The Secret to Solo Travel as a Woman? It’s Not Being Fearless
If being fearless isn’t the secret sauce to traveling solo, then what is? We have an answer–but you might not like it.
One of my earliest memories is one of fear. It was Halloween. I was five years old, standing determined before my dad, begging him to take me on Connecticut’s most popular haunted hayride attraction. I brushed off his warnings that it was a fear factory unfit for tiny tots.
Haunted hayrides were for the brave, not babies. And I wasn’t a baby. Not anymore. And eventually, my dad relented.
The moment we entered the scare zone, all that bravado evaporated. Chainsaw-wielding men sprinted from the woods, taunting the trailer’s wheels with their whirring blades. Werewolves slinked out from the shadows, howling and snarling as we rattled past. A family of cannibals asked parents to toss their firstborns off the wagon for a pre-dinner appetizer.
I couldn’t take it.
Clutching my dad, the tears flowed freely, and snot dribbled down his Gore-Tex jacket.
Towards the end of the ride, a coven of witches invaded the wagon, noses pockmarked with warts and faces painted a theatrical green. One of them knelt before me and offered a glowstick, promising nothing could touch me while I held it. I finished the ride, grasping my dad’s jacket with one hand and wielding the glowstick like a shield with the other.
As a child, I eventually outgrew my fears of werewolves, witches, and chainsaw-wielding psychopaths. But adulthood ushered in a new set of terrors.
As women, we've been conditioned to coexist with the inevitable presence of fear in our daily lives.
I belong to a sisterhood that responds to catcalls with silence, screams internally when a male coworker talks over her for the umpteenth time that day and thinks twice before walking around her neighborhood at night.
In 2018, I set off on my first solo backpacking trip along the 38-mile Trans Catalina Trail. I had no glowstick with me for courage.
My first night on the trail was fear epitomized. Famished and bone-tired, anxiety tucked itself into the deepest recesses of my bones.
I was afraid to close my eyes. Afraid to go to sleep. Afraid to be alone. I tossed and turned in my sleeping bag, wrestling with my thoughts, burying my face in my pillow to muffle my ugly sobs, and longing for night to turn to morning.
Catalina Island off the coast of Southern California
From a biological perspective, when the mind feels fear, our cerebral cortex (i.e., the part of the brain responsible for reasoning and judgment) becomes impaired. Looking back, it makes sense why I convinced myself the sun would never rise and I'd be cursed to wander Catalina in perpetual darkness.
But, of course, the sun rose the following morning exactly as it had for the past 4.5 billion years.
Two days later, I completed the trail, body covered in a fine layer of dirt, sweat and grime, pack a tinge lighter, and I– a bona fide survivor.
But those first-night jitters never completely went away. Even now, after five years, thousands of miles hiked, and countless nights under the stars, fear still laps at my heels and follows me into my tent as soon as the sun dips below the horizon.
I jump at every noise, swat away homesickness, wonder if I've packed enough food, stress about keeping warm, and reflect on my life choices. Was I missing out on conventional milestones by cosplaying Eliza Thornberry instead of advancing my career or starting a family?
Sometimes, it wasn’t the fear of being mauled by a cougar that kept me up at night, but rather the oppressive torrent of “what ifs” and “what could have beens.”
Over the years, fear has transmuted into a peculiar companion. A noisy backseat driver during a necessary break-in period. It's my mind's overly cautious bouncer trying to shield me from... well, who knows what?
I've given up on banishing it entirely, but I've learned to turn down the volume—because sometimes, just walking in step with fear can be enough to dampen its stink.
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You may be thinking, “Well, that’s great for you, Ash. But it’d be really cool if I didn’t have to worry about fear altogether on my solo adventures.” And I hear you. But remember this, fear is an inherent part of human nature. Even more, it’s an evolutionary advantage.
We feel fear when our body and subconscious are trying to let us know, “Hey! Something’s not right here.”
We can learn and become more resilient as a result of fear.
Fear can also be a liar and a cheat when it tells us the sun will never rise again, that we can’t do hard things, or that we don't deserve happiness.
I can’t offer blanket solutions or methods to cast out fear short of surgically removing your amygdala, but do you really want that?
As women, living a life without fear often feels like an unattainable dream. Yet, a wiser, more hopeful part of me knows that fear is just a reaction—a feeling. Courage, on the other hand, is an act of resistance.
Solo exploration, whatever form it takes for you, is an act of protest. Our ancestors and generations of women who came before us had no such opportunity.
“...Sometimes, just walking in step with fear can be enough to dampen its stink.”
But if being fearless isn’t the secret sauce to traveling solo, then what is?
Acknowledging your fear, naming it, even befriending it, and then going ahead and buying that plane ticket, stepping on that trail, or getting in the car and getting the hell outta dodge. It’s as simple–and scary–as that.
One of the most productive ways I've learned to make friends with my fears is through basic repetition and sitting with the silence.
Ironically, I find this keeps so many women from venturing into solo travel and backpacking in the first place. The fear of being alone, the worry: 'What if I don't like it? And what if I don’t like myself?'
I wish I could promise that you'll know solo travel is right for you from the jump, but that's not always the case.
What I can say is that the more time I've spent alone in nature, embracing the quiet away from bustling city sounds, the more I've settled into my own skin.
It wasn’t an immediate transformation, but confidence edged out fear with each repetition.
The more I've immersed myself, the more my fears took a backseat to self-belief.
Repetition teaches your mind and body that you can do incredible things beyond fear's grasp.
David Mitchell once wrote, “Travel far enough, you meet yourself.”
Solo travel is like stepping into a portal of self-discovery. The initial plunge into an unknown land isn't just about exploring a new destination; it's about uncovering the depths of your own being. Each sunrise in a foreign place brings with it a transformation that reverberates through your very core.
It's not merely about the physical journey from one location to another; it's a metamorphosis of the mind, body and soul.
Your encounters with diverse cultures, the challenges of navigating unfamiliar terrain, and the moments of solitude—these shape-shifters, one by one, carve out a newer, more resilient version of yourself.
You wake up surrounded by novel sights and sounds, and as you move through the day, absorbing the textures of a different world, you're subtly reshaped.
You don’t notice it in the moment. But the very air you breathe carries ripples of change, infusing you with perspectives and insights you didn't know you needed.
You carry those experiences like seeds planted within, and every dawn following your return births a newer facet of your being. Your thoughts, actions, and perceptions evolve, drawing from the rich reservoir of memories and lessons garnered during your solitary voyage.
What you’ll discover on the other side of fear could be the insatiable pull of travel. It becomes addictive—the relentless pursuit of new experiences, the urge to unravel more layers of yourself.
You come to realize that stopping after one journey is impossible; it transforms into a lifelong pilgrimage, a continuous pursuit of meaning-making in this wild world.
Solo travel isn't merely about the destinations stamped on your passport; it's about the mosaic of selves you piece together along the way.
Each new place becomes a mirror reflecting a different aspect of your becoming, almost like a kaleidoscope of your identity—one that's forever changing, maturing, and catalyzing.
