We’ve all heard it before: you should learn to enjoy your own company. But what about when you’ve spent decades with someone else by your side, making decisions together, sharing experiences, and suddenly find yourself alone?

Or perhaps after years of putting everyone else first, there comes a moment when you realise just how much of yourself you’ve surrendered to the comfort of companionship.

I’ve met women who’ve been accompanied by their husbands for their entire adult lives who are now facing regret. They’re waking up to the fact that time is limited, energy is diminishing, and they’ve never truly experienced the world on their own terms or what they are truly capable of.

Embracing the initial fear and why it’s worth it

I know – doing things alone can be terrifying. Going to a restaurant solo? Uncomfortable. Cinema alone? Slightly odd feeling. But travelling abroad by yourself? That’s a whole other level of intimidating.

My own story isn’t one of dramatic midlife liberation. My first solo trip abroad was in my thirties, to Barcelona. I remember walking down Las Ramblas feeling painfully self-conscious, convinced everyone was staring at the woman with no friends. I felt like I had “ALONE” tattooed on my forehead.

But I pushed through. And thank god I did. That first awkward trip set me up for a two-week adventure in Cyprus where I finally learned to let go and truly appreciate the solo experience.

Setting your own pace after decades of accommodating others

There’s something almost intoxicating about waking up in a foreign place and realising the day is entirely yours. No negotiating what time to get up, which attraction to visit, or where to eat. No compromising on how long to linger in that little museum or whether that café looks “too expensive” or “too local” or “too whatever” for someone else’s taste.

It was during a month-long stay in Granada where I fully experienced the luxury of lingering wherever I chose, for however long I wanted. I would walk up to Plaza San Nicolas (the plaza with the stunning views of Alhambra), almost every day around sunset. Sometimes I’d go even higher to Plaza San Miguel Alto. I had the freedom to do the same thing every day if I wanted, which may have bored others… not to mention the hike uphill. I also would spend ages watching the impromptu flamenco in Plaza Nueva. No explanations, no apologies, no checking if someone else was hungry/tired/bored. Just pure, unfiltered freedom that was exactly to my taste.

The art of dining alone and loving every bite

“Table for one?” Those three words used to make my stomach clench.

On my first solo trip to Barcelona, I committed the classic rookie mistakes: no book as a shield, and arriving for lunch at 1pm when Spanish restaurants are ghost towns until at least 2pm. I still remember the sympathetic glances from waiters as I sat alone in the empty restaurant, feeling like an exhibit in a museum of social awkwardness. But these small missteps are part of the journey – little lessons learned along the way with no lasting damage except a funny story to tell.

One of the most liberating discoveries is that you’re not actually alone in dining solo. Once you start looking around and observing, you notice plenty of people enjoying meals on their own – businesspeople, locals, other travelers. They’re reading, people-watching, savoring their food, or simply enjoying a moment of peace. Nobody’s staring or pitying them. Nobody cares. It’s a normal part of life we’ve somehow convinced ourselves is weird when it’s anything but.

A woman I know who recently travelled alone for the first time after her divorce told me: “I realised I’d spent 23 years ordering what my husband wanted to share. I had no idea what I actually liked to eat.” Don’t let that be you.

When no one knows your story

There’s something uniquely liberating about being somewhere no one knows you. You’re not someone’s ex-wife, or so-and-so’s mum, or the woman who works at such-and-such. You’re just you – or even better, whoever you decide to be that day.

I’ve found that solo travel creates this curious blank slate. Without the constant reinforcement of your familiar identity through others’ eyes, you start to question which parts of yourself are actually yours, and which parts you’ve absorbed just to fit in.

RELATED POST

Problem-solving on your feet makes you unstoppable at home

Perhaps the most transformative aspect of solo travel is the problem-solving muscle you develop. When your train is cancelled in a small town where no one speaks English, or your accommodation falls through at the last minute, or you take a wrong turn and find yourself completely lost – you have no choice but to figure it out.

There’s no partner to defer to, no friend to share the mental load. It’s all on you, and guess what? You’ll handle it. Sometimes elegantly, sometimes by muddling through with hand gestures and Google Translate, but you’ll manage.

Each small crisis overcome builds a quiet confidence that permeates every aspect of your life back home. That impenetrable bureaucracy at work? That difficult conversation you’ve been avoiding? They suddenly seem manageable after you’ve navigated a foreign medical system when you needed a prescription refilled, or negotiated with a car rental company in a language you barely speak.

The woman who returns from solo travel isn’t just someone with nice photos and stories – she’s someone who knows that she can handle whatever comes her way.

Coming home different: The spiritual journey of solo travel

Solo travel isn’t just a physical journey through unfamiliar landscapes – it’s a spiritual pilgrimage inward. In the quiet moments alone, facing both beauty and challenges without a buffer, you encounter parts of yourself that have been drowned out by years of compromise and accommodation.

One of the most profound spiritual lessons I’ve learned through solo travel is letting go of the constant urge to share experiences in real-time. That desperate “Look at this!” impulse. The need to be witnessed.

The first time I saw the view of the Alhambra palace, one of the most stunning vistas on the planet, I was overwhelmed by the beauty. I had this intense, almost desperate need to tell someone about it, to share what I was experiencing. I even contemplated pulling out my phone and calling a loved one, just to describe what I was seeing. As if keeping this magnificent moment to myself somehow made it less real, less significant.

Learning to let go of this egoistic need to “be seen” all the time has been one of the most profound gifts of travelling alone. Some experiences are just for you. Their value isn’t diminished because they’re not shared or photographed or validated by someone else. This is spiritual growth in its purest form – learning to be present, to witness your own life fully without external validation.

In the silence of solo travel, you discover a capacity for stillness and contemplation that our connected, busy lives rarely allow. You learn to listen to your intuition again, to trust the quiet voice that gets drowned out in the cacophony of others’ expectations and opinions.

It was that month-long stay in Granada where I returned knowing without a doubt that I could navigate the world on my own terms. More comfortable in my own skin. Less needy of validation. And I knew I could do this, again and again. I had found not just new landscapes, but new dimensions within myself.

Planning your journey: Practical tips for first-time solo travelers over 40

If you’re hovering on the edge of booking that first solo trip, here’s my advice: start small if you’re nervous. A weekend away rather than two weeks. Somewhere with your own language or at least English widely spoken.

But do book something. Get onto the travel agent, and down to the currency exchange. Today. Because the years pass more quickly than we expect, and that woman you could become – the one who confidently strides through foreign streets, who makes decisions without consultation, who revels in her own company – she’s waiting for you.

She deserves to experience the world. And you deserve to meet her.

Photo by Alina Rossoshanska