“You’re going alone? Why? Is everything okay between you and your husband? What does he think about that?”
I’ve just mentioned I’m going to visit Innes National Park, a little spit of greenery on the tip of Yorke Peninsula I’ve always wanted to explore. It’s about a four-hour drive from where I’m living in Adelaide, so I plan to stay a few nights to make the most of it. No big deal.
If it were 10 years earlier, and I was still single and in my twenties, my parents wouldn’t have been the least bit surprised by this. I’ve travelled solo around South and North America, Europe, Asia and Australia, often for months or years at a time. Now, since I’m happily married in my mid thirties, they’re concerned about a few days all of a sudden. Perhaps even a little judgemental. And they’re not the only ones.
I’ve been a huge fan of solo travel ever since I was 18 and first embarked on a somewhat customary gap-year Contiki tour around Europe. The group tour setting was a great stepping stone to find my own feet, gain some confidence (learn my limits when it comes to partying) and launch into the world of independent backpacking.
Almost immediately, I became addicted. The sudden freedom to do whatever I wanted whenever I felt like it, the endless opportunities that popped up before me, the ability to choose my own adventure – even if that simply meant choosing to follow a particularly plump squirrel around for a day. Never having to compromise, never disappointing anyone if things didn’t go to plan. The satisfaction of nailing simple life skills, like cooking the cheapest meal possible with free hostel ingredients, or finding a bargain way to wash my clothes (undies in the sink anyone?). Meeting like-minded people along the way, or people with views so wildly different to mine that I wouldn’t have even been able to dream them up. Bonding almost instantly over a shared experience, which organically turns into a life-long friendship. Endless fascination with the new and unknown. My own survival and happiness being the only responsibilities I needed to worry about. Learning to care about the survival and happiness of people from different cultures and backgrounds than my own. I could go on forever.
It felt as though my eyes were continuously opening to the big, wide world around me. Solo travel was, and still is, the ultimate in self-care for me. My favourite hobby. My happy place.
Don’t get me wrong: I love travelling with a partner, and with friends or family too. It’s just a different experience. It was one such adventure that led to meeting my now-husband in the first place.
I’d been living on Vancouver Island, Canada, for about a year when a friend from home joined me for a road trip. We ran out of money around Niagara Falls, so settled for a few months to get summer jobs. Long story short, I unwittingly fell in love with the Canadian guy who hired my friend to work at the Hard Rock Hotel. We had an amazing summer, then I left to carry on travelling with my friend. He knew from the beginning how much I loved roaming around. He met me in Brisbane about eight months later, and we’ve been together ever since, going on 11 years.
My partner supports my independent streak and constant desire to explore. It was important enough to be a part of our wedding vows: “I promise never to clip your wings,” he declared, aptly, from a clifftop on a Greek island. He’s comfortable with it; I’m comfortable with it. It proves to me we’re a good match. So why does it feel like the world thinks I shouldn’t travel alone anymore?
The encouragement I felt in my twenties (“You go girl!”) has rapidly morphed into, “Why are you going alone?” It’s as if now I’m older and in a committed relationship, I should shelve my independent self and settle into couple-only adult life. Perhaps I shouldn’t want to travel alone anymore. And yes, I do love travelling with my husband, and I do miss him when I’m away, but that doesn’t change the personal nourishment I get from solo travel. It is equally valuable to me whether I’m single or with a partner.
I’m a strong believer that people can choose to be together without sacrificing all of their personal dreams and goals – I, for one, wouldn’t have agreed to get married if this wasn’t the case. I feel that indulging in passions without our partner present helps us to grow as individual humans, which then strengthens our respect and love for one another. It allows healthy space for self-reflection, communication and trust exercises, as well as appreciation – after all, absence makes the heart grow fonder.
It isn’t always logistically possible for us to travel together – work and other commitments can get in the way. My husband may not want to do all the mountain hikes I’m interested in tackling, go to all the bird sanctuaries, or follow all of the squirrels – and I wouldn’t want to drag him along to things he’s less interested in. There are a variety of reasons why I might take the opportunity to travel alone.
Despite all my solid beliefs, I still feel nervous to tell people I’m travelling solo – I fear their reactions. Perhaps it’s the lingering effects of old-fashioned ideas that a committed wife should stay by her partner’s side at all times; I feel ashamed to be “abandoning” him for selfish pursuits. I get the impression some people may think I’m a weird, old loner for still travelling solo. They may feel pity for me, like I don’t have anyone in my life willing to accompany me, or that my marriage must be on the rocks.
But all that shame needs to be unlearned. It feels outdated, obsolete and silly in current-day Australia while striving to be more progressive and open-minded. People are going to think what they want, but I don’t want to let it dissuade me from doing what makes me happy. I’m allowed to pursue that regardless of my relationship status. So, even if I continue to feel some stigma, I’m going to continue to travel solo. Because I’m lucky enough to be able to, because I’m not hurting anyone, and, most simply, because it makes me happy.
Cover by Anthony Tran