If there’s one thing I’ve perfected, it’s the art of the excuse. I could write a book about the clever detours I’ve invented to sidestep my own plans. The thing is, after a while, those little “not todays” don’t sound clever at all. They’re just heavy. They pile up, get dusty, and start to crowd out the part of me that actually wants more from life. No one ever warned me how sneaky excuses could be. They slip in quietly, wearing the mask of logic and self-care, telling me I’ll be ready tomorrow, or that I deserve a break, or that someone …
Vietnam’s Grandparents Kicked My Butt and Made Me Smile
There’s no gentle way to say this—Vietnamese grandparents are morning ninjas. My first sunrise at Da Nang beach hit me with the kind of reality check that should come with a warning label. I got there thinking I’d find peace and quiet, maybe a few sleepy walkers. What I found instead looked like an all-ages Olympics, headlined by the seventy-plus crowd. The air was thick with salt, the chatter was easy and unhurried, and the beach felt more alive than a Monday in a coffee shop. It started with the swimmers, slicing through the waves as if …
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I Went to Vietnam to Travel. A Tiny Town Taught Me How to Live.
The bread was still warm—soft, golden, comforting in my hands as we wandered through Tam Coc’s morning market. Here, nobody called out prices or tried aggressively selling anything. Instead, the vendors simply smiled warmly, pointing quietly toward their fresh produce as we passed. Everything—fruit, vegetables, tofu, freshly cut meat, and bread rolls for banh mi—arrived at sunrise, perfectly fresh. Over those fifteen days, we grew so accustomed to the morning market's rhythm that eventually, Hari and I could simply glance at the fruits and …
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When the Bucket List Wasn’t a Place, but a Feeling
I thought I wanted the Valley of Flowers. What I really wanted was to sit on a damp rock outside a crumbling homestay, a dog curled beside me, clouds playing hide and seek with the mountains—and Hari walking up, placing his arm gently on my shoulder, settling next to me like it was the most obvious thing to do. That moment, more than any meadow or misty summit, is what stayed with me. That was the real bucket list—quiet, unexpected, and wildly alive. I first read about the Valley of Flowers while drenched to the bone on the Bhrigu Lake …
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The Mountain Doesn’t Care. That’s the Point.
You can plan your day down to the last detail—wake-up time, pace, weather window, snack breaks—and the mountain will still do what it wants. It took me a few treks to stop taking that personally. In the beginning, I’d get thrown off by the smallest shift—rain an hour early, energy dips that didn’t match my timing, trails that looked nothing like the ones I’d studied. I thought if I just prepared harder, I could predict the experience. Make it neat. Keep it under control. But the mountains aren’t interested in my checklists. They’re not …
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When the Mountain Let Me Pass
There’s a moment I return to often—not because it was dramatic, but because it stripped me of every idea I had about strength. The Bhrigu Lake trek wasn’t supposed to be hard. The trail notes called it “moderate.” No death-defying ledges. No ice patches. Just a soft, promising trail through pine forests and wide-open meadows. I packed light—on gear and on expectations. But altitude doesn’t care what you pack. Somewhere after the first climb, my breath tightened. Not tired-tight. Something-is-off tight. My legs dragged. My thoughts …