Why Everyone Should Travel Solo

From Odysseus to Siddhartha, the story usually begins with a lone traveler. Here’s what happened when I became one.

I will never forget boarding a 19-hour, Singapore-bound flight out of New York's JFK airport. I was 21, and it was my first time flying completely on my own. I was saying goodbye to my family and friends for five months to attend classes at a university halfway across the world.

At the time, I only spoke English, and my mental image of “foreign countries” consisted mostly of Caribbean all‑inclusive resorts and the occasional trip to Quebec. Little did I know that this journey would trigger a life‑altering shift in perspective and ignite a lasting hunger for travel.

Since that five‑month study‑abroad program in Singapore, I’ve willingly, and preferentially, traveled solo whenever possible. I’ve wandered through Europe and Latin America with little more than a backpack, and road‑tripped across places like Jordan and Curaçao.

Here’s why I believe solo travel, especially to foreign countries, can be deeply transformative.

Stepping outside of the airport in a foreign country is always exhilarating. Instantly, your senses are bombarded. Wholly unfamiliar smells, sounds, and languages create this perfect symphony that captivates you. It's music that is new and beautiful, but not your music. You are taking it all in.

When that rush of excitement fades, your first challenge presents itself. Now you must determine how to reach your accommodation. You consider a taxi, bus, train, or perhaps an app-based ride, assuming your usual ride-hailing apps even work here. Often, you can’t communicate with the people who might help you, at least not in your own language. So you turn to technology, pulling out Google Translate and congratulating yourself for having downloaded the language in advance, just in case there’s no cell service.

Eventually, you arrive — hopefully at a hostel.

As a solo-traveler, I cannot recommend this form of accommodation enough. You're surrounded by (mostly young) people from all corners of the world. Hostels have common spaces where people naturally gather to chat — sharing travel stories and tips, playing games, and sometimes, I mean often, partying. Whether you are looking for insider tips for the place you're visiting, late-night conversations about geo-politics, or even a fleeting romance, you’ll find the possibility of it in a hostel.

Hostels tend to get a bad reputation. Loud guests, chaotic nights, and questionable living conditions can emerge when sixteen people share eight bunk beds in a single room. But with the right mindset, you realize this is part of the charm. Sharing space forces interaction. It encourages openness.

What makes hostels particularly powerful for solo travelers is how effortlessly they lower the barrier to connection. Many hostels organize group activities — walking tours, pub crawls, cooking classes, day trips — that give you a ready-made reason to talk to people. You don't have to summon the courage to approach a stranger cold. The structure does it for you. You just show up, and suddenly you're navigating a foreign city with people you met twenty minutes ago.

I think hostels matter more now than most people realize. Loneliness among young adults has become a genuine public health concern, and much of our social interaction today is filtered through screens. Hostels are one of the few remaining spaces that naturally foster spontaneous, in-person connection. There's just a common room, a couch, and the person sitting next to you. In that sense, hostels feel almost countercultural, a throwback to a kind of socializing that the rest of the world seems to be engineering out of existence.

And then there's the rhythm of hostel life itself, which takes some getting used to but becomes oddly comforting. Mornings are a cacophony of alarm clocks and rustling plastic bags as four people try to pack quietly and fail spectacularly. The communal kitchen always smells like someone is making something ambitious. A whiteboard near the lobby is covered in handwritten restaurant recommendations in five different languages. Someone left a half-finished novel on the bookshelf with a note that says "take me." These small, unglamorous details don't make it into travel photos, but they're what make hostels feel alive, messy, unpredictable, and unmistakably human. But beyond the routines and the quirks, what stays with you are the people.

People in hostels often feel friendlier than those back home in New York City, where I live. They’re curious about who you are, where you’re from, and where you’re headed next. You begin to empathize with strangers when you realize that people from entirely different cultures are, in many ways, just like you. This realization extends beyond hostels to locals as well. You may find that the locals are more friendly and welcoming than those individuals in your hostel.

I was reminded of this while hiking a fifteen‑mile trail in Jordan. Along the way, I walked beside young Bedouin boys, probably in their late teens, riding camels and herding goats. I smiled, waved, and gestured to offer them my water. They politely refused and continued on.

A mile or so later, I crossed paths with them again as they rested in the shade. This time, they motioned for me to follow. Between the few English words they knew and the equally small number of Arabic words I knew, we managed. They led me to a shaded patch of sand at the bottom of a valley, tied their donkeys, laid out a blanket, and invited me to sit. I obliged, watching them closely.

They pulled a kettle and lighter from their bag and began making tea. We communicated slowly through gestures, laughter, and Google Translate, learning bits about each other’s lives. The boys were brothers, though they looked nothing alike. At times, we even managed to make each other laugh. After sharing an overly sweet cup of tea, I gave them a wrap I’d packed for lunch and continued on my hike.

Later, I passed what I realized was their home: nomadic shelters that I could only describe as elaborate tents. I stopped and reflected on how different our lives were, and yet how human our connection had been. Despite our differences, we had shared something genuine.

I would never have an experience like that at home. For one, I speak the same language as everyone around me. More importantly, I rarely go out of my way to talk to strangers. Solo travel forces you out of that comfort zone. When you’re alone, strangers are all there is. Conversation becomes a necessity and, eventually, a skill. Like a muscle, the more you use it, the stronger it gets.

Solo travel isn't all wanderlust and highlights. Yes, you’ll form meaningful connections with other people, but most of them are ephemeral. They leave. They go home. They catch a bus to the next city while you stay behind.

And so, inevitably, you find yourself alone.

Spending days on your own becomes unavoidable, and for many people, the first quiet dinner alone is the hardest. You hesitate before walking into a restaurant by yourself, acutely aware of the tables filled with families, friends, and coworkers. It feels unnatural at first, like you’re breaking an unspoken rule. You wonder what it says about you to sit there alone with your thoughts.

But solitude, if you let it, begins to sharpen your awareness.

With no one else to talk to, you start paying closer attention to the rhythm of the street outside, to the way locals greet one another, to small customs you would otherwise miss. You notice patterns: how long people linger over meals, how animated conversations become, how strangers acknowledge each other in passing. In more remote places, you may even become the object of curiosity yourself. People glance a little longer. Some strike up conversations. Others simply observe you, the outsider trying to understand their world.

I’ve come to enjoy these moments of solitude. I use them to reflect or to plan. I may sit with a notebook and journal or write within an iPhone note about the people I’ve met, the places I’ve wandered through, and the experiences that left a mark. Writing slows me down. It makes me more mindful, more present. It also reminds me to feel gratitude for the privilege of being able to see the world this way, on my own terms.

The truth is, solo travel can be lonely, and it can be deeply empowering. It isn’t one or the other. It’s an oscillation between the two. Loneliness doesn’t disappear; it softens. You stop trying to eliminate it and instead learn how to coexist with it. And somewhere in that balance, you discover a quieter kind of confidence — the kind that comes from being comfortable in your own company.

Remember, many of the oldest stories begin with the main character leaving home alone, whether it be Odysseus at sea, Siddhartha on the road, or Santiago chasing a vague idea of meaning.

Go out there and create your own story.