Wandering Back to Me ✨

I expected this trip to be a study in discomfort.

It was my first true solo trip with no backup plan, no support systems, no familiarity.

I’ve always hesitated in unfamiliar places, around people I don’t know. I won’t start a conversation first. I’d walk into a room and linger in a corner until I saw someone I knew enough to cling to. I definitely wouldn’t ask for what I need until I’ve rehearsed it at least five times in my head.

None of that comes from disliking people. My soul genuinely wants to chat, to make friends, to flit from table to table and fit in wherever I sit. I did that all through school. Somewhere along the way though, I became an introvert; or rather, an extrovert with stage fright for real life. A socially anxious extrovert. I’m fairly sure I invented the category for myself somewhere over the Andaman Sea.

When I landed in Chiang Mai alone, I braced for the familiar tightness in my chest. It was there, right on cue. That first morning, I sat in the hostel courtyard watching other travelers swap stories over coffee, desperately wanting to connect, but being held back by the familiar voice in my head.

Should I go say hi?

But they’re already in a conversation.

I should just suck it up and go say hi.

But what if I make it awkward?

Don’t say hi, they’re gonna think you’re weird.

What if I say something stupid, and they don’t want to talk to me?

What if they’re already judging me for how I look?

Do I look friendly even??

I couldn’t bring myself to say hi.

Later on, walking through the Old City, I heard myself build whole narratives about what the strangers must think of me. A woman, a brown girl, a fat brown girl, walking alone. Clearly no idea where she’s going. Clearly weird.

But despite all the noise and the words, something else was happening. Something that I hadn’t felt in a long time.

I was getting comfortable. Not despite the anxiety but alongside it? I was wearing what I wanted without a second thought. I was walking slowly because I wanted to, not because I was hoping to look a certain way. I started noticing the friendly smiles and hellos. I sat on a park bench and read for an hour without the itch to check my phone or hide my face. I noticed no one looked twice my way, no one was actually judging.

That day, every choice I made – where I ate, when I rested, which street looked more interesting – belonged to me. No one to account to. No one to justify my choices to. No one to adjust for.

That’s the most important thing I’ve learned so far while travelling alone for the first time: loneliness, anxiety and freedom all arrive together, in the same breath. Maybe it was okay that it did.

I didn’t travel here on a whim, it wasn’t just a break from reality. I came because I had been moving too fast for too long, saying yes to a life that only looked right on paper. I’d spent years chasing dreams that no longer fit, and I wanted somewhere slower where I could hear myself think again. I came to scout. Not as a tourist passing through, but as someone trying it on to see if it just looked good on the hanger, or if it actually fit well. To wander the streets, work in the cafes, and ask quietly: Could I live here? Could I make this place home?

Three days in now, I don’t have an answer. I’m pretty sure I’m not supposed to yet. But somewhere in between the tightness in my chest, the mental debate in the courtyard and the ease of an afternoon spent on my own terms, something loosened. A permission slip I hadn’t known I needed.

You’re allowed to take up this much space.

This is the start of it, figuring out who I am when I don’t need to be a million people for every one else.