Solitude:
Or something like that.
(一）
By all accounts - I was a lonely child. I didn’t have any friends, my siblings significantly older than I, the parents constantly working overseas, and my neighborhood devoid of other children.
I was never unhappy about being alone, though. In fact, I much preferred it.
I’m particularly sensitive to sounds. Not in the “I’m a light sleeper” kind of way, but more like the “I’m gonna run into oncoming traffic if that subtle rattling noise no one else seems to notice doesn’t stop” kind of way.
There’s a term for that, it turns out. Auditory overload.
Of course, 8-year-old me didn’t understand what that was. I was like a mushroom, or a pack of batteries; wanting to be left in a cool, dark place, away from all the noises so that some clarity could return to the mind.
Except - in a place like Singapore, behind the silence was yet another cacophony of sound. Located basically along the equator, Singapore is home to a bajillion different species of wildlife. All of them, seemingly living in my backyard.
And I loved it.
Makes no sense, right? I don’t understand it either. The way a door creaks when it opens could drive me insane. Yet I could spend all day listening to the monkeys howl, birds sing, and lizards hissing away in our backyard.
(二）
I’ve always loved nature, travel, and adventure. I suppose, it’s this inherent interest that allowed me to overcome that yearning for total silence from the city. In a megalopolis like Singapore, very few shared this sentiment.
Here’s a quick story to sum it all up.
In 2023, I took my parents to Botswana for a trip of a lifetime, going on safari through the Okavango and Kalahari, multiple lions mere inches from our vehicle. Just days after returning to Singapore, we went to the zoo. Both parents, at the lion exhibit, exclaimed “this is so much better! Why did we bother going to Africa?”
It was too hot, there was no Wi-Fi, they didn’t like the food…the complaints went on.
I didn’t understand. We were stood in the middle of the Makadikadi salt pans. A site where, according to newer research, the first Homo sapiens emerged as a distinct species over 200,000 years ago.
We were in the birthplace of all humankind as we knew it, a salt flat extending to the horizon in every direction, wild meerkats poking out of their burrows nearby, and the surface of the flats intricately cracked and formed by the previous week’s rain. The very first humans walked these same lands.
“There’s not much here, huh?”
(三）
I’ve always been a solo traveler - my first solo flight happened at around 11, when I moved from Singapore to the United States. Having had a taste of the world as a child, I now wanted to experience it for myself, on my own terms.
It’d become a tradition for me since high school to save up all the money I’d earned throughout the year, and blow it all on one big summer trip. As I progressed from odd jobs to full-time work, the budget for longer, more remote, and more exotic destinations were slowly coming on the radar.
Eventually, in 2019, I found myself standing near the edge of a cliff in Northern Iceland. It was nearly autumn and the weather was dreary. My clothes soaked through by the torrential downpour, winds blowing so hard I could see my car shaking in the nearby lot.
I stood there, listening to the harbor seals calling between the waves crashing below. The seagulls squawking interjecting the gusts of wind and rain. I hadn’t seen a car, let alone a single human for days. My phone had been dead for days, and I’d just been driving wherever the sights took me.
I was alone. I was cold. I was hungry. I was tired.
Yet, as I stood there, witnessing the beauty and the power of the planet, I was at home - at peace.
(终)
To me, there's nothing quite like the feeling of being the only human within a hundred miles - with nothing but me and the elements, and I suppose whatever animal I'm staring at.
It's only in those moments where my anxious, racing mind comes to a standstill, when it's just me and this crazy planet. It’s these moments where I can truly stop to appreciate and take in the experience of being a human on this planet.
Somewhere down the line, the camera started coming along for the ride, joining me in preserving these moments of beauty around the world.
How has your journey through life shaped your personality, your art, and the way you express it?
These days, I still mostly travel solo and largely prefer doing so. But, with the right group of people, traveling in a pair/group has been an absolute blast as well.
Ryan, you were a great roommate on the G-Adventures Expedition Ship in Antarctica and South Shetland Islands.
Never in my life have I traveled alone, but I think one day I would like to have that experience. There’s a certain allure to the idea of moving through unfamiliar places without the presence of others, just the quiet company of my own thoughts. It feels like a journey not just of the body, but of the soul—an opportunity to meet myself in new ways, without distraction, to feel the world and its vastness on a more intimate level.
That said, I do enjoy traveling with my husband. We’ve found in each other a companionship that makes each experience more vibrant. Sharing moments with him feels natural, like the stories we create together are richer because we both witnessed them. After all, we’re best friends, and it’s a privilege to experience life together.
But solitude holds a special place in my heart as well. I find solace in those moments when I’m completely alone, reading a book or painting when there’s no one around. In that stillness, I reconnect with myself, where everything seems to slow down and I can reflect without interruption. These times of solitude are precious—almost sacred. They allow me to retreat into the quiet corners of my being, a space where creativity and peace seem to naturally arise. In that balance of sharing life and savoring solitude, I feel like I’m exploring the full depth of what it means to live.