My Autism Is My Secret Weapon for Solo Travel

I used to think solo travel was for the fearless.
People who didn’t mind getting lost. People who could make friends on overnight buses and sleep through the chaos of unfamiliar cities. I didn’t see myself in that world. I liked structure. I needed quiet. I needed control over when I entered or exited a conversation, a building, a plan.

Then one day, I booked a one-way flight anyway.

Eight months later, I had stood inside the Pyramids of Giza, floated along the edges of the Amazon rainforest, watched the sky melt into the Atlantic in Zanzibar, and kept count as I stepped out of exactly 8,012 vehicles across 16 countries. I remember that number clearly. Numbers calm me.

Autism is often misunderstood. It’s painted as a limitation. A diagnosis people associate with withdrawal, awkwardness, difficulty. But for me, it’s been a gift a quiet one. It makes the world louder, yes. But it also makes it richer.

In Marrakech, I found peace in the middle of a market most travelers would call overwhelming. I didn’t focus on the noise or the crowds. I focused on the patterns in the tiles, the symmetry in the archways, the glint of sunlight hitting the same brass pot every afternoon at 3:42 p.m. I wasn’t rushing. I wasn’t checking things off a list. I was seeing. Really seeing.

In Japan, I fell in love with the public transit system. Not just because it was efficient, but because it made sense. The trains were predictable. The flow of people respectful. There was room for silence, for order, for small routines that made each day feel manageable, even magical.

Solo travel gave me the freedom to design each day around what I could handle, not what was expected. I didn’t need to explain why I was skipping the group dinner or why I always sat near the door. I wasn’t being antisocial. I was preserving energy so I could walk through that museum for three hours the next morning, or speak to that café owner in Rio whose voice made me feel calm.

People often think travel is about escape. But for me, it’s about presence. Traveling with autism taught me that I don’t need to be like everyone else to belong somewhere. I just need space to exist as I am. And in that space, something incredible happens.

I notice the world’s quiet details, the ones most people miss. I learn cities through their textures, not their tourist sites. I form connections that don’t rely on small talk. I navigate not just with GPS, but with intuition, patterns, and pauses.

My autism doesn’t make travel easier. It makes it deeper. More intentional. More mine.

I’m not fearless. I’m not fast. But I travel fully. And sometimes, that’s the bravest thing of all.

If you’ve ever felt like your mind doesn’t fit the world you’re in maybe that just means you were made to explore a different one. At your pace. On your terms. In your own unforgettable way.