The First Leap: Solo-traveling in New Zealand

Embarking on a solo adventure to a distant land is a step I believe every young person should take in their life.

Little did I know that I had to endure a range of emotions that I was not at all prepared for when I first arrived in New Zealand, alone, with no plan, at the age of 19.

Day one in New Zealand: I kicked things off with my version of cultural exploration – a morning run. Running through uncharted territory has a unique charm; you learn to navigate an unknown place, and in my case, this meant the streets of Queenstown. Getting your bearings makes everything a bit easier and can expedite the process of feeling more like a local. You may find restaurants or activities you want to try. The serotonin rush doesn't suck, either.

Post-run, I took a shower and grabbed a bite to eat. At this point, I was still in survival mode and feeling the awe and excitement of a new place. I summarized my emotions as follows: "I'm feeling good." But then, the abyss of the unknown whispered, "What do I do now? How do I make friends? Find a community?" Cue the existential crisis.

In desperate need of a hug, I speed-dialed a family member for temporary relief. You share your day, hear about theirs, and voila – connection. But, alas, calls end, and you're back in the solo spotlight. An alternative escape from the loneliness pit stop: plug in your headphones and embark on a musical journey. Oddly comforting, until you accidentally dive into the deep end of sentimental memories and emerge emotionally waterlogged.

My first week in Queenstown was spent in this constant cycle. Slowly falling deeper and deeper into a hole of loneliness, I created myself. Eventually, I looked to some supreme power to help me. Which is how I ended up in a majestic, empty church. I had seen this lonely, beautiful stone and wood church before while walking down to the Queenstown harbor, and the memory of her lingered in the back of my head. A haven to cry in, beneath the colorful glow of stained glass windows, I wrote in my journal:

"9/6/23

well shit.

I have genuinely never felt this scale of emotions in my life. All past wounds have been ripped open. I am homesick not only for my family but also for every place I have ever lived or loved, all my family, and all my friends. It's painful. I have a newer, deeper appreciation for my friends and family than I have ever had before. I miss my mama. I have much more to update you on for the first week in New Zealand. There have been ups and downs, but all I wanna do right now is be snuggling up to Camille on a chair at the lake, eating dinner in the kitchen in Lafayette, or sitting on the porch in the rain in Arizona. This is incredibly depressing. And lonely.

So fucking lonely."

Despite the emotional rollercoaster, being thrown into the abyss is a crucial experience.

You gain a new understanding of yourself and your weaknesses. As much as I adore my solo company, I need people. I am not invincible. I had to cultivate the talent of talking to strangers, which turned out to be a survival skill.

Eventually, I would leave the church feeling a bit better and clear-headed than when I first stepped inside. Furthermore, I had a plan. I was going to sit in my hostel and talk to every person I crossed paths with. That is the beauty of the hostel kitchen. You may find that more organic conversations can be easily had here. Plus, food tends to bring out the best in people.

But that is a story for another time.

At the end of the day, I believe you gain a tremendous amount of wisdom when you travel alone. Knowledge about how to talk and interact with other people and, perhaps, most importantly, with yourself.

A couple weeks later I would be taking a different sort of leap of faith- this time off a metal box in the sky, attached to a bungee cord. Funny enough, this was much easier than boarding the plane in the SFO airport to go to New Zealand.