him was pure joy, he’s like a kid on Christmas morning, full of wonder and excitement. Watching him happy made me happy. I finished my goal of seeing the Seven Wonders of the New World on that trip a dream I’d chased for two and a half years.

Which brings me to now.

These past seven weeks have been different. I found myself sad often, unmotivated. I stayed in quiet Airbnbs and hostels where it was hard to meet people. When I did meet guys, it felt wrong, I have a boyfriend now, and the dynamic has changed. I barely drank, which made socializing harder but my body happier. I don’t regret the trip, but I’ve realized something important: long solo travel doesn’t light me up the way it used to.

It’s not that I don’t love adventure anymore I just love it differently. I no longer need the chaos, the parties, the randomness. I’ve outgrown that version of myself.

I cried last night in a restaurant when I realized it. Those wild years taught me everything I needed to know about independence, resilience, and who I am. But I don’t need to wander alone anymore to prove it.

Still, I would recommend solo travel to everyone. It will teach you more about yourself than anything else ever could.

But for me, for now this chapter is closing and that is okay.

Goodbye, for now.