Traveling with someone is its own kind of intimacy: the shared exhaustion of a red-eye, the indecision over where to eat, the awe of pausing together to take in something beautiful. For many, those moments are reserved for romantic partners. But over the past few years, I’ve shared them most often with my closest friends; a subtle lesson in how connection, at its most genuine, doesn’t always look like romance.

I moved to Colorado from New York at 38—no partner, no ring, no big plan. I didn’t know what this chapter would become, but over time, it’s taken shape around friendship—around the people who have shown up for me in ways that matter. Especially when we travel together, the kind of travel that involves passports, loose plans, and a comfort level that makes everything feel a little lighter. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve come to understand just how much friendship and travel have shaped this season of my life.

Take, for example, my trip to Mexico City with my friend Brett. It started the way so many of the best plans do: over texts and wishful thinking. Suddenly, we had plane tickets and dinner reservations. We wandered through museums and art galleries, climbed to the top of Chapultepec Castle, took our time over coffee in Condesa. We ate tacos from street vendors at midnight, browsed bookstores in La Roma, and sipped mezcal on rooftops as the city lit up around us. Brett is the kind of friend who finds the best coffee shop within five minutes of landing and never makes you feel bad for ordering a second pastry. We moved through the city like co-stars: comfortable, in sync, and okay just being ourselves.

Then there’s Amy—one of my closest friends and my go-to Hawaii date. We’ve been to Hawaii together three times now, twice to Kauai and once to Waikiki, and each trip feels like a deep exhale. In Kauai, we hiked the lush trails of Waimea Canyon, dodged chickens in parking lots, and pulled over constantly to snap photos of waterfalls we hadn’t planned to find. In Waikiki, we wandered barefoot for açai bowls, watched hula dancers at sunset, and stayed up late, letting the sounds of waves carry our conversations.

We napped without apology, swam in every shade of blue, and talked about everything and nothing—on beach towels, in the car, over poke bowls. It wasn’t curated, it was real rest. No performance, just true comfort with one another. Friendship, softened by sunshine and rinsed clean by the sea.

In 2025 I had one of my favorite trips of all time: a week in Paris with my friend Katie, who I’ve known for over 20 years. I’d been once before, on a solo trip to celebrate turning 35, one of the best gifts I’ve ever given myself. But this trip was just as special in an entirely different way. As much as Paris is considered the city of romance, I’d argue it might be even better experienced with a close friend. We ate croissants in the morning, walked the Champs-Élysées, tried on clothes at Sézane, and lingered over steak frites and salade niçoise with the Eiffel Tower in the background. It was, in its own way, more romantic than traveling with a boyfriend. There is no love quite like the love you have for a friend. You can be entirely, unapologetically yourself. They know you in a way that’s different from a partner—sometimes even deeper.

***MONTMARTRE AND SACRÉ- CŒURE WITH KATIE***

We’ve been taught that romantic love is the main event—the couple on the Vespa, the honeymoon in Greece, the “exploring the world with my person” captions. But I’ve done both. I’ve traveled with a boyfriend, and I’ve traveled with friends—the other great loves of my life. My friends don’t mind when I get quiet in museums or want to stop for the third snack of the day. They’ve been beside me through delayed flights, lost luggage, and unexpected magic. They’ve made me laugh in customs lines and feel completely seen while watching sunsets on the beach.

Traveling with friends has given me something I didn’t realize I was craving: space. Space to be fully myself with no expectations and no roles to play. Their love is measured inside jokes that resurface months later, and a companionship that asks nothing of you but your presence. It doesn’t need to be explained or dressed up. It just exists.

Some days I wonder if I’ve missed something, someone to split plane tickets with, to share the logistics of a life. But then I think about how Brett found the perfect quiet café in Mexico City after I said I needed a break from the crowds, or how he flagged down a taxi when I couldn’t find the words in Spanish. I think about the way Amy and I sat side by side on a beach in Kauai, wrapped in towels, watching the sky turn pink without saying a thing. I think about how Katie and I sat side by side in bed at night, debriefing the day, and laughing about things no one else would understand. These, too, are loving relationships. In fact, they are my favorite kind.

One day, I hope to travel with a romantic partner again—to share headphones on a long train ride through Italy or split a pastry on a quiet morning in Lisbon. But I’m not waiting to experience the world. I’ve danced through the streets of Mexico City. I’ve watched the sun set over the Pacific with Amy. I’ve watched the Eiffel Tower sparkle with a best friend and felt, unmistakably, that nothing was missing.

That, to me, is love—just not the kind we’re always taught to look for.

Plane Tickets and Platonic Love

Knowing When To Let Go of Love

Outgrowing “The Boy Is Mine” Syndrome