Think back to the first time you went out to eat alone. I don’t mean grabbing fast food or sitting in a food court, but walking into a real restaurant and being shown to a table but rather, a place with tablecloths and multiple sets of cutlery. Think of the kind of restaurant people usually choose for celebrations or big moments in their lives.
What do you remember feeling then?
Standing outside the door
One of my earliest memories of eating alone goes back to my twenties, when I was a university student in Ottawa. I was still quite shy at that point, and I remember the restaurant was an Indian one in the ByWard Market. I don’t remember its name, but I remember pausing outside the door. The space felt nicer than anywhere I usually ate by myself, a little expensive, pettier than I expected.
I stood there longer than necessary, wondering if this was really somewhere I belonged. Part of that hesitation came from not wanting attention. Another part came from actually wanting the experience. The restaurant looked inviting, and curiosity eventually outweighed the discomfort, so I stepped in.
That night turned into the first time I fell in love with Indian food.
Eating alone over time
Eating alone has been part of my life ever since. Over the years, I’ve taken more than forty solo trips, which means I’ve eaten by myself in restaurants all over the world. Even at home, if I decide to go out on a whim, I don’t always have somebody immediately available to join me. Relying on another person’s schedule isn’t something I want to do when it comes to enjoying my own life.
What living in Japan changed for me
Living in Japan shifted how I thought about solo dining. Many restaurants there are set up with counter seating specifically for individuals, and from a practical perspective, it removes any question about whether you belong. You sit at the counter, you eat, and you move on.
At first, that arrangement felt very easy to me. But over time I noticed there was another layer there. Counter seating often carries an unspoken expectation of efficiency. You’re not meant to linger, even if no one explicitly rushes you.
Whenever a table was available, I started choosing it. A table gives you room to breathe. It allows you to slow down and allow the experience to unfold. That difference matters to me. Choosing a counter can feel like minimizing your presence. On the other hand, choosing a table feels like letting the moment belong to yourself.
What women are often reacting to
When women talk about anxiety around eating alone, the concern sounds practical at first. Most start with worries about how they’ll appear to other people. Others mention the fear of being stared at, of being too visible. Some describe the awkwardness of not knowing what to do with themselves at the table. For example, what do you do with your hands when you’re not eating?
Underneath those surface worries, though, something else is happening. It’s about permission and visibility. We doubt whether it’s acceptable to take up space in public without a reason that makes sense to other people. Many of us were taught, either directly or indirectly, not to inconvenience anyone. Drawing attention to yourself wasn’t encouraged. Taking up space without justification just felt plain wrong.
These messages don’t disappear with age or experience. They show up in restaurants, during travel, and in moments of pleasure. Often they show up as an unspoken question: do I deserve to be here on my own? This conditioning shows up clearly when reservations are involved. Sitting matters.
Why seating matters
Earlier in my life, a table along the side of the room felt safer. I didn’t even mind if I was seated close to the toilet. I just wanted to disappear into the background. Nothing to see here. Woman eating by herself. There is nothing wrong with me.
I was so intent on portraying that, it was almost as if I actually thought there was something wrong with what I was doing.
Being less visible often seemed easier, and sometimes that preference still shows up for me.
Wanting the full experience
Earlier this year in Las Vegas, I considered going to a music and brunch show. It was Motown music, which brings me back to my high school days. I decided not to go, not because I didn’t want to eat alone, but because reviews said that solo diners were often seated off to the side with a poor view of the stage.
Details like that matter to me. Choosing to do something alone doesn’t mean I accept a reduced version of the experience. I still want the full pleasure of it.
More recently, I was in London and had afternoon tea at Ting, at the Shangri-La in the Shard. This was something I’d wanted to do for quite some time because I’d heard how wonderful the view was.
The restaurant was busy. Many of the tables were filled with people celebrating something. That familiar flicker of self-consciousness showed up again. But this time, there was also something else. The thought wasn’t about hiding. What crossed my mind instead was that I wanted to be by the window.
I was there for the view and for the experience. The city below felt like my reason for being there. And without me having to ask, that’s exactly where they seated me.
The doorway moment
Experience has taught me something important. The discomfort around eating alone usually peaks before you sit down. It’s the doorway moment. Do I go forward, or do I retreat? This is when old stories and conditioning speak the loudest.
Once you’re seated, things tend to settle. The water arrives. The menu gives you something to focus on. The food brings you back into your body. Normalcy returns. Enjoyment follows.
Being present at the table
As somebody who’s a bit nosy, I actually enjoy people-watching. I overhear first dates. Quiet tension at nearby tables. Fragments of conversation drifting through the room. There’s a full range of human moments happening around you.
Sometimes I read or listen to a podcast. More often, I start by noticing where I am and what’s unfolding around me before deciding whether to tune inward.
What eating alone is really about
Eating alone at home and eating alone in a restaurant are the same act. The difference isn’t your ability. It isn’t your worth. And it isn’t confidence.
The difference is the meaning you attach to it.
You don’t need to earn a seat at the table. You don’t need a partner or a companion to justify your presence. You get to sit down, and that’s enough. Confidence doesn’t arrive first. It grows because you sit.
One small step
If solo dining still feels intimidating, start small. Choose a café or a casual restaurant you already know. Order something simple, a drink or a dessert. Stay for ten minutes without distracting yourself right away.
Pay attention to how your body feels when you arrive. Notice when that feeling changes. That moment of settling matters. That’s your nervous system learning something new.
Eating alone isn’t really about the food. It’s practice, learning to take up space comfortably and without apology. Once that becomes familiar, it carries into other parts of your life, including how you travel.
Join the community
And if you want a place to explore this shift with other women who are feeling the same pull toward freedom, you’re welcome in my Skool community. It’s a warm space for support, clarity, and steady momentum as you take your first steps into becoming the woman who travels.