Paris has long been the go-to destination for single women to “find themselves”—the city where heartbreak is soothed by flaky croissants, quiet museums, and ethereal buildings that make you feel like you’ve wandered into a storybook. There’s a peculiar kind of charm to it: the kind that can somehow transform any American newcomer into a more confident, independent, and of course, better dressed version of themselves.
But what is it exactly that draws lonely singles—often with no French vocabulary, no itinerary, and definitely no real plan—to Paris, of all places? Is it the cinematic fantasy we’ve all been fed? The idea that being alone here is somehow more elegant and meaningful than it would be anywhere else? Or is it just the hope that a change in scenery might be what it takes to change the lonely, dissatisfied version of yourself you’ve been trying to outrun?
These were the questions swirling in my head as I was watching yet another fictional iteration of this trope in the Amazon Prime Video series The Summer I Turned Pretty. Belly, the protagonist whose whole identity revolves around whichever guy she’s currently dating, suddenly flees to France for a shot at independence. She doesn’t know the language, let alone a single person. But by the end of her nearly yearlong stay, she emerges steadier and more self-assured, all while sporting that quintessential je ne sais quoi: the red lip, French girl bob, minimalist wardrobe, and mysteriously demure energy.
Watching her escapades, I felt a strange mix of envy and curiosity. I’d gotten out of a five-year relationship earlier this year and walked straight into an identity crisis. (No matter how independent you think you are, breakups have a funny way of making you question everything.) The fantasy of packing a bag and disappearing somewhere unfamiliar sounded medicinal, which is why, when a work trip to Paris landed in my inbox, it felt like fate—my chance to see whether this endlessly romanticized city, which I had never been to, actually held the life-changing potential everyone insisted it did.
Admittedly, Paris didn’t greet me with any movie-montage moments upon my arrival. It felt like just another city at first—gray, a little damp, and underwhelmingly ordinary.
Then, I got an unexpected text.
It was from an old friend—someone who, in many ways, reminded me of myself: a 20-something journalist, once in a long-term relationship, firmly rooted in New York City—which is why I was surprised to learn she’d done what I’d only seen in movies: bought a one-way ticket to France.
“Wait, I live here now!” she DM’d me after seeing one of my Parisian Instagram stories. “How long are you here for?” A few messages later, we made plans for impromptu drinks. And when we met later that evening, she didn’t look the way I remembered. Her makeup was softer and more intentional; her wardrobe full of carefully paired neutrals and Parisian pops of color. She carried herself with an effortless confidence that didn’t need announcing. Two drinks in, I finally asked if Paris was everything she’d dreamed of—if she’d found the clarity, passion, and happiness she’d come seeking after moving here with no concrete plan, no built-in friend group, and what she described as a beginner’s French vocabulary.
She paused, shrugged, and said something I still think about: “I don’t know yet. But I like being here, and I’m seeing how it goes.”
Hearing that from someone I’d always imagined as mapping out every next step felt shocking, yet strangely reassuring. Her willingness to simply exist in the moment—without forcing answers or some overnight reinvention—made me want to try the same: to slow down, to stop sprinting toward some imagined, healed version of myself, and just be where I was.
There was no better place to experiment with this than Paris. The city, as I quickly learned, moves with an almost stubborn slowness—a pace New Yorkers are practically trained to resist. I spent 15 minutes waiting in line for my morning baguette, watching everyone ahead of me taking their time to choose the right pastry. At restaurants, waiters would ignore me for long stretches—not out of rudeness, but because lingering is just built into the culture.
So, at the very least, Paris taught me patience—something I clearly needed after naively buying into the fantasy of an instant transformation. But leaning into the slowness also opened my eyes to the details of the city that don’t make it onto Instagram. Beyond clichés—the Eiffel Tower, the corner cafés, the bustling shopping districts—I started noticing the almost imperceptible rhythms of daily life: how people here actually move, pause, and simply exist.
Perhaps most surprisingly, I realized the so-called City of Love wasn’t actually about romance in that storybook sense. Rather, it seems to celebrate the beauty of solitude, particularly for women—a fact that makes sense once you consider the city’s history as a hub for early feminists championing intellectual, social, and sexual independence. Everywhere I looked, young women like myself did their own thing. At lunch, they dined solo, savoring each bite at an unhurried pace instead of rushing through meals between meetings. Along the Seine River, others sat alone on benches—not scrolling, not multitasking—just watching cyclists and runners move around them.
When a city refuses to speed up for you, you’re forced to slow down for it. And in that stillness—free from the rush and constant pressure of “what’s next”—you lose the ability to outrun your thoughts, your fears, and in my case, the slow, necessary work of healing. For the first time in months, I was forced to confront the aftermath of a breakup head-on, without the usual distractions of friends or work. I was sitting—literally—at cafés, on random outdoor benches, and on the soft grass of scenic parks with the discomfort of being alone in my mind: mourning what had ended, embracing the loneliness (and acknowledging that it sucks), and finally facing the terrifying realization that, for someone who once had her entire life mapped out in a tidy, 10-year plan, I suddenly didn’t have one at all.
Undoubtedly, it was scary. But in finally beginning to process the grief and confusion, I began to meet myself again—the parts that had been long buried under the heartbreak; the capable, confident parts that reminded me I always did (and always could) get through hard things; the curious, hopeful parts that still found the “bright side” when pessimism tried to take over; and even the slightly, delusionally whimsical parts that still held out for meaningful romance, messy as the journey of finding one might be.
By the end of my short-lived trip, I’ll admit, I didn’t emerge with a new-and-improved identity. But I did discover something arguably better: the one I had lost. Fleeing to Paris as a single woman isn’t about arriving with doubts and returning with perfect solutions (or an Emily in Paris–level optimism). The magic comes from stepping into an unfamiliar environment that demands you linger, slow down, and lose yourself a little in subtle, unglamorous ways that don’t make it onscreen.
Only in Paris could self-discovery feel so transformative—not to mention, look so beautiful that you forget, even for a second, that it’s hard.
Related:
- 6 Signs You’re Settling, According to Couples Therapists
- The Rise of the ‘Run-cation’
- Why You Really Shouldn’t Expect ‘Closure’ After a Relationship Ends
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