It was January twenty eighteen, peak summer in New Zealand. The decision came months before, gently seeded by a friend at work named Akivi. She looked at me one day, bright and certain, and said, “You have to go to New Zealand. It’s the safest place on earth to travel solo as a woman.” I believed her. She was pure — the kind of person whose words carry truth without needing to convince you.
From that moment, the planning began. And when I say planning… I mean every single sunrise to sunset, from five in the morning to ten thirty at night. I had my Lonely Planet, gifted to me by Akivi for Christmas. I made spreadsheets. Booked hostels. Calculated drive times in hours, not kilometers — because in New Zealand, roads feel like stories, not distances.
I had my seven-kilo backpack and a brand-new pair of shoes. No checked-in luggage. No room for fear.
The moment I zipped that bag closed, I knew — I’m really doing this.
When I landed in Wellington, everything kicked into motion. Museum visits, garden rides, full-body presence with my itinerary. At Te Papa, I learned about the country’s history and the French war, and I cried walking out. I hadn’t expected to be moved. But something in me was already beginning to shift.
I didn’t know what my deeper intention was back then. I just knew I had to see everything. I wasn’t yet awakened to the “why” — only the “how.” And still, I had no fear. I was fiercely optimistic. I always have been.
That evening, without knowing where it would lead, I walked into a pub.
Alone.
There was no one else. I sat at the bar with a beer in my hand and no expectations. And then, a skinny boy named Dave walked in. He sat beside me. We talked. One conversation turned into a gathering — a whole crew of young German travelers on their gap year, dancing, laughing, welcoming me like an old friend.
In that moment, I felt something I hadn’t yet known:
I don’t need company. The world is full of people. I just need to show up as myself.
That was the first time I didn’t pretend to be anyone. No titles. No roles. Just me, real and raw in the world.
Looking back now, I know what that moment taught me.
It showed me that I take charge.
When I’m connected — truly in alignment with my spirit — I don’t need detailed plans. I trust. And when I trust, the universe brings me exactly what my heart is craving in that moment. A museum that cracks me open. A stranger with a story. A dance floor full of joy. A reminder that life isn’t something to chase — it’s something to meet, fully awake.
This is what solo travel has given me. Not just freedom, but faith.
Wild Lotus Rising was born from that knowing — that when we root deep in trust, we can rise wild in any direction.
To any woman reading this who feels the pull to go — even just a whisper — I want you to know this:
Your wild is waiting.
And she already knows the way.