The People Left. I Stayed.

And that’s when I understood what most of us are really running from.

The trek ended like all treks do—dusty boots, shared trail snacks, and a group chat that no one will use. A few people were already calling cabs. One woman with her teenage son had her flight booked for the next morning. Two others were trying to catch the last ride out that same day.

When I asked if they were staying for the weekend, they laughed nervously and said, “What will I do here alone? I’ll get bored. I’ll go mad.”

That conversation stuck. Not because it was surprising, but because I knew exactly where they were coming from—and also, how far I’d come from feeling the same way.

I’ve done seven treks. Solo. And before that, a handful of solo trips: Kashmir, Goa, Mysore. Each one put me in a chokehold with a different fear.

Kashmir was wrapped in warnings. People around me spoke of danger like it was a fact. I went anyway. And ended up staying with a family whose warmth made it hard to leave. It didn’t feel like a trip. It felt like someone handing me a missing piece of myself.

Goa was a landmine of stray dogs. I’m not exaggerating—I’m terrified of them. While others were sunbathing, I was mapping routes to avoid street corners. Later, on another trip there, I met a group of travelers who talked about energy and totems and frequencies. Things I would’ve rolled my eyes at in a past life. But they welcomed me without selling anything. And maybe that’s all most of us need: to be heard without being fixed.

Mysore had no chaos to hide behind. No beach. No trek. Just time. Long, slow mornings where I had to figure out what to do with myself. I didn’t have a plan. That was the point. Turns out, doing nothing is hard when your entire sense of worth comes from doing something.

These weren’t vacations. They were quiet confrontations. And each one stretched a part of me that had been dormant.

So by the time I overheard people on the trek scrambling to get back to their schedules, I understood what they were trying to avoid. It wasn’t just boredom. It was the silence that comes when no one’s around to mirror you.

I don’t always get it right. There are days when I call people just to avoid being with myself. There are days when I scroll until I’m numb. But now I know when I’m doing it. That’s something.

I’ve met plenty of solo travellers who are constantly in company. Always on to the next group, the next plan, the next curated sunset. Being alone isn’t the same as being available to yourself.

I prefer homestays over dorms because I want space. Not silence. Just the freedom to be uninteresting. I want mornings that unfold slowly, not over coffee and small talk, but through a quiet check-in with the version of me who hasn’t had to explain anything in a while.

Discomfort doesn’t scare me like it used to. It still shows up, of course—before every trip, on random Tuesday afternoons, when the quiet gets a bit too loud. But it doesn’t catch me off guard anymore. I know its name. I know why it’s here.

People often say they’re scared to be alone. That’s rarely true. What scares them is what shows up when they stop filling the gaps.

And what shows up is usually worth meeting.

This is what I mean by perspective. Not the sweeping kind you find on a mountaintop. The kind that seeps in quietly when you’ve stopped trying to prove something. The kind you build when you stay just a little longer than is comfortable.

After all this, I’ve got stronger legs, sure. A better idea of how many layers to wear at 12,000 feet. But more than anything, I’ve built a softer gaze. A mind that doesn’t panic in silence. A heart that doesn’t need noise to feel alive.

That’s the real climb.

So if you ever feel like rushing out, booking the next thing, filling the next moment—pause. Not forever. Just long enough to notice what you’re avoiding.

Then stay. Just a little longer.