I was on a hill in Camiguin in the Philippines, and I was scared.

It was during a motorcycle tour of the island and we had stopped at the Stations of the Cross, a long path that winds up a hill. I had begun climbing, but at some point during the ascent, my fear of heights made an appearance. I remember noticing the path, the gravel and the sand under my feet and starting to think not about where I was going, but about the way back down. How steep it was. Whether I would slip.

I was climbing with a guide, and I was still walking forward but already imagining the descent. At some point, I just stopped. I told him I wanted to go back down. He didn’t question it. He could see I was struggling, and he offered me his hand. We walked down the steepest part together.

Somewhere on the way down, it became clear to me that I hadn’t failed at anything. I had just decided I didn’t need to get to the top.

You already know where you want to go

That was in 2007. I’m sure I had traveled solo before, but that trip stands out. I remember trying to see everything and do everything, wanting to somehow prove the trip was worth it and squeeze every possible moment of enjoyment from it.

I went to the Philippines because I had seen a photograph and something in me said yes. I was living in Sudan at the time, and greenery was not something I had much of. When I came across images of Banaue, the rice terraces carved into the mountains in Northern Luzon, I knew immediately that I wanted to be there. I didn’t analyze it or make a spreadsheet. I booked the trip.

That part, the knowing, was actually the easy part.

The hard part came once I was there and felt the pressure of doing it right. I kept adding stops, more sites, more places nearby. The result was that I was moving fast through a place I had specifically chosen because I wanted to slow down.

Something I hear often is: I don’t know where to go. And I want to sit with that for a moment, because I think when most people say it, they mean something closer to: I don’t trust where I want to go.

The destination is often already there. It has been there for a while. The gap is not about information. It is about believing that what you want is the right answer.

What Sri Lanka reminded me almost 20 years later

In 2026, I wanted to go to Ella, a small town in Sri Lanka’s hill country. Mainly because of the train. There’s a stretch of railway through the tea plantations that people describe as one of the most beautiful train journeys in Asia, and that really drew me.

But when I got to Sri Lanka, I learned the tracks had been damaged. The train wasn’t running for most of the section. The main reason I wanted to go was gone.

One of my drivers, Thara, mentioned there were waterfalls on the way to Ella. If you know anything about me, you know I love waterfalls. He also suggested a place to stay with a dramatic view, mentioning it was in the clouds. I looked it up on Booking.com. The price was reasonable. Something about it felt like an invitation.

So I changed my plans and went.

The guilt of not doing enough

What I found in Ella was exactly what I wanted. A waterfall visible from my guest house. Sunsets from the communal balcony. Sunrises from my room. A long, easy conversation with three people from the Czech Republic, where I live, comparing experiences of Sri Lanka and talking about life at home.

And still, at some point, I nearly talked myself out of it.

That familiar voice showed up: you came all this way and you’re just sitting in your room. You’re not going to the Nine Arch Bridge. You’re not hiking Adam’s Peak. You’re not even getting the photograph.

I caught myself. I reminded myself that I’m not traveling for social media. I’m not here to optimize. I was on that trip to enjoy the environment, to rest, to slow down, and that was exactly what I was doing.

I didn’t need anything else from Ella to make the trip real.

The connection between 2007 and 2026

In both cases, I knew what I wanted. In the Philippines, I wanted greenery, and I went toward it. In Sri Lanka, when the original plan fell through, I still knew what I was drawn to, a waterfall, a view, a certain kind of pace, and I was able to get that even though the logistics had changed.

The harder thing, in both cases, was trusting what I already knew.

On the hill in Camiguin, I needed to stop, and it took real effort to say it out loud. In Ella, I knew I was exactly where I needed to be, and I still had to actively resist the guilt about not doing more.

These are not lessons you learn once. They are things you keep practicing with.

Where is your place?

When someone says I don’t know where to go, I want to ask gently: is that really true?

In my experience, there is usually a place. It has been calling to you for a while. Maybe it’s a name that keeps coming up, an image you can’t stop thinking about, or a feeling you want when you finally get there.

Where is the place that keeps appearing in the background of other conversations? The one you have mentioned casually a few times without ever committing to it. The one that caught your attention when someone else described their trip there.

The logic is not what comes first. What comes first is the feeling.

The gap between knowing and going is almost never about information. You do not need more research. What usually stands between you and the trip is permission, permission to trust your own decision over the checklist, over the sense that you ought to be doing something more impressive or better planned.

After visiting 75 countries, here is what I have noticed: the pull toward a place is not random. It tells you something about what you need right now, what kind of experience you are ready for, what you have been putting off.

When you ignore it long enough, it does not go away. It starts to feel like general restlessness, like something is off that you cannot quite name.

Your one small step this week

Write down the place.

Just the name. No timeline, no budget, no list of reasons it is not practical. Write down the name of the place and sit with the fact that you want to go there.

That is the first decision. You’re not booking or planning; you’re just naming the thing you already know, making it real enough to choose.

I turned around on a hill in Camiguin, and it was one of the best decisions I made on that trip. The guide took my hand and we walked down together. I did not miss anything. I had exactly what I needed.

You already know where you want to go. The rest is just following through.

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.