The best backhanded compliment I ever received was from a man I briefly dated who told me he had never met anyone so desirous of social extremes. He couldn’t tell whether I was happier on my days of giddy socializing or hermetic solitude, but my commitment to each, he said, was “startling.” He told me this after my blissed-out return from a solo cabin trip. It had never occurred to me my two proclivities were at odds, because in my mind, one energized the other.

My first solo trips happened without design. Going to college across the country meant I frequently had to arrive in new places by myself. Those first road trips and flight layovers forced me to hone the muscles of my own intuition. Did I want to linger over lunch in a quaint cafe, or eat a cheap sandwich in a park and save money for ice cream later? Should I search for antiques on the meandering route, or speed down the highway and have daylight to explore near my motel? Nobody cared! It didn’t matter! I just had to decide!

“I’ve gone on a lot of trips [with other people] where I will come back and be like, that wasn’t really a vacation because I had to take care of this or that situation,” says Wudan Yan, a Seattle-based writer. “When I’m alone, I tend to be a little more chaotic.” Free of witness, a looser version of herself comes out.

Traveling alone introduced me to this version of myself, too. My inner critic eases up when my choices affect nobody else. I am the only one who bears the cost of getting caught in a downpour on a walk, or a sad roadside “girl dinner” of leftover snacks. With nobody to vent to, my self-pitying misery becomes a caricature of itself—so absurd and sad, I have no choice but to laugh at it and soldier on.

While traveling alone, it is sometimes hard to parse where prickly discomfort ends and the euphoria of private revelations begins. The flaming sunset I fail to photograph out my windshield. The tang of a wild apple plucked on a hike. My first impulse is to share what I am experiencing by posting on Instagram or texting a friend, but I push myself to sit with the unfamiliar pleasure of private joy. To remember how much beauty one can access without an accomplice. Back at home, I try to channel the spontaneous person I am on the road: someone who takes 30-minute detours for soft-serve and reads mystery novels in hotel bars.

And I’ve come to realize I’m not alone in my solitary travels. Elan Hagens tends to travel with both her giant schnauzer and her 1978 Toyota Dolphin mini motor home, and she is frequently approached for conversation about each. Hagens was raised in Portland by a single mother without a car. It wasn’t until she reached adulthood that the broader Pacific Northwest became accessible to her, and she realized how much she was missing if she stayed in the city. “Solo travel has helped me get out and get to know the environment, but I think it’s also helped other Oregonians interact with people like me more,” says Hagens, who is Black. “Ninety percent of the people I meet are really awesome and say, ‘Move out here.’”

And yet Hagens knows her increased visibility means extra vulnerability, too. She updates friends with her location but doesn’t post it on social media, always checks in at ranger stations, sets up two chairs outside her camper to project the illusion of company, and sleeps with keys under her pillow, poised for a quick exit.

Yan, who says she feels safest alone while backpacking miles from anyone, has similarly learned to balance her love of exploration with her need to feel safe. “I have been very liberal with how I travel, but I’ve always had a precautionary mindset about it,” she says. There’s a stretch of I-5 she calls her “no-stop zone,” because she’s seen signs about China that, combined with a rise in Asian American hate crimes, make her wary. Her experiences traveling and working overseas taught her the value of toting a fake wedding ring—which she did before she got married—and a rubber doorstop for wedging under hotel doors.

And yet both Hagens and Yan agree that the thrill of solo travel outweighs its hums of anxiety. As an artist and forager, Hagens plans routes around her current curiosities, so she can take a break to gather materials, or visit farmers whose supplies she might use. “If I’m going to go dig rocks for four hours, I don’t necessarily want to invite people who would slow down my speed,” she says, laughing. These are trips for her whims, alone.