Tales From Solo(ish) Travel, and How I Got My Confidence Back

Words & Photography by Dalene Heck

In September of 2017, I took an important solo trip.

I have scattered notes about it but never finished a piece for publishing. Despite many attempts, I struggled to put words to the experience, to shape my incoherent rambles into anything readable.

But the trip was significant, whether there was an official record of it or not. It was ten months after my leukemia diagnosis, and about five months since my in-hospital treatment ended. I was still taking meds on a 10-week-on, 2-week-off schedule, so I timed the trip to fall in the window of when I would be off the meds and feeling my best. (“Best” being a relative term, of course.) That window happened to coincide with Pete’s birthday, but he didn’t mind that I would be away. He knew it was important.

He was scared, though. I had booked four nights in a yurt on a remote island of British Columbia. It was not powered, there was no running water, and the toilet was in a detached building. There was no wi-fi and no cell connection. I was unreachable and living bare. Less than a year after cancer started ravaging my body, I was also feeble and slow-moving. 

Was it stupid? Maybe. To go entirely off-grid with my dubious strength and health might not have been my smartest move, but the pull to take that trip was powerful. Through clenched teeth, Pete and my mom, my faithful caregivers, supported the idea.

For many months, my every need was attended to by both of them; they worked as an efficient team to ensure that I wanted for nothing at all times. While the attention was certainly needed early on, especially on days when I struggled to even dress myself, it also caused major damage to the psyche of this formerly independent woman. I needed that trip, my first solo venture in a couple of years. I needed to prove (to myself, mostly) that I was capable of standing on my own.

I wasn’t entirely alone. The yurt sat on the property of a lovely couple, just a few hundred meters from their house. Even though my stay felt remote and was quiet, they were there if I needed them.

But over those four days, I didn’t see them once, and I surprised myself with how well I did. I cooked full meals on a propane stove, cleaned up after, and even went for some decently long walks. I cried, A LOT, in between hours of reading, scribbling words, and some meditation. It was all so cathartic and therapeutic; I had a lot to process, and the trip gave me the space to do it. I left that yurt feeling more capable, even if my body still had some ways to go.

Fast Forward to 2024

These last few years have been quieter, travel-wise. Between the pandemic, work, and moving across the country into a fixer-upper, our suitcases have sat largely unused.

But after almost eight years of nomadic travel, you’d think it would be like riding a bicycle. You might suppose that Pete and I still move swiftly like efficient packing ninjas, sailing through airports like they are our second home, and taking to the streets of a new town with all the cultural hunger we once had.

And when we’re together, that’s mostly true. On our trip to Panama in early 2024, we quickly fell back into our normal travel routines. Our passports were tucked into the secret compartment of my travel purse like they always were, and Pete took the lead in communication with his much more competent Spanish. I waited with our bags on the bus station floor while he went to buy tickets and snacks. That trip felt just like old times.

Just over a month after our return home, I was back on the road again. This time, without Pete. I felt panic for several reasons before that trip: My claustrophobia had been triggered in Panama and was still top of mind, and not only would I be without my natural travel sidekick, but I would also be with my niece, who had never travelled out of North America before. Rather than having someone who looked out for me, I would be responsible for looking out for her. Add in my regularly befuddled perimenopausal brain, and my panic rose in anticipation.

While Grace slept in most mornings during our ten days in the Bahamas, I spent that time tidying our apartment rental, washing clothes, and plotting our activities for the day. I constantly took account of where everything was – car keys, apartment keys, cash, passports, and more – I ran that list through my brain often to be sure I hadn’t forgotten anything, anywhere. This may not sound like much of a burden to most, but it truly felt onerous to me. Pete, my ever-steady rock, is a true Virgo, he’s the ever-organized one. I wasn’t traveling solo, but in a way I was, all while minding another. 

In Nassau, two hours before our scheduled flight back to Canada, my panic peaked. Fishing around in my purse, I couldn’t find the cash I had set aside specifically for our transfer to the airport. Our driver parked in the departures lane, and I turned to Grace desperately, my face flushed. 

“You put it in that pocket inside your suitcase, remember?” she said. No, I didn’t remember. I dove into the bag while it was still in the car’s trunk and found the cash, along with our passports, tucked into that inside pocket as Grace had suggested. I had forgotten our passports were there, too. I tried not to let my mind go down the many what if roads, but of course, it went there anyway. Like, what if I had unknowingly knocked the passports out of their spot, letting them slide unnoticed under the bed, and ultimately delayed our scheduled departure? “Please don’t tell Uncle Pete,” I asked of Grace, knowing that his concern for my depleted confidence sometimes rivalled my own.

Shortly after getting home, a patch of shingles erupted on my back. Many health experts believe that stress is a contributing factor to activating the virus, and that made complete sense to me. As much as I loved the sun, sand, and every minute of bonding with my incredible niece, it was also the most anxiety I’d felt in a long while. That trip was a significant reminder of how far I was detached from the carefree and confident person I used to be. I still hadn’t regained what cancer took from me.

October, 2024

Six months later I was on the move again, without Pete, and with my Dad. Instead of enduring the lengthy waitlist in Canada for knee surgery, Dad opted to have it done in Bucerias, Mexico. Because my work affords the flexibility of being able to do it anywhere, and he needed someone to help him post-surgery, I met him there.

I felt much less panicked leading up to this trip, relatively speaking. Mexico is always a comforting place for me, and right then, my claustrophobia was under control. The level of my caretaking would be different on this trip – instead of worrying about him wanting to go clubbing, I would instead be changing bandages and enforcing a post-surgery exercise routine. Not without its own significant worries, but something I felt more equipped to handle.

But then, the floor started to buckle.

Two days post-surgery, my Dad was resting in his room, and I was sitting in the living room of our carefully selected apartment rental (chosen because it was equidistant to the hospital and the major grocery store, plus spacious enough for my Dad to get around using a walker). All of a sudden, loud pops and cracking sounds burst through the apartment. At first, I thought it was kids throwing stones at our wall of windows, but some of the room decor shook and the cracks just got louder. 

The floor abruptly started to slope towards the windows, and I feared that it was about to cave in right underneath me. I made sure Dad stayed in his bedroom and texted our host while the loud cracks and pops continued for several minutes. 

After it finally stopped, the building management arrived and surmised that the tiles had separated from the subfloor, likely due to a faulty adhesive (apparently, it is a common problem due to one specific contractor in town). While it was unlikely to buckle any further, it was visibly sloped and unsafe for my disabled Dad to walk on.

In the hours that followed, I dashed all over town, trying to find another apartment that was suitable and also returning to make sure that my Dad was getting medication and food as needed. Running on pure adrenaline and shaken by it all, I didn’t eat anything until the next day. It was early evening when I finally piled my Dad and all of our things into a taxi and made our way for a new apartment across town. I later collapsed into bed but barely slept, reliving every loud pop and crack from the wrecked floor. It would be a couple of days before I came down from that anxious rush.

The remainder of our trip was comparably tranquil and even a bit boring. I went out sparingly, wanting to attend to my Dad if he needed anything, but often enough to find us some decent tacos and to explore a bit of the town. I braved using my terrible, unpracticed Spanish to communicate with some of my Dad’s nurses, to navigate a medical supply store, and to get us back to the airport on time. 

December, 2024

I wound up the year with another solo trip, this time back to Alberta to surprise my Mom on her 75th birthday. At first glance, it should have been a no-brainer, I was simply returning to the province I was born and lived in for the majority of my life. The highway from the airport to my Mom’s house is one I’ve driven countless times. Yet, fear crept in on the morning of my departure. I had to mind my documents and belongings without Pete’s Virgo-y insistence on double-checking. And while the highway is more familiar to me than many, the potential of winter storms in Alberta is always to be feared.

My angst was futile; the entire trip went as smoothly as I could have hoped. And on the drive back to the airport, through a small skiff of snowfall, I thought about the past year, and the past eight, and about writing this very post unifying these experiences. I gripped the wheel and sat up straighter, feeling more confident in myself than I have in a very long time.

That is what solo travel can do for you. At least, that is what it has done for me.