The Truth About Traveling Alone as a Woman in Her 40s
People often ask me what it's like to travel alone as a woman in her 40s.
They ask if it's lonely.
They ask if it's scary.
They ask if I wish I had someone to travel with.
The truth is, solo travel isn't really the story.
The story is everything that happened before I ever booked the flight.
At 46 years old, divorced, and with two adult daughters, ages 20 and 23, my life looks very different than it did years ago.
Like many women, I spent years wearing titles.
Wife.
Mother.
Employee.
Supervisor.
Caregiver.
Problem solver.
For so long, my identity was tied to what I did for everyone else.
And somewhere along the way, I lost sight of myself.
Not intentionally.
Just gradually.
Because that's what happens when you're busy raising children, building a career, maintaining a home, and making sure everyone else's needs are met.
You become so focused on taking care of everyone else that you stop asking yourself what you need.
You stop asking yourself what you want.
You stop asking yourself who you are outside of the roles you play.
Then one day, life changes.
The kids grow up.
The house gets quieter.
The responsibilities shift.
And for the first time in a long time, you're left with a question:
Who am I when nobody needs me in the same way anymore?
Choosing Myself Again
For me, the answer started with choosing myself.
Not in a selfish way.
In a healthy way.
I started paying attention to my own wants, interests, and dreams.
I started asking myself questions I hadn't asked in years.
Where do I want to go?
What do I want to experience?
What brings me peace?
What brings me joy?
What has been sitting on my bucket list waiting for "someday"?
That's when solo travel entered the picture.
Not because I was running away from my life.
Because I was finally ready to enjoy it.
One thing I've learned in this season of life is that freedom isn't just about age.
It's about stability.
My daughters are adults.
My career is established.
My finances are in order.
My home is taken care of.
I know how to manage my responsibilities.
Because of that, I have the flexibility to explore, travel, and create experiences for myself.
Travel doesn't have to mean international flights and luxury resorts.
Sometimes it's a weekend getaway.
Sometimes it's a road trip.
Sometimes it's trying a new restaurant and sitting comfortably at a table for one.
The destination isn't the point.
The experience is.
My Career Doesn't Define Me
There was a time when my career was everything.
I was focused on promotions, advancement, and climbing the ladder.
After nearly twenty years in my profession, my perspective has changed.
Not because I stopped caring.
Not because I stopped working hard.
But because I've learned that every opportunity comes with a cost, and sometimes that cost is your peace.
Today, I still take pride in what I do.
I show up.
I do my job well.
I support my team.
I make a difference where I can.
But I no longer believe my worth is tied to a title.
My career provides stability, but it doesn't define me.
My job funds the life I enjoy outside of work.
The flights.
The road trips.
The solo dining experiences.
The hikes.
The adventures.
The memories.
The moments that remind me that life is meant to be lived.
Protecting My Peace
Another thing I've learned is that peace is priceless.
For years, I thought peace was something I would eventually find.
Now I understand that peace is something you create and protect.
I've become very aware of what disrupts it.
These days, I pay attention to how things feel.
My heart may want one thing, but if my nervous system is constantly stressed, anxious, overwhelmed, or exhausted, I pay attention.
I've learned that not every burden belongs to me.
Not every problem is mine to solve.
Not every situation deserves access to my energy.
I can support people.
I can encourage people.
I can offer advice.
But I cannot take ownership of another person's life.
Not my children's.
Not my friends'.
Not anyone's.
Every adult is responsible for their own choices and their own path.
The same way I am responsible for mine.
That realization has been one of the most freeing lessons of my life.
I've also learned that choosing yourself doesn't mean you stop caring about others.
I support people every chance I get.
I celebrate their wins.
I share their work.
I encourage them to pursue their goals.
Support is free.
But somewhere along the way, many of us were taught that caring for ourselves somehow meant caring less about everyone else.
I no longer believe that.
I've learned that I can support others without abandoning myself.
I can show up for people without losing myself in the process.
Coming Home to Myself
One of the unexpected results of choosing myself was that I started taking better care of my health.
Over time, I lost 50 pounds and, more importantly, I've maintained that weight loss for well over a year.
The biggest change wasn't physical.
It was mental.
I became more intentional.
I committed to habits that supported my goals.
I stayed consistent.
I treated myself like someone worth investing in.
The healthier habits followed.
The consistency followed.
The results followed.
Looking back, I don't think the transformation started when I changed how I ate.
I think it started when I changed how I valued myself.
When you begin treating yourself like someone worth caring for, your choices naturally begin to reflect that.
What I've discovered in this season of life is that the greatest freedom isn't found in a destination.
It's found in returning to yourself.
It's found in remembering who you are outside of the titles.
Outside of the expectations.
Outside of the responsibilities.
Outside of what everyone else needs from you.
Because one day you'll be left alone with the person you've become.
Make sure she's someone you know.
Someone you nurture.
Someone you invest in.
Someone you never abandon.
The greatest journey isn't the one that takes you across countries or oceans.
It's the one that brings you back to yourself.
And when you find that version of yourself again, you'll realize she was worth choosing all along.
