Solo Travel at Forty: A Guide to Wandering Alone

The first time I traveled alone at forty, I sat in a café in Lisbon and cried. Not from sadness, but from the overwhelming realization that I had spent two decades waiting for someone else's schedule, someone else's preferences, someone else's permission. The freedom was disorienting before it became liberating.

Solo travel in your forties is different from the backpacking adventures of your twenties. You've earned the right to comfort, to a room of your own, to saying no to the hostel dormitory and yes to the hotel with the view. This is not about proving anything to anyone. It's about discovering who you are when no one is watching.

The practicalities matter more now. We research neighborhoods for safety, choose accommodations with reliable wifi and good lighting, pack medications and comfort items without embarrassment. This is not timidity—it's wisdom. We've learned that miserable experiences don't make better stories; they just make miserable experiences.

What surprised me most was the conversations. Traveling alone, you become approachable in a way you never are when coupled or grouped. Strangers share tables and stories. Shopkeepers linger to chat. You find yourself in living rooms and kitchens that groups never enter, because alone you are an individual rather than a unit.

There's a particular pleasure in waking in a foreign city with absolutely no agenda except your own curiosity. No negotiations about what to see, no compromises about where to eat, no performance of enthusiasm for activities you'd rather skip. The day unfolds according to your rhythm alone.

Loneliness visits, of course. Usually at dinner, when restaurants fill with couples and families and you sit with your book as company. I've learned to embrace these moments rather than flee them. Loneliness is not the same as unhappiness. Sometimes it's simply the sensation of being fully, entirely yourself.

The confidence compounds. Each solo trip builds on the last. You learn to navigate unfamiliar transit systems, to eat alone with pleasure, to trust your instincts about people and places. Skills that seemed impossible at first become automatic. You become, gradually, the kind of woman who can go anywhere.

I return from solo trips different than I left. Not transformed in some dramatic way, but clarified. Stripped of the roles that define daily life—mother, wife, colleague, friend—I remember the person underneath. She's still there, curious and adventurous and braver than she knew. She just needed some time alone to remember.

If you've been waiting for the right companion, the right moment, the right circumstances—stop. Book the ticket. The world is waiting, and it turns out you're excellent company for yourself.