On family holidays, my father transformed himself. Perhaps it was the sunny climate, the change of scene or simply the long-awaited break from work, but almost as soon as the plane landed on the runway, his ordinarily reserved personality was discarded like a winter coat. He became sociable and gregarious. There was a lightness about him as he chatted to strangers on the beach, inviting them to join us for dinner, where he’d entertain them with an endless repertoire of stories and jokes. Two weeks later, clutching a bottle of ouzo as we landed in Heathrow, perhaps he hoped this version of himself might travel home with him. But as he got back to normal life and a busy hospital job, the unopened ouzo was soon pushed to the back of the cupboard to gather dust. When I left my job as a psychologist and went on a round-the-world trip in search of adventures after a difficult time in my life, maybe I, too, was hoping to become a new person – or, like my father, a different version of myself. I was soon disappointed. It was nerve-racking to land in a strange place and know nobody. Away from the routines of life, the identity of my job and the security of my network of friends and family, I felt lonely and untethered. And, to my horror, despite visiting eye-wateringly beautiful places, I still felt miserable. Somehow, in the flurry of packing for the trip, I’d forgotten that the thing you don’t choose to bring, but can’t leave behind, is yourself. I felt a very long way from home. I missed my friends. What was I thinking? But as the weeks went on, something started to shift. It was during a stay on Ko Phi Phi island in Thailand, when a woman I’d met earlier on the beach approached me and asked if I was free that evening. She’d invited a few other women to meet for dinner. Would I like to join them? We were six women of different ages. At the meal she told us it was her 40th birthday and, as she was travelling alone, she’d decided to celebrate by gathering together a group of women she’d enjoyed meeting during the week. As the waves lapped on the beach, we sat together under a canopy of fairylights eating pad Thai and drinking Tiger beer, and for the next four hours we shared stories about our lives: hopes, dreams, sadness, loss and disappointment. I felt profoundly moved by the honesty of these strangers, and was surprised, too, by the ease with which I felt able to share things about myself. At the end of the evening, we parted company. The birthday woman was leaving early in the morning. I was also leaving the next day. None of us saw each other again. I don’t remember their names, but I do remember the magic of that connection. For all of us, the anonymity was liberating; we had no shared past or future and, as a consequence, we could talk freely without judgment or repercussions. In the months before I left home, I’d felt saddled by heartbreak and stuckness, and this experience had come to define me – and, in turn, my relationship with friends, family and colleagues. My home narrative read like a well-thumbed book. While the longevity of relationships can be a huge source of comfort, it can also be constraining when you want to write yourself a new and different story. As I continued my travels, and took jobs along the way, I found these new and transient relationships liberating, and I was surprised by my growing resilience and independence as well as the rediscovery of parts of myself that were long buried. I extended my trip by another six months and when I got a job on a boat, I not only discovered the joy of scuba diving, but also managed to fall back in love with my life again. Later on, in New Zealand, I met a woman in her 60s who was backpacking solo around the South Island. Over breakfast, I commented on her bravery to travel on her own at her age. “It must be difficult sometimes,” I said. “Difficult?” She shook her head fiercely. “Difficult was being a vicar’s wife in Leamington Spa for the past 27 years.” There was clearly a story there, but she was off, swinging her purple backpack over her shoulder as she disappeared along the Abel Tasman trail. For many, a holiday is a chance to rest and unwind and do very little. But for others, the choice to venture to new and different places is a desire for something else. So how do holidays change us? The clue is perhaps what we’re leaving behind. Freud said the key to happiness in life was love (relationships of any kind) and work (a sense of purpose). Contentment is born stability and certainty, but the flip side can mean these tent-pegs of security can become rigid and can stifle adventure and spontaneity. Time away, in a new place, doing new things can be liberating. Similarly, we all hold multiple roles in life: partner, parent, sibling, friend, colleague, boss, etc, and while these relationships can be a source of joy and comfort, they can come with complex responsibilities and expectations. When working as a therapist, it was often the long-term entrenched relationships that were the most complicated. “I’m an independent 49-year-old-woman,” a recently divorced client said, after her return from a yoga retreat. “So why do I feel like a 12-year-old when I go back to my childhood home?” This split between the old and new self is not uncommon, as key roles in childhood, past relationships or with old friends can be particularly hard to shift. They are layered in years of history – and others may be unconsciously invested in us staying the same. My client needed new and fresh friendships that weren’t tainted by the past. So, a holiday can be a break from normality, a chance to be away from the familiar and to experience new places and meet new people. Free from responsibilities and routine, we can connect with the more playful parts of ourselves. The time-limited and transient nature of a holiday means our usual social norms and inhibitions are cast aside. The desire to share and connect can be intense and effortless. And in the strangeness of a new country, there is the unexpected and the unpredictable, and with this comes the opportunity for spontaneity, adventure and risk – and the chance to dip our toes into a different version of ourselves. On the final part of my trip I went on a two-week bus journey from San Francisco to New York, during which I told my fellow passengers about wanting to write fiction on my return to England. Not knowing me at all, they were unanimously encouraging and supportive, and when I returned home with no job, money or flat, it was helpful to remember their unbridled enthusiasm. Being away can sometimes allow us to realise our strengths, aspirations and dreams. It’s here that the voice of the super-ego is silenced. We can experience the joy of playing a game of no judgment or consequences. The critical voice is usually our own, but sometimes it’s those of others who, because of legitimate worries or concerns, might be less eager to champion a risky decision. The recent success of The White Lotus saw viewers captivated by the twists and turns of the relationship dynamics played out against the gorgeous sunny backdrops of Hawaii and Sicily. And in the same way the holiday, as a suspension of normal life, has long been seen as rich territory for fiction. My own novel, The Family Retreat, spans an intense two-week period by the sea on the south coast of England. Lulled by the holiday mood, and the belief they’ll never meet again, two women build an intense friendship and share a dangerous secret which will have life-shattering consequences for them both. For many, the memory of the sundrenched holiday quickly fades in the grey rain of returning home. But it’s too easy to blame the weather. I think back to my father and the stark contrast between his holiday self and his work self, and how it was less about becoming someone else, but more about allowing a playful part of himself to surface. I’m sure he’d have liked to experience this lightness on the other 50 weeks of the year and perhaps it’s a reminder to us all, as we unpack our suitcases, to find ways to fan the small flames of adventure into our everyday lives.