I have travelled with friends before, usually one at a time, but until recently I had never been on a proper girls’ trip. I am not entirely sure why. Perhaps life simply got in the way. Work, family, relationships and the endless procession of things that appear urgent in adulthood had always managed to occupy the space where such a trip might have been.
Whatever the reason, it took me a very long time to pack a bag, leave my responsibilities behind for a few days and go away with a group of women. What surprised me most was not the destination, although the sea, the walks and the change of air were exactly what I needed. It was what the trip represented.
For me, independence is not a house, a title or a number in a bank account. Sometimes it is being able to go away with friends without asking anyone’s permission. It is paying for your own ticket, making sure the people who depend upon you are cared for and trusting that the life you have built will continue for a few days without your supervision. It is not freedom from responsibility. It is the freedom that becomes possible because responsibility has been met.
The trip began weeks before we left, inside a group chat devoted to accommodation, food, travel and an impressive number of decisions about things I had not realised required decisions. I am not naturally enthusiastic about group chats and contributed very little. Life had been demanding, and some days I lacked the energy to respond immediately even to people I loved.
What struck me was how naturally my friends understood this. Nobody treated a delayed reply as a hidden message. Nobody asked whether I was withdrawing or required me to prove that I still cared. The plans continued, the messages continued and I remained included. They trusted that I would join when I could. At a time when life already felt heavy, they did not add the weight of having to explain myself.
There was something deeply comforting in that. Not every silence is rejection. Sometimes a person is simply tired, occupied or trying to find enough space inside herself to speak. Secure friendship understands this. It leaves the door open without standing beside it demanding to know when you intend to walk through.
And I did walk through.
My friends had organised almost everything. Some people possess a remarkable ability to bring others together, remember what everyone needs and create an atmosphere in which people feel welcome before they have even arrived. I was happy to step back, trust the process and appear at the agreed time with a bag that may or may not have contained the correct things.
Leaving home felt like completing a minor military operation. Food had been bought, work contained and practical arrangements made. All that remained was to remember what I needed for myself, which was apparently the least reliable part of the plan.
On the train, I noticed two elegant older women comparing colourful fans and immediately remembered that mine was still at home. The carriage was warm. Messages were arriving asking how far away I was. I put on my headphones, imagined the sea and congratulated myself on finally relaxing.
Then I remembered that I had forgotten my speaker.
Holidaying does not come naturally to me. I am still learning.
There had been several respectable reasons not to go. There was work to finish and there were always people or tasks that could justify staying home. Life had also been emotionally difficult for some time, and part of me did not feel sociable enough for a weekend of conversation and organised enjoyment. After a hard period, the world can become smaller without us noticing. We repeat familiar days, think familiar thoughts and remain close to whatever feels manageable. Often the change we need most is the one we feel least inclined to make.
I am glad I ignored that reluctance.
We talked late into the night. We laughed, cried, danced and exchanged stories about work, families, relationships and all the lives we had lived before arriving in that room. One friend received news of a death in her family. There were tears, embraces and quiet conversation. Nobody tried to improve the grief or extract a lesson from it. We simply made room for it.
As the weekend unfolded, I became aware of how much strength sat around the table. Every woman carried disappointments, obligations, losses and private doubts. Each had continued building a life nevertheless. From the outside, they were accomplished, independent and capable. Around that table, they were also uncertain, hopeful, tired, funny and sometimes afraid. Their strength was not the absence of difficulty. It was what had grown around it.
These women had stood beside me through a period in which I had not always recognised myself. They listened, challenged me when necessary and reminded me who I was without instructing me who to become. There was no dramatic intervention and no speech about friendship. There was only their steady refusal to disappear.
I do not have sisters, but somewhere along the way my female friends became my chosen ones.
One of my favourite moments came when we found a speaker and began taking turns choosing music connected to our different backgrounds. The room filled with languages, rhythms and songs associated with childhood, family and home. We explained some of them and simply danced to others. Eventually, we were all moving around in our pyjamas, each carrying a different history and none of us requiring the others to share it in order to enjoy the song.
We had different personalities, experiences and opinions. The weekend did not make those differences disappear. It made them unimportant beside the fact that we cared about one another. Perhaps friendship is not always built through similarity. Sometimes it is the freedom to remain different without fearing that the difference will cost you your place.
A change of scenery does not solve a life, but it can alter the size of the frame around a problem. Before the trip, certain thoughts had occupied most of my attention. Somewhere among the walks, late conversations, tears, music and endless cups of tea, my perspective widened. Nothing waiting at home had vanished. It simply no longer filled the entire horizon.
On the journey back, I found myself thinking less about what had ended and more about what was already present: the people who loved me, the friendships I had built, the life continuing around me and the experiences still waiting beyond the boundaries of my routines. The trip had not transformed me. It had returned me to a fuller view of my own life.
Perhaps that is what those few days represented. Not an escape and not a declaration of independence, but a reminder that life continues to expand when we allow ourselves to participate in it. For a little while, a group of women put down what they usually carried, listened to one another and danced in their pyjamas.
We are already discussing another trip. I may even contribute to the group chat this time.
And, I will definitely bring the speaker.
Leave a comment