Travel Blog

Practicing Solo Travel in London as Woman with Anxiety

Meeting and falling in love with “her” at a tiny Portuguese diner after dark

As an anxious traveler, I have come to know the beauty of baby steps. It is often the only way forward. If I choose to travel, it is as a series of practices. One such practice is that of solo travel.

There are a lot of stories out there of travelers dropping themselves into another country alone. They talk about how much they had to grow in that time and place. How it was a learning curve, racing toward the inevitability of self-sustenance.

As a woman with anxiety, I can say that traveling is like that every time. Solo or not, the terror, the unlearning, the learning, and the experience is that exceptional each time I step foot out my front door.

I have a travel buddy. He has walked alongside me while I take baby steps on my journey of healing. I wouldn’t be the traveler I am today if not for his patience, understanding, and bridled excitement for all things new. He makes it fun. He sits with me when I’m lost in my own mind. In travel and in life, he has helped me learn to feel safe.

One night in London, we went in separate directions for a time. Even though I was far from home, I practiced the art of solo.

My (Solo) Story of Port & Pie

My partner and I and some friends of ours traveled to London in February 2019. We stayed in a little flat just off the Seven Dials, between Camden and Covent Garden. We had a lovely time doing many things, but this particular evening stands out to me because I did it, alone.

On the evening I found myself alone, my partner and I met some friends of his who lived in the area for a delicious dinner. We then ventured to a pub, where the couple split up and I was left sitting with two men talking shop and catching up while I stared into a glass of warm ale.

I decided to head back to our flat, which meant catching a taxi in London by myself and getting back to a place I barely knew, all without a cell phone. I made it alive. Phew.

As I began unlocking the door to our building I turned toward the bustling circle in the center of the street. A warm light caught my eye. It was the window of the delightful Portuguese eatery where my partner and I had toasted espressos earlier in the day.

Becoming “her”

I have fallen head-over-heels in love with “her”: the single, self-assured woman who walks into a place looking fabulous, not because of what she’s wearing but because she acts like she owns the place and like she doesn’t mind if she does in one glorious stride.

This “her” looks people in the eye when she intends it. She’s kind but purposeful. She’s noticeably alone but doesn’t seem to notice.

She rests where she sits, sipping port and dipping her fork into her piece of dark and buttery chocolate pie, pausing briefly from time to time to write something thoughtful on her napkin that she doesn’t want to forget.

A night unfinished

I knew I wasn’t done with my night. I wasn’t ready for bed; I wanted to be there. I followed the glowing light of the diner to practice being “her”.

I walked in, accepting my “party of one” status as I sat at a small table meant for two. I ordered the most decadent chocolate pie I have ever had the pleasure of knowing and a glass of port that was portly to say the least.

I sat and drank and ate and felt. As if I were made for sensation alone, I looked and listened. I let thoughts come and go as I jotted them down on my bar napkin.

I let myself feel alone. I felt nervous, unsure, embarrassed, rebellious, mischievous, proud, elated, satisfied, and then sultry. I had thoroughly enjoyed each moment as “her”, but when I left, I left as me. Everything that “her” was had melted into me without my realizing it.

I had forgotten I was alone.

Anxiety: the truth and the lie

There is a moment of peace that comes when I realize I have done something brave. Before the pride, before the excitement, before the guilt, before the noise starts again and the whispers of “should” trample my bravery, there is stillness.

In this stillness, I can choose what to inject, be it nothing in an act of simple awareness or something lovely like awe or celebration.

My anxious mind may have me believe that I “should” feel disbelief or denial, but this habit causes me to pass over my optional moment of gratitude — a true breath of divine celebration — to the next harried moment of discontent, confusion, and breathlessness.

I wonder sometimes that this is the lie of anxiety: that my anxious mind has decided that I am meant to always feel discontentment, confusion and breathlessness no matter how brave, confident, and fabulous I am.

The power to choose

I practiced going solo and became “her”. She showed me that I get the option to choose. I can choose celebration over breathlessness.

I can also choose to use the best words to celebrate my baby steps:

I am.

I am “her”.

I am worthy of celebration.

I am brave, confident, fabulous, proud, determined, connected, gorgeous, brilliant, and fun.

Choosing to appreciate my moments of bravery is the way I choose to travel. For me, it’s not about whether I’m solo or not. But when I am solo, I get to practice just the same.

I’m Brett Jenae Tomlin, The Anxious Enthusiast.

A big thank you to Jose Mendez for writing the article that inspired this piece. Fabulous title, great read:

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