The solo travel experience is rarely as solitary as we imagine. In the days leading up to my retreat at Jeeva Klui, I was cradled by an unexpected, accidental kinship. I had arrived in Lombok and connected with Ibu (mom in Indonesian) Muthia—someone I knew only through a DM via Instagram.
Between days spent in an Airbnb and a memorable durian feast, she became my tether. I even met her driver, whose familiarity was instant when he realized where I return for Eid every now and then. “I know how to speak Malay Peninsular dialect,” he said, his accent serving as a genuine pass into a shared history.
In those moments, the distance between my home and this island felt as fragile as a thin line of thread.
The Threshold of Vulnerability
Upon arrival at the close, quiet enclave of the lobby, Muthia posed a question that lingered: “Are you sure you’ll be okay?”
Her motherly concern instilled a sudden, sharp pang of guilt in me—a reminder of the societal conditioning that insists a woman alone should feel vulnerable or incomplete.
I brushed it off, masking my nerves with a practiced smile, having spent the bulk of this trip under her protective wing. But as she departed, the weight of the silence finally settled in, and I was left to face the sprawling, lush grounds of the resort with nothing but my own thoughts.
The breakfast table became the first real test of this solitude. Surrounded by families and clusters of laughter, my own seat felt cavernously empty; the loneliness was sharp, a physical presence in the morning air.
Yet, in the quietude, I found a different kind of hospitality. The waitresses were kind enough to pronounce my name each day, their voices a soft, recurring cadence that broke through my isolation.
That small, repeated acknowledgment became my anchor, a quiet reminder that I was seen, even amidst a sea of families who were busy documenting their own shared memories.
The Luxury of Presence: Reflections on the Art of Doing Nothing
In retrospect, I’ve learned that the most transformative travel doesn’t always come from the longest itinerary.
I spent hours earlier in my trip on a solo boat trip island hopping in Gili—a beautiful but logistical hassle that, in hindsight, I could have bypassed.
I later realized that everything I was seeking—that stillness, that immersion in the elements—was already waiting for me at Jeeva Klui.
The resort offered its own boat experiences, and had I known, I would have traded the frantic pace of hopping between islands for the quiet, anchored rhythm of the resort’s own coast.
An Architecture of Intention
Jeeva Klui isn’t just a place to stay; it is a space that demands you name and inhabit its experiences. I found myself deeply affected by the quiet corners that define the property:
- The Library: A sanctuary of wood and woven textures, it became a space for reflection that felt miles away from the digital noise I had left behind.
- The Lap Pool: A perfect, crystalline line against the horizon, it provided the physical space I needed to process the days’ silence.
- A Sacred View: The architecture of my room was perhaps the most spiritual element. The traditional thatched roof—combined with the sound of the waves echoing through the space—made my daily prayers an unforgettable experience. To stand on my prayer mat, looking out toward the ocean while the rhythm of the tide provided the only background music, was to feel a connection that was both profoundly personal and deeply grounded.
- The Jungle Shower: There is a visceral, grounding power in the resort’s outdoor jungle shower. It was a first for me—to bathe in the open air, surrounded by bamboo and the lush tropical canopy of Lombok, felt like a complete return to nature.
- The Gallery Boutique: A warm, wood-framed alcove looking out through floor-to-ceiling glass onto rain-dappled palms. With its suspended bamboo racks, hand-loomed textiles, and delicate silver craftsmanship, the space felt less like a shop and more like a quiet tribute to local heritage—a tactile reminder of the beauty found in slow, intentional creation.
The Physicality of Letting Go
The true breaking point—the moment where the armor finally gave way—came in the dim, tranquil silence of the spa.
During a Balinese massage, my therapist, Warda, spoke with a wisdom that seemed to bypass my intellectual defenses entirely. As her hands moved over my shoulders, she said, “I am untangling the knots deep within you.”
I didn’t know why, but I began to cry. It wasn’t a quiet shedding of a single tear, but an involuntary, physical release—a profound catharsis of years of held tension that I hadn’t realized I was still carrying.
For a long time, I thought the Eat Pray Love narrative was a lie—a romanticized, cinematic trope sold to travelers to make us believe in easy miracles.
But as I lay there, feeling the physical evidence of what Bessel van der Kolk’s The Body Keeps the Score has taught us—that our bodies hold onto trauma long after our minds have moved on—I realized it wasn’t a lie at all.
It was simply the truth, finally finding a way out through the knots in my muscles.
Permission to Be
In that moment of unraveling, I wasn’t just a Muslimah Solo Traveler in a resort; I was a person finally giving herself permission to stop performing.
The “knots” Warda spoke of were not just physical; they were the residues of every time I had pushed through discomfort, every time I had ignored my own needs, and every time I had stayed “plugged in” when I should have been listening to my own nervous system.
Leaving Jeeva Klui, I didn’t feel like a woman who had “conquered” a solo trip. I felt like a woman who had surrendered to one.
By stepping away from the noise of my daily life and the comfort of my own familiar surroundings, I allowed the environment of Lombok—the rain, the kind strangers, the scent of the spa, and the rhythm of the ocean—to reveal the parts of myself I had been keeping hidden.
Solitude, I have learned, is not the absence of people. It is the presence of oneself. And sometimes, you have to travel thousands of miles and let your guard down on a massage table to realize that you are the only company you have ever truly needed.
This was first featured in Ruhfar Vol 2
