The summer preceding my junior year of college marked a turning point in my life, as I made the deliberate decision to spend four transformative months studying abroad in London. While I was well aware of the common refrain that people embark on study-abroad experiences to “find themselves,” my motivation stemmed from a slightly different, more introspective desire. I wanted to expand the boundaries of my usually tight-knit social world and place myself in an environment where unfamiliar faces and foreign rhythms would challenge my natural inclination toward comfort and familiarity.
Having spent my entire life in the quiet, sprawling suburbs of the Midwest before attending Syracuse University—a setting that, truthfully, did not represent much of a departure from what I had always known—I longed for a change. London, with its layered history, vibrant cosmopolitan energy, and cultural dynamism, offered precisely the kind of place where my ideas about connection and independence could be put to the test. I envisioned myself immersing in literary discussions during my Shakespeare course, sharing laughter with new friends over coffee in tucked-away cafés, and building genuine connections that transcended shared backgrounds or hometown similarities.
I also promised myself that I would invest more time in getting to know my flatmates, many of whom were only acquaintances when I arrived. Whether during late-night conversations in our shared kitchen or during chaotic group outings across the city, I saw London as an open invitation to broaden my social identity and engage with life in a different, more spontaneous rhythm. I approached the experience with the certainty that I understood what awaited me: I would emerge more worldly, more sociable, and perhaps brimming with anecdotes about new friendships forged abroad. Yet, to my surprise, what I discovered instead was an unexpected and profound appreciation for solitude.
In the beginning, being alone unnerved me. The first few weeks felt awkward and slightly disorienting, as if the city’s immense scale amplified my isolation. Though I had a built-in community of flatmates, our schedules rarely aligned, leaving me to navigate classes, meals, and daily escapades on my own. I attended lectures, exited the classroom without companions, and boarded the Tube solo, wandering between London’s many museums, bookstores, and tucked-away historical corners. Each outing reminded me not only that I was a visitor, but also that I was entirely in charge of my own experience.
At first, solitude felt like scrutiny. I became hypersensitive to every gesture, every glance. When I sat alone in a café, pulling out a book to occupy myself, I could hardly focus on its words, distracted by the self-conscious belief that others could immediately recognize my foreign awkwardness. I recalled the countless online videos jokingly outlining how Americans could be spotted abroad—their posture, their voices, even their sneakers—and I was convinced I fit that description perfectly. Holding tightly to my phone and consulting Google Maps at every intersection, I feared taking a wrong turn that might lead me hopelessly astray, perhaps even across the Thames into an unfamiliar part of the city. Beneath that lighthearted anxiety, though, lingered a genuine pang of loneliness. Standing before magnificent monuments or walking through centuries-old streets, I sometimes longed for someone beside me to validate the experience, to confirm that what I saw—the Buckingham Palace, the street performers along the South Bank, the bustling markets—was indeed real and not a solitary illusion conjured by my imagination.
Over time, however, a gradual yet powerful transformation unfolded. With each day I spent navigating London independently, the uneasy quiet of solitude evolved into a tranquil sense of self-accompaniment. I began to embrace the exquisite freedom that came from charting my own days—choosing where to eat without consensus, lingering in museums without watching the clock, or simply walking aimlessly through narrow cobblestone streets whose histories whispered from every brick façade. Learning to navigate the Tube and bus system without checking a map marked a small but distinct victory, a subtle declaration of belonging. Soon, even the act of walking alone became its own joyful ritual.
Before traveling abroad, my notions of spending time alone were confined to passive comfort—watching films, browsing YouTube, cocooning in the safety of my bedroom. In London, however, solitude became active, even exhilarating. Exploring alone meant not withdrawal, but immersion: I was simultaneously a participant and an observer, gaining a deeper understanding of both the city and myself. Every solo excursion carried the thrill of discovery—of stumbling upon a quiet courtyard, of reading for hours in a sunlit café window, of creating memories that depended solely on my own presence.
My initial objective had not been abandoned—I did indeed meet new people and drew closer to some of my flatmates—but my most vivid recollections from those four months are of my individual adventures. The image that stays with me is not the crowded pub or group dinner, but my solitary afternoons surrounded by centuries-old art, sipping tea while watching life unfold just beyond the glass. When the program came to an end and my return flight to the United States loomed, I carried home not just snapshots and souvenirs, but a newfound assurance that I could feel content and confident in almost any environment, even when completely on my own. Through the unexpected gift of solitude, London taught me that independence is not isolation—it is freedom disciplined by self-knowledge, and it is a lesson that continues to shape the person I am becoming.
Sourse: https://www.businessinsider.com/best-part-of-study-abroad-was-alone-time-confidence-2025-10
