Traveling Alone – It Doesn’t Always Mean Pure Freedom
What follows is not a typical travel story. It is a deeply personal glimpse into the thoughts, emotions, and moments that never show up in photographs. Unfiltered, honest, and exactly as they feel in this moment.
I get in my own way so often. I think too much, and at the same time not enough. I do my research, but apparently not about the right things. I arrive in a new place and feel completely overwhelmed, not knowing what to do with myself. Somehow, everything feels like too much, and at the same time I beat myself up for not doing enough.
Like right now. There’s live music playing, but I’m too exhausted to go. Inside, I criticize myself and think that I’m so boring. I long for social interaction, yet I keep putting myself in situations where it’s almost impossible to meet people. And that’s why it still amazes me that I somehow always end up having meaningful interactions anyway.
Deep down, I keep telling myself that everyone else is making more of their time than I am. That they experience more, build friendships more easily, see more, have deeper adventures, and above all, that they know exactly what they want to do or experience. In those moments, I feel strangely empty and disconnected from myself. On the outside, I seem calm, but inside I am tense, with a storm raging within me, an inner battle. Everything feels like too much, yet somehow not enough. My heart beats faster, grows heavy, and I can feel the stress rising inside me, even though nothing around me has changed.
There is shame—because of how harshly I judge myself. There is frustration because, once again, I’m criticizing myself. Because I think I should be traveling “better.” I should be braver. More relaxed. Freer. In those very moments when I actually long for closeness and compassion, I reject myself instead. I should know better by now. I should know how to treat myself. And while all of this is going on in my head, I miss the very moment I’m in. The music, the atmosphere, the here and now—it all slips by while I remain stuck inside myself. It feels as though I’m there, but not truly present.
I get annoyed with myself when I catch myself visiting those trendy cafés and restaurants that exist purely for tourists. They’re overpriced and have almost nothing to do with the country itself—they’re simply Instagram-worthy. Like a place of refuge. But what exactly am I running away from? I mean, every now and then a trendy café is nice, but when they exist only because of tourists (including me), it feels strange and somehow inauthentic. Everything is designed around the tourist experience. I consciously try to venture off the beaten path and avoid simply following the crowd. And yet, I still catch myself doing exactly what every other tourist does.
I often wonder if I'm simply too afraid to travel in a truly independent and free way. Wouldn't I otherwise get rid of my heavy luggage for the month here in Bali, rent a scooter, and fully embrace and live that sense of freedom? Find accommodation only once I'm there, stay as long as it feels right, and decide anew every single day? But what do I do instead? I book my Airbnbs in advance. Yes, I make sure I can cancel them, but I still feel obligated to stick to the plan. I'm dependent on expensive taxi rides, and because I'm terrible at negotiating, I feel like I'm constantly being ripped off.
How can I find my own path and stay true to myself without worrying about what other people think of me? About whether I'm a brave, "real" traveler? What kind of thoughts are these, anyway?! And why is live music stressing me out now? Why do I feel so overwhelmed and lost? I'm in Bali—this tropical paradise. Shouldn't I be floating through every day, having the most amazing time, just like everyone else here who (seemingly) lives in a constant state of flow and experiences one incredible moment after another?
Deep down, I actually know why I can't seem to get into that flow state—or that frequency, that "right" energy. Because I'm constantly focused on the outside world. Because I let myself depend on other people, on their opinions and thoughts. Instead of simply saying: Let them—and let me do what feels right for me. (By the way, book recommendation: The Let Them Theory by Mel Robbins.) I know all of this in theory. I can even sound quite wise when talking about it. But when it comes to myself, I just can't seem to put it into practice. I judge myself, I'm incredibly hard on myself, and I'm constantly chasing myself with a whip. But for what? What exactly is my goal? My motivation? Simply to look good in the eyes of others?
The truth is, I will never look good to everyone. There will always be someone who finds something to criticize—even people who love me deeply. And that's okay. That's normal. Everyone is entitled to their own opinion. I have opinions about the people I love too. Just because we don't like everything about someone doesn't mean we reject them or stop loving them. And when it comes to complete strangers, it should matter even less. I'll probably never see these people again, and they'll never see me again either. Yet somehow it still feels desperately important to me to appear inspiring, extraordinary, courageous, and interesting.
At what cost?
The price I pay is that I'm never fully present with myself. I don't fully accept myself, and I don't truly walk my own path.
Why do I need strangers to like me? I already have wonderful people in my life who love me, who care about me, and in whose hearts I have a place. So why this constant need to impress people I don't even know? I keep wondering what kind of impression I make on other travelers, whether I seem free, whether I look like a "real" traveler as I walk around.
But honestly… who actually cares?
And yet I keep choosing accommodation in the middle of nowhere. Of course I'm alone there. But then I don't have to prove to anyone who or what I am. I can simply exist without feeling watched or judged. When I'm completely alone in the middle of nowhere, knowing no one can see or hear me, I can finally let go and somehow just be myself. I dare to wear clothes I would probably never wear in public. I dare to sing loudly and dance. I dare to challenge myself physically because I know there's no one around to compare myself to or compete with. I allow myself to eat whatever I genuinely feel like eating. I allow myself to feel beautiful and sexy. In those moments, I'm proud of my body—and somehow proud of myself too—because there is no one there who could be "better" than me.
When I'm completely alone, I manage to reconnect with myself. To trul
I consciously try to spend as little time as possible on Instagram and similar platforms, and I avoid looking at stories and such. Because I know how much they trigger me. They immediately create thoughts like: I should be doing more. And I start comparing myself. Inside my head, this whole movie starts playing, telling me that I am not doing any of this right. “Just look at your friends and the other travelers—they are doing it properly.” And then, to make things even worse, this thought appears: Who do you actually think you are, to believe that you could have an amazing time and that you are even allowed to?
– This question: “Who do you think you are?” was a wonderful exercise in writing therapy during my twelve-week stay in a clinic. This question challenges so much. It can be interpreted positively or negatively, as an accusation or as a loving invitation to reflect. How would you answer this question for yourself? –
I often wonder why I actually travel. Part of it is escape. Away from home, away from my problems and the shadows that follow me there. I am running away from old patterns, from issues, from shadows that catch up with me at home and become loud. I need distance, to breathe, to not be confronted with the same triggers every single day.
At the same time, I am running toward something – toward new experiences, new impressions, and new possibilities. That is the other part: the searching, or rather the finding. Answering the question: What else does life want to show me? What else does life have to offer? Will I find, or will a place or an activity find me, where I feel like I have arrived and somehow feel at home? Whether there is a place, a purpose, or a rhythm that feels like me. It is all three things together. Escape, searching, and finding. I travel to feel myself again. To discover who I am.
Sometimes I get frustrated with myself because I feel like I used to travel better. I was braver. I found better ways to get around. I knew how to use Facebook groups to my advantage. I rode around islands on a scooter with my backpack. I spontaneously met locals and found accommodation and activities through those connections. But I also remember that even back then I judged myself for not doing enough and for always being in the wrong places.
One memory that has stayed deeply engraved in me and perfectly illustrates this dilemma is a small trip I took during my semester abroad in Japan. I had taken a week off and traveled to the island of Shikoku, all the way to the far south of the small island. I had heard from an international student before me that you could do “amazing things” there. But I didn’t know exactly where he had been or what he had done. So I tried to create an incredible week for myself as well. I traveled from place to place. Alone. I constantly asked myself what I actually wanted to see or experience.
My expectation: an unforgettable trip, with one amazing experience and magical moment after another. I had beautiful views and delicious food. But I was constantly dissatisfied and kept thinking that there had to be something more, something more spectacular or more beautiful.
But the one afternoon that has stayed with me is this:
I am in a small village in the south of Shikoku. For many people there, I was probably the first Western person they had ever seen (blonde hair and blue eyes), and I was wandering around without a plan. I was hoping to find that one magical view, that one special place.
But all I found was a small shrine in the middle of nowhere, in the forest. Nothing extraordinary. No view, no magic, simply nothing. I started crying. I criticized myself, made myself small, telling myself that I simply did not deserve to experience something wonderful. Everyone else did, but not me.
I continued walking in that emotional state, carrying this feeling of being inferior, without any plan. Then, eventually, I saw a hotel with a public onsen. I decided to go in.
And this is where the magic happened:
I sat naked in the hot water, the open ocean stretching out in front of me. Then the sun began to set. It disappeared directly into the blue sea like a huge, glowing red fireball. The most perfect, breathtaking sunset I had ever seen and experienced up to that point.
Now I had tears in my eyes again—but this time because I was deeply moved.
In that moment, suddenly, everything was okay. It was so incredibly beautiful to witness this scene that I couldn’t take my eyes away. After the hot bath, I treated myself to a truly delicious meal, one I still remember in detail today. I was alone, but I was content and completely connected with myself.
Of course, by the next day I had already forgotten about this experience and immediately wanted the next highlight. The next high. Which, of course, never came, because my journey home was approaching.
It is simply unrealistic to experience one incredible thing after another. And why has this memory stayed with me so strongly (apart from the breathtaking sunset)? Because the beautiful, magical moments happ
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