Being Alone vs. Being Lonely: What Travel Taught Me About Myself

“Being alone versus being lonely” is something I had to say out loud—and really allow to sink in. These words didn’t become meaningful overnight; they settled into my body through days, months, and now years of solitude. Not isolation forced upon me, but solitude I often chose—because, in many moments throughout this nomadic journey I accidentally embarked on, being with myself felt right.

I often call myself an accidental nomad, though I sometimes wonder if that’s entirely true. But that’s a conversation for another time. What matters here is the idea of aloneness—something that does not automatically equal loneliness.

I believe the human mind tends to jump to conclusions when it comes to being alone. Thoughts like “I have no one,” “I’m by myself,” quickly collapse into the emotional conclusion of “I am lonely.” But there are so many moments between being alone and feeling lonely—moments where the truth actually lives. The truth is this: loneliness is not a physical reality; it’s a state of mind.

I’ve never struggled with alone time. If anything, I’ve always valued it—sometimes even preferred it. As a child, I’d kick my friends out of my room once I was done playing. My mother likes to remind me that even as a baby, I didn’t enjoy being picked up and coddled all that much.

Travel, however, introduced me to a deeper level of aloneness—one where the option of being with someone was removed entirely. No familiar faces. No effortless conversations in my native language. No casual hangouts. Being in foreign countries where I knew no one stripped away the ease of connection I had always taken for granted.

Yet, one part of me never changed: my desire for meaningful, deep connection. I’ve never been one to “shoot the shit” just to pass time. Empty conversation has always felt like wasted energy. Yes, there were WhatsApp groups. Yes, there were dating apps. Yes, there were opportunities to be around people. And still, more often than not, I chose myself—unless the connection carried intention or depth.

That choice didn’t mean I never felt alone. I did. And that feeling forced me inward, beneath surface-level identity, into the stillness that exists when we stop distracting ourselves with constant external stimulation.

Travel—real travel, not vacation—creates space. Space to meet yourself, if you’re willing. I didn’t just step into that space; I lived there. I slept there. I cried there. I danced there. Over time, that space became familiar—then comforting—then sacred.

What some might call empty or lonely became freedom to me. It became a place of rest. A place I can always return to, because it lives within me. It’s a space that cannot be taken away.

We all have access to this gift—if we’re willing to sit with it, embrace it, and slowly unwrap what lives inside.