There are some trips you plan because you need to escape, and others you take because you’re ready to return — to yourself.

This one was the latter.

When I landed in Seoul, I didn’t have a partner waiting beside me or a group chat pinging my phone with plans. I had one backpack, a camera, and a quiet curiosity about what a single day in a faraway city might do for my soul.

I didn’t expect it to feel like coming home.

It all started with soup. Not just any soup — a ginseng chicken broth served in a traditional hanok house that wrapped around me like an old friend. It was early, the kind of quiet morning where the city is still stretching its arms. I remember sipping slowly, surrounded by locals, the air filled with steam and herbal warmth. That moment settled me — told me I was safe, that this day was mine.

Wandering through Seoul, I never felt rushed. I didn’t check my watch. I didn’t scroll. I just… followed whatever felt right. The palace gates opened wide and welcomed me into centuries past, where drums beat and colors danced. I rented a hanbok — not to be touristy, but because something about it felt ceremonial, like stepping into someone else’s story for a moment and understanding your own a little better because of it.

The streets curved into alleys lined with hanok rooftops, and I let myself get a little lost in Bukchon Village. At one point, I paused to look back down a quiet hill and saw N Seoul Tower rising in the distance, soft against the morning haze. I took a photo — not to post, not to prove anything — but to remember how it felt to see something beautiful with no one else around to influence the moment.

Lunch was temple food — simple, delicate, and thoughtful. I sat cross-legged, sipping barley tea, each dish arriving like a poem. The absence of meat, of noise, of rush… it made space for reflection. I didn’t know how much I’d been needing that stillness until it was served to me on a tray.

That afternoon, I took a cable car up to Namsan and stood at the top of Seoul, city sprawled below like a dream. I bought a love lock. Not for someone else — for me. I wrote my name, clicked it into place, and whispered a promise I didn’t know I’d needed to make: to keep showing up for my own joy.

As the day softened into evening, I dipped my feet into the stream running through the heart of downtown — Cheonggyecheon — letting the water cool my tired steps. I watched murals light up and couples drift past me, and I never once felt out of place. There’s a kind of peace in being alone but not lonely.

Dinner came with skyline views and a glass of wine. I journaled. I lingered. I didn’t care that the seat across from me was empty. It didn’t feel like anything was missing.

Later, I wandered through Myeongdong’s neon jungle, tasting hotteok from street vendors and smiling at strangers. I bought a silk scarf. I watched the steam rise from food carts and caught myself laughing out loud at nothing in particular — just the joy of being there.

My night ended where it began: in a place of quiet reflection. A rooftop drink, city lights twinkling, Seoul humming below. I looked out and realized I hadn’t checked my phone in hours. I hadn’t needed to. This wasn’t a day built for anyone else’s feed or approval. It was a day for me.

A Soulé Journey, just for one.
And honestly? That made it perfect.

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