i took myself on a solo vacation for my 30th

...to a couples' resort in the Bahamas 🙃

“You here with a boyfriend?” the taxi driver asked me as we whirled through the winding roads of Nassau, passing million dollar views of turquoise waters, towering palm trees, and white sand beaches – in other words, paradise. 

“No boyfriend. Just me,” I said, which I immediately regretted. One, because he could’ve been a serial killer, and two, because telling people you had a one-way ticket to paradise was often considered brave and exciting, but a one person ticket to paradise? That was just sad and pathetic. 

“Why you here alone? Pretty girl like you should have a boyfriend.” 

Aside from the “pretty girl” part, it was the type of comment I didn’t love. I was just a month shy of my 30th birthday, and I was quickly discovering my life was now a to-do list of “shoulds.” 

You should buy a house, you should eat more quinoa, you should train for a marathon (why were all thirtysomethings suddenly obsessed with running?). From my Facebook feed to the nosy neighbor on my parents’ street to the flashy women’s magazines on the back of my toilet, I couldn’t escape the shoulds. And marriage? Well, that was a given. Especially as a woman. An unmarried woman at thirty was a crime against humanity. After all, what about the ticking time bomb in your uterus? If you weren’t married, or at least dating someone with marriage potential, then poof! you were sentenced to something worse than death: a life in which you completely disappear from the social radar, or become so unrecognizable that no one would want to sleep with you, let alone marry you. 

If 30 was the age where we graduated into official adulthood of engagement announcements and wedding invitations – or baby showers, if you were really an overachiever – my love life read like a remedial student’s report card. Other than an awkward situationship with an actor who starred in one of my plays the year before and a handful of online dates that went nowhere, I had no romantic life to speak of. It’s not that I didn’t want to “graduate” with my fellow cohorts into a cozy life of binge-cheating and scheduled Friday night sex; I just wasn’t the sort of person who wanted to drag my butt to summer school in order to play catch up. I didn’t want to date for the sake of dating.

“Maybe next time you come, you bring a boyfriend,” the taxi driver said to me. 

That seemed to be the consensus lately.  Only a few weeks earlier, over a bottle of wine, my roommate had exclaimed to me: “We need to get boyfriends!” Her tone, both matter-of-fact and urgent, as if she was reminding me we needed to get toilet paper – put it on the top of the list or live in regret, or at the very least incredibly inconvenienced.  

“But why do we need to?” I wanted to ask.

Months earlier, when a friend reminded me that dating online was like “taking on a second job,” I promptly deleted my profile. The ROI wasn’t enough for me. Scrolling through endless photos of group shots and mirror selfies and unsolicited dick pics just for that rare diamond of a guy who would at least ask your name first before sending a photo of his schlong and a “U up?”  No thanks.

I wasn’t trying to be a contrarian, I was just tired. Tired of analyzing the text messages, tired of going out on first dates with men who insist on showing you their foosball table right away (a euphemism if there ever was one), and I was especially tired of thinking I needed to have a man to feel like I was complete. I was happy being single. I was happy hanging out with my friends, sleeping in the middle of the bed, being free to do what I wanted when I wanted to, and not having to compromise on, well, anything. It’s not that I didn’t want a relationship, eventually. I just figured there was enough time to experience more when it felt right to me. 

So, in anticipation of my third decade, I decided to do something I thought was far more liberating than deciphering mortgage interest rates or suffering from runner’s diarrhea – I chose to travel solo for the first time. No one could accuse me of playing it safe or being less of a grown up when I blew out the candles on my 30th. As far as I was concerned, thanks to my one person ticket to the Bahamas, I had nothing left to prove. 

Then my taxi driver pulled up to the resort, and suddenly “should” hit the fan. Past the outdoor hanging fans and potted palm trees, there were couples as far as the eye could see. The Couple Holding Hands While Strolling the Gardens In High Waisted Shorts. The Couple Pinching Each Other’s Butts on The Tennis Courts. The Couple Drunk Making Out at the Pool Bar. Couples here, couples there, couples everywhere. 

Yes, it appeared I was staying at a couples’ resort. Alone.  

Would I have chosen a different location if I had known what I was getting myself into? Probably not. Writers love a good story!

In all fairness to me, I didn’t know it was a couple’s resort when I booked the trip. And in all fairness to the resort, it didn’t advertise itself as one. In fact it was rated as more of a hot spot for college kids for spring break and graduation celebrations. It was November; I assumed I would miss out on feeling like an outsider among the stampede of raging hormones and codependency. But as one friend put it to me later that night: “You went to the Bahamas alone. What did you expect?” 

Not this. 

I expected my trip to be one of rest and relaxation, a welcome escape from the doldrums of Toronto’s fall season for some much needed vitamin D (like, actual vitamin D, get your mind out of the gutter). I expected to “connect with myself” which is what you hear all the time about what it means to travel solo. “Grow your confidence” was another typical selling point as well as “you get to prioritize what really matters.” I expected to experience all of this while doing my own thing, and maybe go kayaking. Snorkeling sounded fun too.   

But, I couldn’t escape from the couples. They were like gnats, showing up wherever I was. At the buffet. At the beach. At the bar. I couldn’t shake the suckers no matter how hard I tried. I thought – hoped! – my presence would go unnoticed but no such luck. When you‘re the awkward giraffe at the pretty pony show, people can’t help but stare. “What is she doing here? And why is she…alone?!” Their bewilderment and judgment were as loud as their Hawaiian shirts. Dining alone, which was something that I typically enjoyed, suddenly felt more vulnerable. And whenever I requested “just one” table/umbrella/towel, I couldn’t help but feel apologetic about it. “Sorry I’m alone! Sorry this is weird!”

While there was a small number of families with young children also staying at the resort, their cries for more pool time and snacks weren’t enough to distract me from all of the couples. In fact, they only reminded me more of what I didn’t have — or at least according to the thirtysomething’s hierarchy of needs.

If couples were the cool juniors of high school, then families were the high brow seniors. And me? I was clearly the awkward freshman. Craving some camaraderie, I sought out fellow single women to drink frozen margaritas with as we laughed about our unfortunate vacation spot, but no dice. There was no such person except yours truly. I was officially the only single person on the premises. 

It wouldn’t have been so bad if there were more things for me to do. But I couldn’t play tennis by myself. I couldn’t play beach volleyball by myself either – plus previous trauma from playground politics prevented me from asking if I could join in anyway. Besides, what position would I play? The apropos alternate? And kayaking was also out of the question – they only rented out two seated vessels.

“Maybe ask someone to join you?” the attendant said, trying to be helpful. I wanted to retort back, ‘Yeah, like maybe a boyfriend?” It was too late.

The evenings were worse. On my first night, I made the mistake of venturing to the resort’s dance hall. As soon as I stepped onto the dance floor, amidst the flashing lights and swooning, sexy music, I knew instantly that this was, in fact, not the place to dance my troubles away.

Of course the couples were there.

The Slow Dancing Couples, The Samba Couples, The Grinding So Hard They Might As Well Be Fucking Couples. There were a few groups of women dancing amongst themselves, but they were women who were part of the Couples Traveling With Other Couples, and they made it pretty clear their dance circles were closed to non-members. I was at a middle school dance all over again. So much so that I was hanging out at the back of the room next to a tall plant, as close to being a literal wallflower as I could possibly get. 

That’s when he spotted me – the fedora-wearing MC. He instantly grabbed the mic and started sashaying his hips toward me. 

“Hey there, pretty lady,” he said INTO THE MICROPHONE, as he slithered his way over. “You wanna dance?” 

I froze. Suddenly all eyes were on me. Again.     

There are few things in life more embarrassing than singling out the only single woman in the room and pretending it’s totally innocuous. Like when a bride purposefully throws her wedding bouquet at the lone bridesmaid who danced her heart out to “Single Ladies” at the reception. I’ll throw you a bone, you look like you need it. It’s a pity bouquet, and now the MC was asking me for a pity dance. 

I smiled politely, and I slowly moved towards him…only because it was the fastest way to the Exit sign. He took my hand, expecting a dance, but instead, he unwittingly twirled me right out the door. From that night on, I retired early to my room, spending my evenings eating snacks, watching expensive pay-per-view movies, and wishing I had booked for three nights instead of five. 

It didn’t take me long to find my own spot at the resort, on a lounge chair, sequestered at the end of the beach, so isolated from the Land of Couples, I could’ve been in Siberia. Here’s where I thought I could finally bask in my own company, read that book I wanted to finish, and reflect on the lessons from my twenties. But all I could do was think about how alone I was and wonder how it would feel to be there with a boyfriend. Having one certainly would make my life easier. For starters, I could rent a kayak.

Then the kayak turned into the idea of opening a joint checking account. And then I did something I swore I would never do – I started shoulding myself. Maybe I should reactivate my dating profile. Maybe I should start dating again. Maybe I should settle down. 

I resented myself for it. This wasn’t the point of my liberating solo vacation. I was supposed to be honoring my thirty years of life and celebrating my decision to travel alone for the first time, and now I was shoulding all over my life decisions – something I thought I’d never do.  

“Maybe I come home with you. Back to Canada. We can live together.” This was Hector, one of the resort’s security guards whose job was to police the beach, and he wasn’t helping matters. Hector, who was around the same age as my father, discovered my little hiding spot on one of his strolls, and upon learning I was by myself, became a frequent visitor so he could unabashedly (and probably inappropriately given his job title) flirt with me. 

“I don’t have the room for you, Hector,” I said, playing into our schtick. 

“I can cook.” 

“I can cook, too.” 

“But you need someone to take care of you,” he said. 

Suddenly our banter didn’t feel so funny anymore. I suddenly felt lonelier than I had in a long time. And while I was aware beggars couldn’t be choosers, I still politely declined his offer, again.

Me hanging out at my little spot at the end of the beach. Alone. With Hector.

***

I needed a change of scenery. It was my last night at the resort. So off I went on a day excursion to Treasure Island where there were promises of dolphins, snorkeling and opportunities to fully flex my freedom muscles.

Today will be different, I affirmed. 

 A shuttle bus then a small ferry delivered me to the island’s idyllic shores of crystal clear waters, and almost immediately the air somehow smelled sweeter. It’s not because I escaped the canoodling couples – they were there too, of course, along with multitudes of families wearing matching colored t-shirts with punny phrases like “We Be Trippin’” on them – but because here I was someone different.

I wasn’t the lonely single woman at the resort. I was the spontaneous independent woman I knew myself to be. I was lighter, more present and loose, allowing my senses, not shoulds, to instinctively guide me onto the next mini adventure from swimming with the dolphins to snorkeling to simply swinging on a hammock. I made small talk with locals, smiled at some surfers, and got a little tipsy at lunch. If people gawked at the Lone Single Girl on the Beach, I didn’t notice. Finally, I was invigorated by the possibilities around me. 

As I navigated my way around the island, enthused and curious, I was reminded of eighteen-year-old me who traveled to Florence by herself, not knowing a lick of Italian, on her way to study abroad with strangers who would soon become her new friends and confidantes. Or the nineteen year-old me who moved to New York City to go to NYU, and quickly adopted it as my second home. Choosing to travel alone was never a scary idea for me; I knew I could trust myself to figure things out. I would and could take care of myself.  

Later, I made my way back to the ferry without asking for directions, gripping the photos I had taken of me at the dolphin sanctuary; photos of just me and a dolphin, pressed together like prom dates, both of us smiling widely. I was sunkissed and content. 

***

“I’ll have a table for one in the Garden of Eden” is a sentence I never thought I would say, but enjoying my final meal – my last supper, if you will – at the resort’s only fine dining restaurant seemed like a fitting send-off for my last day of vacation. 

As the maitre d’ led me to my table, it became quickly obvious that whoever designed the restaurant did not realize single people would be eating there – and probably never read the Bible either. The dimly lit space was filled exclusively with wicker and two-top tables. Each table was outfitted with only a front-facing bench, or, rather, to call a spade a spade, a loveseat. Perhaps to maintain this Laura Ashley-inspired love bubble or to cajole some good old fashioned voyeurism, the tables were also spread out in a U-shape, a flagrant configuration if there ever was one, which meant it was impossible to lay low since we all had a front row view of each other underneath the gaudy chandeliers and hanging baskets of plastic ivy. It was everything one might expect from a restaurant with “forbidden fruit” as the most popular dessert item on the menu.

Like the majority of my trip, I was the lone single person in the room, which was further amplified by my perhaps defiant choice to sit smack dab in the middle of my “loveseat.” That’s right, folks – there would be no other person joining me. It was just me, myself, and I.  As usual.

But no one noticed me here. To my left, a couple in their twenties sucked on each other’s faces, in between bites of what surely was food gone cold. On my right, a couple in their sixties quietly admired their surroundings while snuggling against each other. Finally, I had become the invisible single thirty year old woman. 

I’ve never been back to the Bahamas since. Photo by Cristofer Maximilian on Unsplash

At this point in my journey it would’ve been acceptable – maybe even encouraged – for envy and jealousy to heavily course through my veins. Heck, I was in the Garden Eden. If not here, where else could all hell break loose and still be met with an empathetic nod for being human? Poor thing! She couldn’t even go kayaking!

But instead I laughed out loud. I laughed and I laughed at how absurd this entire experience was, and I laughed at how funny life can be, namely because it’s always reflecting back to you exactly who you are. 

I remember when I was senior in high school, a group of friends and I were on the commuter train traveling to Toronto from our suburban town so we could shop and frolic in the “big city” for the day. We were just a few months shy of graduating from high school and our whole lives were ahead of us. We all knew where we were headed for college and university, and all very excited by it, so, naturally, the topic of what our lives might look like came up. When it came to my turn to share, I didn’t hesitate. I motioned to the passing cookie cutter homes with the playgrounds in the backyard and the mini-vans in the driveway, and I said very simply but with absolute certainty: “I don’t want this.”

And what I meant by this was the sort of life that seemed preordained for me before I even had the chance to figure out if that was what I wanted. I hadn’t had much of an adventurous life at that point, but I knew there was something wild within me. Something that bucked tradition and wanted to create a life that was mine, and mine alone. Not a life that dictated what type of job I should have or where I should live or when I should marry or procreate. I didn’t want a life of “shoulds” – I wanted a life that was built on truth. My truth.

 Once I left my hometown, I clung onto this promise like a life-saving compass, sometimes desperately, even annoyingly, during the many times when it felt lonely and unpopular to be me. But I had taken a blood oath in principle (mainly because I faint at the sight of actual blood): I simply forbade myself to disobey what I knew to be true for me just so I could follow the crowd. 

Still, I know eighteen-year-old me probably didn’t think she’d be single at 30. But what did she know? She only dreamed of straying from the conventional path of adulthood, I was the one who was actually walking the damn thing. 

And so there I was, twelve years later, and my stubborn persistence of wholehearted sincerity (which is just me trying my best to avoid using the word authenticity) led me to the Bahamas to celebrate my 30th birthday, alone.

But not just alone, I was on my first solo vacation that I planned and experienced all by myself for myself – a person whose company I quite frankly adored.

This is why (nearly) thirty-year-old me refused to mark this milestone with regrets just because I didn’t have someone by my side. I was single because I was single. Not because there was something wrong with me, but because it wasn’t my time yet. I knew I wasn’t ready for a boyfriend or a husband unlike some of my peers. And that was okay.

Also, unlike some of my peers, I liked being single – and that was okay too even if those around me didn’t understand or agree. 

So at a table between two couples that symbolized my past and what I hoped might be my future, I knew I was exactly where I needed to be.

Maybe one day I would have what they had, but if not, I would forever have this. Because even if my life looked a little lonely compared to the comfort of predictability, I was the sort of woman who would always be more comfortable eating alone in a restaurant and ordering something called the Serpent Surprise, than checking off boxes to fit certain expectations that were never mine to begin with. 

Thanks for being here!

Love, Brie xoxo

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lately on the podcast

how to travel solo as a single person (with travel entrepreneur & single gal Katie Johnson)

traveling solo is the best! and definitely not an experience to be missed, especially as a single person! whether you've traveled solo before or not, this is THE episode for you.

On the show we have Katie Johnson, an entrepreneur, expert solo traveler, and single woman. We talk about the safety practices needed for solo travellers, how to meet community abroad, including friends and lovers, following your own path, even if it means traveling far away from home, and what it means to live life completely differently than the rest of your family and friends.

Listen to the episode on Apple & Spotify. And don’t forget to subscribe and review! It really does help get the word out.