Solo travel isn’t just about what you experience but also how you experience it in real time.
When an Experience Shifts Without Warning
I was lying there, completely covered in sand, thinking “what is happening to me”? It had started off fine, almost nice, like a weighted blanket. I had chosen this experience. I expected to enjoy it. And then something shifted, and I couldn’t tell if it was my heart racing or if I was just hearing it differently.
Once I noticed it, I couldn’t un-notice it. That’s when things started to spiral in an all-consuming way. I tried to regulate by box breathing, thinking that would help, but it made everything worse. Because instead of just breathing naturally, automatically, I was thinking about breathing, managing it, trying to get it right. And I couldn’t return to just letting it happen naturally.
I remember thinking that I would be so embarrassed if I had to ask to be uncovered before the time was up. It felt like failure, when all I had to do was lie there. That moment revealed something I didn’t explicityly name before, that even in a completely private experience, I was still measuring myself against some internal standard of what I “should” be able to handle.
The Moment You Start Watching Yourself
We don’t often talk about experiences like this one. We talk about panic attacks but it didn’t feel like I imagine one does. I didn’t feel the urgency I expect comes with a panic attack. Instead, what I experienced was this strange duality that I found confusing.
I was in the rice bran spa experience, fully inside it, and at the exact same time, I was watching yourself be in it. I was interpreting what was happening, evaluating whether it was good or bad, and subtly trying to adjust it. This combination createa a split where part of me was living the experience, and another part was managing it.
That split was impossible to ignore because I couldn’t leave easily. I was covered in sand, blindfolded, and on someone else’s timeline. I knew it was a 15-min experience but I had no sense of time. I wondered if I was overheated and started dreaming of cryotherapy. All the ways I usually adjust my experience (distracting myself by checking my phone, shifting position) weren’t available. I was fully in my body, and at the same time, fully in my head trying to make sense of what my body was doing.
That’s what made the moment so intense. It wasn’t just the physical sensation of the sand or the heat. It was the constant interpretation layered on top of it. I kept wondering whether I should relax more, whether this was good for me, whether I was handling it “correctly.” Even though I had chosen the experience, part of me was looking for a way out, an escape route.
When You Stay Instead of Leaving
When the staff member came back and said there were five minutes left, my relief was immediate. It was physical, like my body unclenched all at once. I gave myself something to hold onto by counting to 300, something I often do when I know there’s a defined period of discomfort. I also repeated to myself that I could do hard things, and that structure helped me stay.
But even after it was over, I kept thinking about that moment in the middle. I still don’t know exactly what it was. I don’t know if I was interrupting the experience by thinking too much, or if the thinking was actually what allowed me to stay in it. That uncertainty stayed with me, and it follows me into other experiences beyond the trip.
When You Stop Managing and Just Respond
A few nights later, I had a completely different experience at a small sushi restaurant. I was seated at the counter, close enough to watch everything as it was being prepared. It felt almost like having a private chef because there was no distance between me and what was happening.
The chef spoke to me in careful, hesitant English, and I could see the effort he was putting into the interaction. That awareness made me feel both grateful and slightly uncomfortable, because I knew I wasn’t meeting him with the same level of effort in his language. There was an imbalance there, and I could feel it, even though nothing was wrong.
Then there was a moment when I tasted a piece of squid, and I made a sound without thinking. It just came out. I noticed it as it was happening, but I didn’t stop it or pull it back. It was pure delight, and when the chef laughed, it made the moment even better. I noticed that delight can compound when others respond, and that can happen in a moment of connection.
What stood out to me afterward was that I didn’t manage that moment. I didn’t evaluate it or adjust myself. I stayed in it. And that felt different from the sand, where I had been constantly interpreting and trying to control what was happening.
When You Subtly Adjust Yourself
The third experience happened near Lake Biwa, in a small town where I went on a one-on-one tour to learn about kabatas. I hadn’t planned it in advance. I sent an email the day before, not expecting much, and it worked out because someone had cancelled. Suddenly, I found myself walking through the town with a guide, learning about the community and their relationship to water.
The pace was slow and gentle. We stopped at different places, tasted the water, and talked about how the system worked. There was nothing to accomplish, nothing to optimize. I was simply there to observe and listen, and that felt peaceful.
At one point, the guide asked if I was into water, because most people who came on the tour had some connection to it. Without thinking, I said yes and mentioned a friend who didn’t actually exist. I knew immediately that it wasn’t true, and I felt embarrassed right away.
That moment stayed with me because of how quickly it happened. I didn’t pause to consider whether I belonged there. I just adjusted myself slightly to fit what I thought was expected. Even in a situation where I was clearly welcome, that old pattern of not quite belonging showed up automatically.
The Different Ways We Change an Experience
These three experiences felt very different on the surface, but they’re connected in a way I’m still processing. In one, I couldn’t control anything. In another, I was completely present without trying. And in the third, I was mostly observing, but still adjusting myself in small, almost invisible ways.
What I keep coming back to is not the experiences themselves, but what I was doing inside them. The way I was thinking, interpreting, managing, or not managing what was happening in real time. It’s subtle, but it changes the experience more than I realized.
Sometimes, the observing seems to help. It gave me a way to stay in the sand when I might have otherwise wanted to leave. But I also wonder what it takes away, especially in moments like the sushi experience, where there was no gap between what I felt and how I responded.
Being In It vs Watching It
I don’t think this is about choosing one way of being over another. It’s not about deciding that you should always be fully present or that you should stop reflecting entirely. Both serve a purpose, depending on the situation.
What I’m paying attention to is how quickly I move into observing mode, stepping outside of an experience even when I’m still in it. And I’m starting to wonder what each moment is asking for instead. Some moments might ask for surrender, even when it feels uncomfortable. Others might ask for presence without interruption. And some might simply ask to be seen without needing to be changed.
Invitation
My invitation for you is to just notice where you’re having an experience and also watching yourself have it. Notice when you’re interpreting what’s happening instead of just being inside it. And notice what shifts, even slightly, when you let one of those drop away, even for a moment.
Join the community
If you want a place to explore these questions more slowly, with other women who are thinking about solo travel in this season of life, you’re welcome in the Skool community. It’s a space to talk honestly about what comes up, without pressure to be brave or get it right.