Travelling solo = Not having to apologise

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Travelling solo = Not having to apologise

People are always surprised when I tell them I prefer travelling alone

As a 32-year-old woman with low vision, there’s an assumption that solo travel must be terrifying, lonely or, at the very least, unnecessarily difficult. In reality, however, what many people fail to understand is that the most challenging part of travelling has very little to do with navigating unfamiliar places and almost everything to do with navigating other people’s perceptions.

Over the years, I’ve met countless people who genuinely believe they’re doing me a favour by travelling with me. They reassure me that they don’t mind slowing down, taking a different route or adjusting their plans. Initially, their kindness feels sincere, and I have no doubt that most of them mean well. Nevertheless, it rarely takes long before those little reminders begin to creep into conversation. Suddenly, I’m hearing comments about how much we’ve slowed down, how we’ve had to change our itinerary or how much extra effort everything requires. Although these remarks are often presented as harmless observations, they inevitably leave me feeling as though my presence has become an inconvenience disguised as gratitude.

Is adapting a sacrifice?

What frustrates me most is the hypocrisy of it all. People speak as though adapting to my pace is some extraordinary sacrifice, yet they conveniently forget that adapting is a choice they have the privilege to make. They can walk faster tomorrow if they wish. They can decide to rush through a museum, skip a viewpoint or sprint to catch a train. I, on the other hand, cannot simply wake up and decide to see more clearly. My low vision isn’t a lifestyle choice, nor is it a temporary inconvenience. Consequently, when someone repeatedly reminds me how much they’ve adapted for my benefit, it doesn’t make me feel supported; it makes me feel as though I’m expected to apologise for existing.

Equally exhausting are the people who seem determined to help with absolutely everything. Before I’ve even had the opportunity to decide whether I need assistance, someone’s already grabbing my arm, steering me in another direction or narrating every object within a ten-metre radius. I’ve even had people insist on waiting outside the toilet because they couldn’t possibly leave me alone for three minutes. While I appreciate that these gestures are usually well-intentioned, there comes a point where constant assistance stops feeling like kindness and starts feeling like surveillance. More often than not, it sends the message that they simply don’t believe I’m capable of managing even the most ordinary tasks independently.

Grateful for help I never asked for

The irony is that, should I politely ask someone to take a step back, they often become offended. Somehow, their feelings become the priority, while my independence quietly disappears into the background. I’m expected to be grateful for help I never asked for, and if I reject it, I’m perceived as rude rather than honest. Yet surely true support means respecting what a disabled person actually wants, rather than imposing what makes everyone else feel useful.

I am on a holiday not hosting a seminar on accessibility

Then, of course, there are the endlessly curious individuals who seem to regard disability as a public question-and-answer session. I completely understand genuine curiosity, and I have no objection to thoughtful conversations. However, there is a considerable difference between wanting to understand someone and expecting them to justify every aspect of their existence. I don’t particularly enjoy explaining how much I can see, how I use my phone, how I recognise people or how I manage to travel independently every time I meet someone new. Quite frankly, I’m on holiday, not hosting a seminar.

Travelling solo = Not having to apologise

Why solo travel is my thing

For precisely these reasons, I choose to travel alone whenever I can, and I refuse to feel guilty about it. Travelling solo allows me to move at my own pace without feeling as though I’m holding anyone back or inconveniencing them. If I need help, I’ll ask for it. If I don’t, I simply carry on with my day. Contrary to popular belief, the world is full of kind strangers, and I’d much rather request assistance when I actually need it than spend an entire trip being reminded how fortunate I am that somebody has agreed to accompany me.

This is also why I often say that disability can feel socially excluding. That statement isn’t an attack on individuals; it’s an observation about the society we have collectively created. Too often, disabled people are made to feel as though they should be grateful simply for being accommodated. Eventually, that becomes emotionally exhausting. Sometimes the easiest way to avoid constantly educating people, correcting assumptions or defending your capabilities is simply to be by yourself. Ironically, solitude can be far less isolating than spending time with people who continually remind you how different they think you are.

Accessibility as an afterthought or a marketing slogan?

Unfortunately, the travel industry is often guilty of reinforcing exactly the same message. Hotels, attractions and restaurants proudly advertise themselves as ‘accessible’, yet all too often accessibility feels like an afterthought rather than a fundamental principle. You arrive to discover the accessible entrance tucked away at the back, the lift out of order or staff who have never been trained to support disabled guests. Rather than feeling included, you’re reminded once again that somebody had to make special arrangements for you because the world wasn’t designed with you in mind in the first place.

Personally, I don’t believe accessibility should ever be treated as a special feature or a marketing slogan. It should simply be the standard. Places should be designed with everyone in mind, regardless of whether they’re disabled, non-disabled, wealthy, struggling financially, young or old. Inclusion shouldn’t depend upon whether somebody remembered to add a ramp or tick an accessibility box after the building was finished.

Freedom

So the next time somebody asks why I prefer solo travel or why I choose comfortable, budget-friendly hostels over luxury hotels, I hope they’ll understand that the answer has very little to do with courage. I travel alone because it’s one of the few times I don’t feel like someone else’s responsibility, someone else’s good deed or someone else’s lesson in compassion. Travelling independently allows me to exist without constantly apologising for the space I occupy, and, in all honesty, that is the greatest sense of freedom I’ve ever experienced.