I remember the exact moment. I was sitting on a wooden bench in a small park in Rye, England, watching the sun sink behind the marsh. My heart was a raw, bruised thing — a recent loss had left me hollow, and I had booked this solo trip hoping the change of scenery would fix me. It didn't. The hurt was still there, heavy and familiar. But something else was there too: a quiet, stubborn part of me that refused to let the pain have the last word. That evening, I learned that happiness isn't about erasing the hurt. It's about learning to hold both — the ache and the awe — in the same moment. Since then, I've been figuring out how to do that, especially while traveling alone.
Start by Naming the Hurt Without Judgment
Before you can make space for happiness, you have to acknowledge what's hurting. On the road, it's tempting to distract yourself with sights and activities, to outrun the pain. But it catches up — usually at 2 a.m. in a foreign hotel room. Instead, I've learned to sit with the feeling. I take out my journal and write, I am hurting right now, and that is okay. No need to fix it, analyze it, or compare it to someone else's grief. Just name it. This simple act of honesty clears a little room for something else to enter.
“Happiness is not the absence of pain, but the presence of tenderness.”
One morning in Sifnos, I woke up crying and let the tears come while the Aegean light poured through the shutters. Then I made a cup of strong Greek coffee, sat on the terrace, and watched the boats. I didn't try to be happy. I just let the beauty of the day exist alongside my sadness. That was the first step.
Create a Gentle Ritual That Anchors You
Rituals are small, repeatable actions that tell your nervous system, You are safe here. When you're hurting, a familiar ritual can be a life raft. On solo trips, I build a simple evening anchor: I find a local café, order the same herbal tea each night, and write one sentence about something beautiful I saw. It's a tiny ceremony of presence.
Another ritual I love is mixing a comforting drink — something that warms you from the inside. In the autumn, I often recreate the travel-inspired drinks I discovered on my journeys, like a spiced apple cider I first tasted in a small mountain hut in Bosnia. The act of measuring, heating, and sipping slowly becomes a meditation. You can find a few of my favorite recipes in a post I wrote about 5 Travel-Inspired Drinks for Autumn and Winter (with Recipes) — they are perfect for those quiet, hurting evenings.
Look for Micro-Moments of Beauty
When you're in pain, the world can feel gray. But even in the grayest moments, there are micro-moments of beauty — a sliver of light on a leaf, the way a stranger smiles at you, the sound of rain on a rooftop. Train yourself to notice them. Think of it as a gentle scavenger hunt.
- A color: The exact shade of a flower box in a narrow alley.
- A texture: The roughness of a stone wall warmed by the sun.
- A sound: The distant clatter of a train or the laughter of children.
- A taste: The first bite of a freshly baked pastry, still warm.
- A scent: The salt air at a coastal boardwalk.
I keep a list in my phone. On days when the hurt is loud, I scroll through it and remember: the world is still beautiful, even when I am not.
Let Nature Hold You
Nature is the ultimate gentle container for pain. A forest, a coastline, a mountain trail — they don't try to fix you. They just hold space. On a solo trip to Bosnia and Herzegovina, I spent a whole afternoon sitting by a turquoise river in the Kravice waterfalls. I didn't hike, didn't take photos. I just listened to the water and let my thoughts drift. The hurt didn't disappear, but it softened. The sound of the falling water seemed to absorb some of it.
I wrote about that experience in a post titled Bosnia and Herzegovina: Heaven on Earth Waiting to Be Discovered. That trip taught me that nature doesn't demand you to be okay. It simply invites you to be present.
Give Yourself Permission to Rest
When you're hurting, rest is not laziness — it's medicine. The travel industry often glorifies packed itineraries and bucket lists, but healing requires a different pace. I've learned to schedule nothing but a few hours of wandering, with no goal other than to breathe. In Burano, I spent an entire morning just sitting on a bench, watching the colorful houses reflect in the canal. I didn't visit a single museum. That morning became a form of color therapy — the bright pinks, yellows, and blues seemed to gently massage my tired mind.
If you're feeling fragile, book a hotel with a bathtub. Take a long, warm bath with no phone. Order room service and eat in bed. Allow yourself to be exactly where you are — a hurting human on a journey, not a tourist performing happiness.
Embrace the Imperfect Travel Day
One of the biggest lessons I've learned is that a trip doesn't have to be perfect to be healing. You might miss the bus, get lost, or feel too tired to see the sunset. That's okay. Those moments of imperfection often become the most tender memories. They remind you that you are not a machine — you are a person with a heart that sometimes breaks. And that's allowed.
I remember one rainy afternoon in Gothenburg where I decided to skip the planned museum and instead duck into a small café. I ordered a cinnamon bun and a coffee, and watched the rain streak the window. I felt a deep, quiet contentment — not because the day was flawless, but because I had stopped fighting the world. I had surrendered to the moment, hurt and all.
Connect Lightly, Not Forcefully
When you're hurting, social interaction can feel overwhelming. But a gentle connection — a shared smile with a barista, a brief chat with a fellow traveler — can be a tiny bridge back to yourself. You don't have to make deep friends. Just let someone see you, even for a second. The solo travel community, both online and offline, can be a soft place to land. I've had moments where a simple comment from a stranger in a hostel kitchen made me cry with relief. It's not about fixing the hurt; it's about being seen while you carry it.
If you're traveling and need to feel connected without pressure, consider joining a small cooking class or a walking tour. The shared activity gives you a natural way to interact without forcing conversation. And if you need to be alone, that's valid too.
Let the Hurt Be Your Teacher
I used to think happiness was a destination you arrive at after the pain is gone. Now I know it's a companion you can carry alongside the hurt. The pain teaches you what you value, what you need, and how to be gentle with yourself. On solo trips, I've learned to listen to that voice. It tells me when to slow down, when to cry, when to laugh at myself for getting lost in a foreign city.
One evening in Chianti, after a long day of walking through vineyards, I sat alone on a terrace with a glass of wine. The sun was setting, and the hills were golden. I thought about the person I had lost, and tears came. But I also felt a strange, warm gratitude — for the wine, the light, the fact that I was still here, still moving, still willing to feel. That, I think, is the heart of it: not to be happy instead of hurting, but to be happy while hurting. To let the two coexist, like sun and rain on the same day.
Last night, in a tiny hotel room in Lisbon, I lit a candle I’d bought at a market, brewed a cup of local tea, and wrote down three things: the way the light hit the tile floor, the sound of a fado singer drifting from a nearby bar, the warmth of the tea in my hands. The hurt was still there, heavy as ever. But so was the tenderness. That, I’ve learned, is enough.
