Nobody cares that you’re eating dinner alone. Nobody cares that you’re at the cinema by yourself. Nobody cares that you’re traveling solo. And once you realise this – truly internalise it – your world gets significantly bigger.

I hear all the time from friends is that I’m somehow brave or good at being alone, at enjoying my own company. It’s often accompanied by musings about how they could never travel alone, or go to the cinema alone, or have a meal or a drink. It seems like it’s seen as this ultra scary, super intimidating thing.

The ability to do things alone is a muscle. You have to train it, develop it, get comfortable with it. But here’s the thing – I love doing things alone. Don’t get me wrong – I have great friends and I enjoy spending time with them, but once you actually get over that psychological hurdle there are so many benefits to doing many of the things that society would tell us are things to be done in groups.

I remember my first solo restaurant meal. I was convinced everyone was staring, pitying the sad person eating alone. I brought a book as a prop – something to hide behind, to signal ‘I CHOSE this.’ I spent the whole meal hyper-aware of my surroundings, certain I was the object of sympathy.

Then I looked up. Really looked. The couple to my left were deep in what looked like a tense conversation. The businessman to my right was on his phone, barely touching his food. The family of four were managing a toddler meltdown. Nobody was looking at me. Nobody had even glanced my direction. Because everyone was too busy living their own lives to wonder about mine.

That’s when it clicked: The audience I’d imagined? It didn’t exist. And once you know that, you gain you the license to enjoy things without the company of others. You can start to enjoy your own company.

But I get it. Even knowing nobody’s watching doesn’t automatically make you comfortable eating alone or traveling solo. Knowing nobody cares isn’t the same as wanting to be alone. You need actual reasons – tangible benefits, not just the absence of judgment.

So – as your personal indoctrination into the party of one club is my goal today – I shall (dear reader) list for you now the many and various benefits of the solitary choice.

I’ve seen it in the movies (now let’s see if it’s true)

Let’s start simple. The cinema. In my opinion, the cinema is the ultimate solo training wheels experience. It’s a dark room, and a quietly communal experience. The lights go down, everyone shuts up and turns off their phones, and for the next two hours the whole room is doing the same thing – staring at that big silver screen. Nobody can see you, so there’s certainly no judgement to be had, and I’d wager there’s a party of one at most screenings more often than not.

The benefits of the solo cinema trip are many and numerous. Cinema is one of the ultimate acts of escape from the outside world – the ability to truly immerse yourself in a new story, and meet new characters. Going it alone means freeing yourself from distraction – nobody in your ear whispering thoughts, and the ability to really sit with the film afterwards and decide what it meant to you.

As well as that mental space, there’s often more physical space too – unless you choose a really packed screening, not having a +1 likely means the seats either side of you will be completely free and clear. That’s prime real estate for your bag, your coat and the shopping you did on the way.

You’ll also stand to gain the benefit of being a trend setter, and develop a taste for the kinds of movies you like when you don’t have to worry about the whims of others – that weird little foreign film the trailer for which intrigued you, the poorly rated new release with the actress you really love in it, the arthouse picture that’s coming out the same week as the big Marvel tentpole.

Being able to make your own choices based on your taste alone, not group consensus is a recurring theme and a tool you’ll use as you flex your independent muscle.

Table for one (or even better, counter for one)

Eating alone seems to be where many draw the line – especially dining without the clutch of a book or the excuse of business travel. But it’s one of my absolute favourite things to do. My preferred type of restaurant for solo dining expeditions is one with a Chef’s Table, or counter style seating. These restaurants typically have some or all of their seating set in an L or U-shaped configuration around an open show or prep kitchen. And eating at them alone is a delightful experience.

Last November, I was in Osaka for a solo reservation at Yakitori Ichimatsu, exactly the kind of restaurant I recommend for the solo diner. A Michelin-starred tasting experience, Yakitori Ichimatsu is famous for serving up the whole of the chicken – starting with familiar cuts like wing and breast, and progressing to everything from brain to gizzards, and even one course featuring raw chicken. It’s a two and a half hour long progression of about twenty different courses, paired with delightful sakes from across Japan.

On the evening I attended, I was the only solo diner. Joining me around the table were groups of two or three. Every time a new course was presented, I had the bandwidth to be fully attentive, listening to the server tell me about what I was eating and drinking, watching the chefs at work preparing the food – whilst those on dates or with friends seemed to lose track of the experience, of what we were eating.

Just like at the cinema, the solo experience leads to greater immersion. I noticed the chef’s technique – the way he adjusted the grill temperature for each cut, the precise moment he judged each piece done. I tasted the progression from familiar to challenging, felt my palate adapt. The couples next to me were deep in conversation, nodding politely when courses arrived but already mid-sentence about work or weekend plans. I was there for the chicken. All twenty courses of it.

Solo didn’t have to mean solitary though – perhaps unexpectedly, I’ve found in situations like these the solo diner is the one that gets drawn into conversations. Others around the table don’t want to disturb a couple, but as a solo you get to drop in on the lives of your dining companions, meeting people from around the world and getting recommendations. The same goes for the servers and chefs, too. I learnt that my server had moved to Japan from a town near where I grew up, and we exchanged some stories about the past, and I gained some recommendations for cool spots in Osaka that enriched my trip (and yes, later I will be encouraging you to pack a bag and travel alone but all in good time).

There are hard benefits to the solo reservation too. It’s often dramatically easier to snag a table than in a group – and at the kind of counter style restaurants I’m recommending, than a couple too. At American restaurants, it’s often possible to eat at the bar as a solo and I’ve skipped many long waits by doing so.

Food seems – anecdotally – to often come out a little faster, as well. And once again, there’s no compromising. You can go where you want, eat the cuisine you’re interested in trying and pay no mind to the dietary preferences and intolerances of others. Plus, there’s no awkwardness about how to split the bill when Ben decides he wants an entire porterhouse for himself and you’ve only had the club salad.

It’s the same benefits as our cinema trip, amplified – but with the addition of the serendipity of spontaneous conversation. And it’s that serendipity we’ll amplify on our next outing.

An evening alone (in the company of strangers)

Even to me, bars seem so much more intimidating than restaurants. I think it’s partly the image we all carry – the drunk loner holding up the bar (though in reality, have you ever actually seen this?). Partly it’s that a bar feels inherently social, perhaps more than the cinema or a restaurant. It’s a place designed for groups, for conversations, for connection.

In a bar, a book is your friend. Or a Kindle or something on your phone. Your other friend is sitting right at the bar, rather than on a distant table. Because the thing you really get to indulge in whilst you’re in this environment is some premium people watching.

While sipping your drink and chatting with the bartender – who will probably be your first conversation of the evening – you get to listen in on hundreds of tiny worlds happening around you. The mystery of the missing sandwich at the office fridge, Eliza’s inability to hold down a girlfriend, Carl reckoning he can definitely land the role tomorrow. So many subplots unfolding around you, either entertaining you or making your own problems seem small by comparison.

A couple of years ago, I was at Lyaness on London’s South Bank, indulging in one of their specialty cocktails. A very sharply dressed woman sat down on the stool across from me and asked me what I was drinking.

We got talking about the drinks, which led to a discussion about cocktails as an art form. It turned out she curated at a Shoreditch gallery. We talked for a while about her work, and the complexities of the job. As she was leaving, she mentioned she was preparing a private showing the following week and asked if I’d like to come.

I went. It was exciting to see new art in such an intimate setting – and whilst the pieces weren’t for me, the free champagne and conversations with the other patrons certainly were. None of that happens if I’m sitting at a table with a friend. None of that happens if I don’t go to the bar alone.

And as the night goes on and other solos meander through there’s the opportunity to meet new people, get recommendations, share a drink with no commitment to sticking around all night, leaving together or hearing the update on the niceties of how all the cousins are doing. In this bar, you can be anyone – and the version of yourself that you share (however pedestrian or extraordinary) can die at the end of the evening. Relish in the freedom you’ve discovered.

But be warned – keep the dog-ear in your prop book as you enter the bar at the start of the evening. There’s a good chance you’ll have been too engrossed by the goings on around you to remember what you read in the last few pages.

Travel (or, the final frontier)

And then there’s travel. The final boss of solo activities. This is what my friends really mean when they say I’m brave – not the solo cinema trips or the restaurant meals, but the two weeks in Asia alone, the cruise by myself, the spontaneous weekend in a foreign city where I don’t speak the language.

Because solo travel compounds everything we’ve discussed. It’s not one meal alone – it’s every meal. It’s not one evening in a bar – it’s every evening. It’s every decision, every navigation challenge, every moment of joy or frustration, handled entirely on your own. For days or weeks at a time.

And yes, it’s intimidating. What if something goes wrong and you don’t speak the language? What if you’re desperately lonely on day three? What if you have the most beautiful sunset view you’ve ever seen and no one is there to share it with?

Last year, I spent a couple of weeks touring around Asia – visiting China, Japan and South Korea. I had some friends to catch up with along the way, but spent 80% of the trip solo. In Japan, I gave myself the most freedom I ever have whilst travelling – I didn’t have a fixed agenda, some nights I didn’t even have a hotel room rebooked.

My Japan Rail Pass allowed me to hop on and off trains with relative ease (and with no big group to co-ordinate, last minute reservations on the Shinkansen weren’t a problem to come by at all). As I toured from place to place, I made detours and decisions on a whim.

On the way to Hiroshima, I spotted a cool cable car from my seat on the train winding up a hill in Kobe leading to some botanical gardens – in a flash I got off the train, found my way to the station and suddenly was amongst flowers and butterflies on a cliff overlooking the bay. A few hours later, I was in town eating Kobe beef cooked tableside. By evening, I was back on the Shinkansen heading to Hiroshima. None of that was planned. All of it was possible because I was alone.

Years ago – on a solo journey to a resort in Marrakesh, I got talking to the fellow solo traveller on the seat next to me on the plane. While we both went it alone most of the week, we spent a couple of days exploring the backstreets of the Medina, getting horrifically ripped off at a tannery and going to the Jardin Majorelle together – a fleeting moment of connection that wouldn’t have happened if I was with someone I already knew.

When you travel alone, you’re not coordinating. You’re not compromising. You wake up and decide – do I want to see museums today or wander aimlessly? Do I want to eat at that Michelin-starred restaurant or try the street food the hostel worker recommended? Do I want to skip the famous landmark entirely because I’m not feeling it?

You linger in the places that fascinate you. You skip the things that bore you. You change your entire itinerary because someone mentioned a town you’ve never heard of. You extend your stay or cut it short. You’re accountable only to yourself.

And paradoxically – just like at the bar – being alone makes you more connected, not less. Other solo travelers recognize each other. Locals talk to you because you’re not enclosed in a group bubble. You say yes to invitations you’d decline if you had company. The person sitting alone at breakfast becomes your tour guide for the day. The bartender’s recommendation becomes tomorrow’s adventure.

You discover what you actually like – not what your travel companion likes, not what the guidebook says you should like. Maybe you hate museums but love markets. Maybe you’d rather spend three hours in a café watching people than tick off landmarks. Maybe you’re someone who needs alone time after days of exploring. You learn these things about yourself because there’s no one else’s preferences to consider.

Solo travel doesn’t make you brave. It makes you capable. You navigate foreign transit systems. You communicate across language barriers. You handle problems that arise. You make dozens of micro-decisions daily. And you discover that you can trust yourself – your judgment, your instincts, your ability to handle whatever comes.

It also makes you present. Without someone to talk to, you actually see the places you’re visiting. You notice the details – the way morning light hits the buildings, the smell of street food, the rhythm of a foreign city. You’re not performing the experience for anyone else. You’re not narrating it, explaining it, checking if your companion is enjoying it. You’re just in it.

And yes, sometimes you’re lonely. Sometimes you wish someone else could see what you’re seeing. But more often, you’re grateful for the freedom. Grateful that your experience is yours alone. Grateful that you didn’t wait for someone else’s schedule to align with yours. Grateful that you said yes to the trip rather than no because you didn’t have company.

It’s time to go it alone

So there you have it. Cinema, where being alone means true immersion. Restaurants, where solo diners are actually more connected. Bars, where serendipity happens. And travel, where all of it compounds into something transformative.

The audience you’re afraid of? Still doesn’t exist. And now you know that nobody caring isn’t just the absence of judgment – it’s the presence of freedom.

So here’s my challenge: pick one. Just one. This week, do something alone that you’ve been avoiding.

Start with coffee if you need to. Work your way up to dinner. Eventually, book that flight.

Bring a book if you need a prop. I did. Sit at the bar if a table feels too exposed. Order dessert even though nobody’s there to share it. Stay for one more drink. Leave early if you’re not feeling it.

And when you look up and realise nobody’s watching? That’s when you’ll understand: the world just got bigger.