When my husband passed away suddenly on the 19th of December, my world stopped. Everything I thought I knew about myself — my purpose, my direction, my identity — fell away in a heartbeat. I was 38, and the life we had built together just… disappeared.
In the weeks that followed, I moved through days in a daze — sorting paperwork, answering questions, doing what needed to be done. But inside, I was hollow. Friends told me to “take time,” but grief isn’t a straight road; it’s a train you board without a map or destination. I realised that if I didn’t step off for a moment, I might never start living again.
So I booked a trip. First to New York — because I thought if I could handle the noise and chaos of that city, maybe I could handle life again. But before I ever boarded that flight, something unexpected happened: a stranger invited me to join them on a short trip to Antwerp so they could save money. And, for reasons I still can’t fully explain, I said yes. That single yes was the beginning of my self discovery through travel.
The Turning Point
Antwerp was my first test. I’d never travelled alone before, and the idea of navigating airports, trains, and foreign streets without my husband felt like walking without a compass. But once I arrived, something shifted. The air felt different. I realised that I could still make decisions, still laugh, still connect with people — even in my grief.
A few weeks later, I made it to New York. I remember sitting on the steps outside a bar, cigarette in hand, watching people rush by, when a man started talking to me. We got chatting, and to my complete disbelief, he told me his name was also Jamie Wake. He’d just been widowed too — and we even shared the same date of birth, though I would’ve placed him as older! It was one of those freaky, goosebump moments that made me stop and think: the universe really does have a strange way of reminding you that you’re not alone.
That encounter — and the freedom I found walking through those endless New York streets — became my first real turning point. I realised that self discovery through travel isn’t just about escaping; it’s about coming home to yourself.
When I finally reached Gran Canaria later that year, everything softened. For the first time since losing him, I felt a sense of belonging. Gran Canaria, with its warmth and open embrace of the LGBT+ community, felt like home — not because it was paradise, but because I could just be me. I didn’t have to explain myself. I didn’t have to hide my grief or my identity.
That trip changed me. It helped me switch, metaphorically, from the grief train to something new — a journey that I was finally steering myself. Because as I often say: you can’t control the wind, but you can adjust the sails.
Learning to Live Again Through Travel
When I arrived in Gran Canaria, the sense of belonging hit me instantly. Many dream of five-star islands and glossy resorts; I just needed somewhere I could be. The island’s heartbeat – open, inclusive, warm – wrapped around me like sunlight.
In Maspalomas, with its famous dunes and LGBT+ community, I felt seen. Not for being widowed. Not for being alone. Simply for being me. Evenings became slow rituals – watching sunsets with sangria in hand, talking to people who understood loss or love or both.
Gran Canaria healed me in quiet ways. It was there I learned that peace doesn’t mean forgetting – it means accepting. Travel, I realised, had helped me switch from the grief train to a new mode of transport altogether. I was steering again.
Later, Sitges brought joy back. Nestled along Spain’s Costa Daurada, the town radiates creativity and celebration. I spent mornings by the sea, afternoons exploring art galleries, and nights dancing beneath fairy lights. I laughed – properly laughed – for the first time since December.
That’s when I knew I’d crossed a threshold. The sadness hadn’t vanished, but it had softened. I’d discovered that independence could be kind, not lonely; that travelling solo didn’t mean being alone.
