I recently returned from a work trip to London where I tacked on a couple of extra days to explore the city entirely on my own. This is unusual for me and it got me thinking about solitude, community, and how I move through the world.

I never travel alone. I fly solo plenty, but I’m always either meeting colleagues or traveling with family. Even when I’m working “alone” at my desk at home, I’m constantly connected through calls and Slack messages. My distributed company means I work in isolation physically, but I’m never truly alone.

Over my lifetime, I’ve rarely experienced extended periods of complete alone-ness. I lived with my family growing up (youngest of six kids), then had roommates in college, then got married, then I had kids. There was a brief internship when I lived alone for a few months, but even then, I got a dog pretty quickly. I don’t mind this pattern. It’s genuinely how I’m wired. I thrive on connection and collaboration.

What struck me about London was being alone while surrounded by millions of people. I was just one in the crowd, making my way through the city with no one to check in with. This honestly freaked me out a bit. Being in a different time zone. No one immediately aware of my whereabouts. Not my favorite feeling from a safety perspective, so I made sure my family always knew my general plan for the day.

I stayed in a hostel, which possibly was over the top, but essentially the theme of my trip: my own space, but among people. Independent but not isolated. My adorable little coffin capsule is a story for another day.

Traveling with people, especially my husband, brings out something I love about shared experiences. We have different but complementary travel styles. We like similar and distinct things so we complement each other well. The “should we go left or right?” conversations, the shared discoveries is the best part for me.

Without someone to bounce ideas off of I found myself hitting decision fatigue faster. All those small choices that normally get shared or negotiated became exhausting.

But I did enjoy the novelty of having complete autonomy for a day or two, just doing my own thing. I could spend as long as I wanted studying JMW Turner at the Tate. An amazing series of rooms full of his work! I was looking for Sargents and wow, when I saw W. Graham Robertson from 1894 and Ellen Terry as Lady Macbeth from 1889. Goodness! The portrait artist in me just wanted to stand in front of those two for ever. Then I meandered through the Victoria and Albert Museum at my own pace, doubling back to revisit pieces that caught my eye. And getting lost and confused in a way that would have annoyed anyone tagging along with me. Or maybe I wouldn’t have gotten lost. There is a thought!

I walked along Regent’s Canal to check out the narrowboats. I wandered past all the touristy spots, but then veered off into the quieter garden squares that feel like they’re pulled straight from the pages of Jane Austen or Georgette Heyer novels I love.

As much as I enjoyed those solo days, I found myself eager to share my travels when I got home. I found a coffee shop hidden off an alley that I almost didn’t go to, but when I recognized a woman from the hostel heading the same direction, I realized it was probably legit.

The pleasant surprise of seeing the Last Supper (a copy made by Leonardo’s students) at the Royal Academy of Arts. A Degas that caught my eye because it featured the orchestra in the foreground where you could actually see the bassoons clearly. These experiences were meaningless until I could share them with my husband and kids.

Maybe that’s the thing about solitude for me. It’s valuable in small doses, a chance to hear my own thoughts more clearly and move at my own pace. But ultimately, the experiences I treasure most are the ones I can share and the stories that become better in the telling,