The Holiday That Actually Let Me Breathe
There is something I have said before, and I will say it again, not because it bears repeating for the sake of it, but because it shaped something in me that I am still discovering. My very first solo trip was to Jeju and Seoul, South Korea. It happened after I left my job, when life had loosened its grip on my schedule and I suddenly had the strange luxury of time.
Before that, I had always travelled with someone. Family. Friends. A group of the usual suspects. And there is nothing wrong with that; in fact, there is everything right about it. Sharing a meal and arguing over which dish to order. The self-appointed photographer of the group who, let us be honest, does take the best photos. The laughter that bounces between people when something goes sideways.
But there is also the coordination that nobody mentions in the highlights reel.
Fitting everyone's itinerary together like a puzzle where half the pieces have different edges. The unspoken politics of shared rooms: who needs the lights off, who cannot sleep without them, the late sleeper, the light sleeper, and the one whose snoring could genuinely be mistaken for weather. The alarm that rings, repeatedly, for someone apparently immune to their own alarm.
Solo travel removes all of that.
You move at your own pace. You eat when you are hungry, not when consensus decides. You sit longer at a view that catches you off guard. You leave earlier if something does not feel right. The room is yours. The quiet is yours. The decisions, all of them, are yours.
And yet, the most surprising thing about travelling alone was not the independence. It was the openness.
When you are not already embedded in a group, you become oddly available to the world around you. You notice more. You talk to people you might otherwise have walked past. On day tours, I found myself in conversations with strangers from different countries, different lives, different ways of seeing. Those exchanges, brief and unhurried, became some of the richest parts of the trip. You immerse yourself in the food, the culture, the ordinary rhythms of a place, and you do it with full attention, because there is no one next to you competing for it.
That holiday gave me something I had not expected: breathing room. And breathing room, I discovered, is not just about distance or destination.
A holiday does not have to mean a flight, a passport, or a new city. Sometimes it is simply giving yourself a break from the noise. An afternoon with your phone face down. A Saturday morning with nowhere to be. A long walk with no particular purpose. The permission to stop, even briefly, and let the week settle.
What I came back with from Jeju was not just memories of the climb or the food or the strangers whose names I never caught. It was the quiet reminder that I am allowed to take up space, to move slowly, to let life come to me for a moment instead of always chasing after it.
And you are allowed that too.
It does not require a plane ticket. It requires only the decision to step back, even for an hour, and recognise that you have already done enough.
That, I think, is the real holiday.
In If Humans Were Spaghetti*, I write about the Jeju trip in some depth, including the rather humbling climb up Mount Hallasan. What the book explores is the heat of pressure and endurance. What this article reflects is the other side: the exhale, the rest, and what becomes possible when you finally let yourself step out. Chapter 6 (Knowing When to Step Out) and Chapter 7 (Al Dente) speak directly to this, if you find yourself nodding along. You can grab a copy here*.
Ready for your week to close a little more gently?
This Friday, before the weekend fully begins, give yourself one genuine pause. No agenda. No productivity goal. Just a quiet moment that belongs entirely to you. Notice what surfaces when the noise settles.
