Becoming an Adventurer: A Shy Traveller’s Slow Evolution

Growing up, I was the kind of kid who would rather daydream about far-off adventures than actually venture out of the house. Speaking up in class felt like torture, and going anywhere alone? Not a chance.

Yet, I was captivated by the idea of travel. The stories I read and the movies I watched painted a picture of freedom and excitement.

But deep down, I was terrified of the reality: navigating unfamiliar places, dealing with strangers, and, worst of all, being seen as awkward or unsure of myself.

Then came the moment I couldn’t avoid – the end of university. Life was waiting.

So, I left home for the first time to take a work-and-travel job. Thankfully, it came with a built-in safety net: accommodation and meals were sorted, which meant I could focus on the work part while avoiding anything too adventurous. Or so I thought.

My early travel days were all about group comfort. It was easy to stick with others, letting the loudest person decide where we’d go and what we’d do. I liked the security of it, the predictability of having someone else in charge. It was like being on a tour where the only requirement was to follow along.

But as time passed, I began to crave something different. I wanted to linger in places that caught my eye, to walk at my own pace without worrying if someone else was bored or hungry.

Slowly, I started peeling away from the group. It wasn’t a bold move or a sudden declaration of independence – more like a series of tiny decisions. “I’ll catch up with you later,” became my favourite phrase.

These solo wanderings were freeing, but they also came with challenges. Walking alone in a new city felt exhilarating yet unnerving, as though I didn’t quite belong.

But each time I ventured out, I felt a little braver, a little more confident in my ability to navigate the world on my own.

Even now, my version of solo travel isn’t all breezy sunsets and café-hopping. It’s more like stepping off the ship during shore leave, wandering into unfamiliar streets alone, and hoping I don’t overthink myself into a corner. There are moments that still feel downright terrifying, like walking into a shop or ordering a meal by myself.

Yes, even after all these years, that’s still a low-key nightmare.

Sometimes, I play it safe and eat onboard before venturing out – it’s easier to fill up on the ship than psych myself up to sit at a table and order food alone. (Let’s not even talk about the skipped meals, because apparently, ignoring hunger is easier than facing my anxiety.)

But every now and then, I surprise myself. I step into the shop, make the purchase, or muster the courage to grab something to eat. It’s not glamorous or groundbreaking, but it’s mine – a small victory in this quiet, ongoing battle against my fears.

Over time, I’ve come to appreciate the quiet joy of solo exploration. There’s something magical about wandering through unfamiliar streets, knowing I can stop wherever I want, stay as long as I like, and not worry about anyone else’s schedule.

I’ve grown in ways I never imagined: handling tricky social dynamics at work, venturing out alone for brief moments of exploration, getting lost and finding my way back (sometimes with a detour or two), taking small but meaningful risks, and learning to stay calm when things inevitably go sideways.

I’ve learned that I like being alone sometimes. It’s a surprising realisation for someone who once feared the mere idea of stepping out alone.

My shyness hasn’t disappeared, but I’ve stopped seeing it as a weakness. In many ways, it’s a strength.

Being quiet allows me to notice details others might miss – like the small gestures of kindness from strangers or the hidden corners of a city that most people rush past.

That said, it hasn’t always worked in my favour. At work, my soft-spoken nature has often been misunderstood. Supervisors have called me timid or low-performing simply because I don’t speak up enough.

It’s frustrating, but it’s also pushed me to find ways to advocate for myself – whether that’s through writing, one-on-one conversations, or just trying to speak a little louder (even if it feels unnatural).

Shyness doesn’t make me less capable; it just means I approach things differently. I listen more, observe more, and connect in quieter, more intentional ways.

Travel hasn’t transformed me into a fearless extrovert, but it has helped me accept myself – quirks, hesitations, and all.

I’ll probably still hesitate before entering that café alone or overthink walking into a small store, but I know I’ll eventually do it. And when I do, it’ll feel like another small but significant step forward.