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In Jayanagar, a suburb of Bangalore, my sleep would also be interrupted, not only by painful adjustments and attempts to quiet the throbbing in my knee and back, but also by the incessant blaring of car horns.

One of my first nights in Bangalore, I remember thinking that the honking alone might make me deaf in no time! But, the beeping of taxis, buses, and impatient drivers told me the night was still going on, with or without me. While I fought my body for rest, the night was still alive in a way that is hard to describe unless you’ve experienced it.

Bangalore has nearly 7x the population density as the suburb I live in. It’s an overload for the senses – the colors, sounds, clutter, chaos, conversations, unceasing movement. I went from a world that never sleeps back to one that feels almost silent in comparison.

At first, that stillness felt like relief. But then, I began to miss it. Not the noise and chaos but the closeness of others. The rich tapestry of humanity closing in around me. The ease of building connection.

But this is not about elevating one city or even one culture above another. I have deep connections here, too.

Dear friends have brought me food, day after day. They come to check on me and take me out for fresh air. People check in with me. They care.

Human beings around the world are not so very different.

Pain is pain. Care is care.

Love is love. Friendship is friendship.

Yet there were times when, inexplicably, people in Bangalore quickly became a part of my everyday. Even those I didn’t personally know became an important part of my world. The fruit vendor. The taxi driver. The doorman.

In the Pacific Northwest, that sense of connection feels more fragile somehow. It’s not that connection doesn’t exist. It’s that it has to be intentionally created. Chosen. Nurtured. Scheduled even.

How do I bring what I love about there… into the life I am living here?

I am home.

This is home.

Has been home for over three decades. But right now, it doesn’t feel completely like my home.

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I’ve moved to a spare room on the ground floor to avoid the stairs. Doctor’s orders. Upstairs, my room opened onto a wide, inviting deck surrounded by a forest of evergreen trees. This one does not. It has no views. The window faces the side wall of the neighbor’s house, just three feet away.

At first, it felt claustrophobic. Now I’m getting used to the smaller space. Even beginning to like the way everything is accessible and not too far away.

Thoughts arise. Not all of them are chosen.

I know how to work with them—by noticing, naming, and not following every one.
It’s not about controlling every thought. It’s about what I do when it arrives —what I stay with. What lingers.

So, while where I am now is very different from where I was and where I have been before, each of these suburbs has a story to tell. And I’m here to listen.

It could be a conversation. A walk. A group chat sent to a few people. Over time, momentum builds, and it begins to grow and take shape.

Simple Ideas Have a Life of Their Own

Recently, I sat down with someone who has experienced this first-hand. What struck me wasn’t just what Pankaj built — but instead, how he built it.

Listen to our conversation on my podcast

It didn’t begin with a goal or a plan or even a vision. It started with curiosity and a simple desire to connect. From there, something organic and beautiful unfolded.

What began as a WhatsApp group for women in analytics became a community of over 1,500 people spanning multiple disciplines, varied interests, and all life stages.

And to think, all of this developed out of trust and curiosity.

So much of what we are taught about leadership is rooted in theories of absolute control. Authoritarian direction. Singular focus.

But when I spoke with Pankaj Rai, we talked about leadership that creates space for others. Leadership that invites participation rather than directs.

When we stop trying to control everything, something more beautiful, more collective, more alive, and more universal can begin to emerge.

There are moments when we hold on tight — out of fear, out of habit, out of a belief that if we don’t, things will fall apart. And yet, the opposite is often true.

When we allow space… things don’t fall apart. They have room to expand.

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Making Room for Expansion

This idea of expansion came up in another way during our conversation as we spoke about curiosity. Curiosity that allows you to ask questions without needing conclusions. To engage without outcomes.

In a world that values efficiency, productivity, and results, curiosity can feel… inefficient and ineffective. Yet, it is often the very thing that leads us to the most meaningful connections.

Curiosity Creates Space for Success

Our conversation also led to a reflection on success. What does it mean individually and as a collective? What defines success? Often, in moments of retrospection, we realize that it is not just our own effort that brought us to where we are, but rather the people we have connected with along the way. The conversations we’ve had. The doors that we’ve opened and that have opened for us.

There is a humility in recognizing that our success is not individually won, and there is also a responsibility to open doors for others, creating space for them to grow and expand.

As Pankaj and I moved into a reflection on technology and AI, we began to consider the disparate impact of opportunity. We are living in a time where the tools available to us are unlike anything we’ve ever had access to before. The potential of engagement with AI is immense. But it also brings to mind access.

Who has access to this life-changing technology? How do we ensure that the benefits of what we are building extend beyond the technologically engaged? How do we create inclusive systems?

Listen to the Podcast with Pankaj Rai

Trend-Setting Not Trend-Spotting

It’s easy to observe what is happening, to notice what is emerging. But there is something very powerful in choosing to act on it and in being open to the experiment. To attempt. To create. Even when the pathway is not clear.

And perhaps that brings me back to where this reflection began. To the idea that not everything needs to be fully formed before it begins.

Sometimes, all we need is a spark. A moment of curiosity, a willingness to connect, and the flexibility of letting something unfold.

We like to think leaders have all the answers. But what if leadership is about asking better questions? What if it is about creating spaces where others can step forward? What if it is about trusting that something meaningful can begin to emerge —even when we are not fully in control.

This kind of leadership creates a lasting impact in the relationships it nurtures, the communities it enables, and the opportunities it opens up for others.

In a world that is moving quickly, that kind of centered leadership matters more than ever. So, if you’ve been holding on tightly to a dream, perhaps this is an invitation to loosen your grip just a little. Stay curious. Create space for expansion and see what might emerge.

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There have been painful flare-ups and days when I thought I was getting better, only to find myself pulled back down once again. Back into rest. Back into resolve. Back into a body that is not performing in the ways I have grown to expect of it.

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Visible and Invisible Shifts

My life has shifted in ways that are both visible and invisible. What once brought me joy – weekly hikes, long electronic-free walks, endless effortless movement – it’s all gone for now. In its place are hours of physical therapy, massage, short walks, cautious steps, and a very clear boundary: no stairs.

I met this downshift with intention. Knowing this would require not just physical fortitude but mental steadiness, too. So, to this challenge, I brought with me everything I know. Meditation, mindfulness, intentional vibrations, affirmations, and connection. Plus love. So much love.

People showed up for me with so much of it, showering me with food, phone calls, check-ins, offering grace, giving hope, and even just being there for me. Presence alone can shift energy. Can shift outcomes. I thought I was giving myself the time and the space to nurture the inner balance that would help me find my way through this uncertainty.

That is, until I landed in the emergency room.

Old symptoms had resurfaced. Along with them came stories — other people’s stories, their worries, their prognosis, their fears. Somewhere in that mix, I began to feel a throbbing pain in my temples. Each evening, I would meditate, and it would get better. Until that night it didn’t.

Into the Danger Zone

By the fourth day of constant throbbing, I was worried. I checked my blood pressure. I have had high BP only once in my life, and that was 35 years ago. But here it was, flashing in the red danger zone.

I wasn’t alarmed at first. I have practices. I know ways to manage the body’s reactions. Ways to settle the mind. I started with breathing techniques. I practiced them for an hour. I checked again. Instead of being improved, both numbers had gone up. A few hours and more rising numbers later, I made my way to the ER.

Many hours after that, I was home with a low-dose medication and a doctor’s prognosis of stress-induced high blood pressure. Stress.

But I wasn’t ignoring my body or my healing. Or even my stress. I was doing everything I could to align. But still, something was off, and the evidence was clear.

Peace of a Beginner

What has been obvious to me throughout this journey is that I cannot manage this on my own. So, I reached out to my teachers. My yoga and pranayama (breathing practices) teacher Ms. Rao, whom I began learning from 25 years ago, invited me back into her classes — not as a teacher, but as a student once more.

That transition was not easy. There is something humbling about returning to beginner’s space after years of practice. And yet, being a student again has brought me peace.

Observation Not Judgment

My Ayurveda mentor, Dr. Shetty, guided me in another way. He reminded me of the practice of close observation. Not analysis. Not judgment. Just observation.

Dr. Shetty invited me to look at my intake — not just of food and drink, but of everything I was taking in through my senses. What I see. What I hear. What I watch. What I smell. What I read. What I surround myself with. Who I surround myself with. And then, just as importantly, asked me to observe how I respond to it. To notice what lingers. What agitates. What soothes.

Through this practice of observation, something else began to reveal itself: Prajñāparādha.

Mistake of the Intellect

Often translated as the mistake of the intellect, that translation isn’t quite right. Prajñāparādha is about knowing better, and overriding anyway.

When I look introspectively, I cannot say this health journey began with my knee injury. Or even with my spinal cyst.

It began to take shape much earlier. So much earlier.

My pain had begun to grow roots even before the thought of summiting to Everest Base Camp became a dream. The reassuring urge to push through the pain. The impulse to ignore my body’s distress signals in order to achieve my goals.

And some dreams simply must come true. At any cost. At every cost. And for me, Everest was one of them. Eighty-six miles and 18,000 feet in elevation gain over eleven grueling days. Traversing rugged terrain in oxygen-depleted air required relentless effort and an undeniable spirit.

And I’d arrived with a hip that was already injured. At the time, doctors said I had piriformis syndrome. I was in physical therapy the very same morning that we flew out for our hike to the Himalayas.

My physical therapist demonstrated myofascial release and pressure-point therapies so my husband could perform techniques to bring me some relief while we were on the go. And yes, my hip was already throbbing when I boarded the airplane.

So I knew exactly what I was bringing with me into that trek.

And I made a conscious choice to go anyway.

There was no confusion. No lack of awareness. Just personal negotiation and lots of wishful thinking that everything would be fine. That I would manage. That I’ve handled worse.

And for eleven days, I did. I pushed through the pain. I adjusted my gait. I gritted my teeth and smiled through the hip screaming at me. I even forced myself when I had to. And I ignored everything that didn’t fit my goal, including pain and discomfort.

So, this is where I have to be honest with myself. I am not writing this to beat myself up. My trek to Everest Base Camp was not a mistake. It was a choice.

Everest was a Meaningful Choice

There are moments in life that call us forward towards challenge, towards growth, towards something larger than ourselves. And sometimes we say, “Yes”.

So, I don’t regret going. But as I sit with this reflection, I can see the journey and myself more clearly.

My injuries did not happen in a single moment. There was no dramatic fall. It was a slow accumulation of misalignments that resulted from me overstepping my personal boundaries. Small encroachments. Repeated overrides. Normalized self-denial.

It’s those times when you know you need rest, but you push through the exhaustion. When you know something hurts in your body, but you continue on day after day without seeking the guidance of an expert.

It’s when you know a conversation matters and that it needs to happen – but you delay it —sometimes for days, sometimes for years, sometimes forever. This is Prajñāparādha.

Ayurveda describes three ways this happens. Dhi, is when our understanding becomes distorted. We misjudge what is beneficial for ourselves and what is harmful. Dhriti, is when we know what is right but lack the will to act. Smriti is where we forget past consequences and repeat the same patterns again and again.

Healing is What You Consume

Through the simple act of observation, I began to notice what I was allowing into my life. Healing is not just about health-related modalities. It is also about what you consume. And that is when I began to observe the quality of energy around me.

There are moments you can feel. Someone not listening - just waiting impatiently for their turn to talk. A sense of disconnection that leaves a vacuum in the conversation. Comparison or dismissal of someone else’s experience. Perhaps even a bit of personal satisfaction in another’s struggle. Schadenfreude.

It’s as if someone else’s struggle is a way to reassure ourselves that we are okay. Personal pain lessened through comparison with another person’s struggle.

Through close observation, I began to notice how my body responded to witnessing Schadenfreude in action. My chest tightened. My gut contracted. Subtle unease. I began to see that my body was not just healing from injury. It was responding to everything I was taking in.

That observation led me to make an important choice. One to prioritize my well-being. To step away when I need to. To not absorb everything. Not to stay where it doesn’t feel good. To trust myself and my body’s signals.

Prajñāparādha cannot be fixed overnight. But it is something to be aware of. Through this awareness, we can begin to build a little more understanding. And then, slowly, realignment.

This journey is not just about my knee or my spine. Or even my hip. It is about the injuries beneath the injuries. About the visible and the invisible pain. About all the ways I have learned to override myself. The ways I have normalized self-denial along the way. And all the ways I am being invited to listen and respond anew.

I had plans to kick off the year. It would begin with a retreat at Kaivalyadhama in Lonavala, a place devoted to yoga, healing, and the wisdom of the body.

But before that could happen, the MRI results for the pain I was having in my spine came through, and the results changed the trajectory of my joy.

It wasn’t just one problem; two things had become very apparent with the advanced imaging – a growing spinal cyst and a meniscus tear in my knee.

My body, the one I’d trusted for decades, became almost alien and uncertain to me.

I’d believed that with enough discipline and careful attention, my body would find its way back to health. Now that belief was being tested.

And slowly… another realization began to surface. My very definition of a well-lived life would have to shift as well.

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The Endless Night

Sleep became elusive. Nights stretched on painfully and mercilessly.

I’d lie awake for hours, tossing and turning from one side to another, exhaustively searching for a position that did not aggravate my back or provide a sharp reminder of the pain in my knee. Every adjustment brought only temporary relief.

In those lonely hours caught between cat naps and the pursuit of relief, unavoidable questions began to bubble up.

Questions like …Why did this happen to me? What is happening with my body now?

I remembered my discipline and unwavering trust in my body and its equanimity, but my confidence was shaken. I knew that no amount of discipline would heal my ailments. If healing were to happen, it would require something I was less practiced in. It would require accepting help from others.

The Month of Small Miracles

February brought with it the wonder of small miracles. Nothing dramatic. But the kind of miracle that counts.

It was my spine doctor who patiently convinced me that pregabalin would help my nervous system settle enough for sleep to return. It was the kind Ayurveda therapists, Tanu and Sreelakshmi, who worked tirelessly with my body, absolutely resolute in its potential to heal.

It was my loving sister and my niece who cared for me with a tenderness that only family can provide and made sure I was eating healthy food to help heal my body.

It was friends and helpers appearing in ways that felt both ordinary and, in their quotidian, absolutely profound.

The universe seemed to gather the right people around me at the right time.

For someone who had built much of their life on personal independence and discipline, learning to accept help and understand that my healing had become collective was a humbling experience.

But in between treatments, small moments began to shine. Observing everyday life happening from my balcony was enlivening. The pomegranate held a remarkable sweetness to it I hadn’t observed before. Papaya and guava tasted better than I remembered.

Life was still unfolding beautifully in small, ordinary moments.

A Different Kind of Living

As the body began to yield with consistency and focus, something began to shift in my perspective, too. I’d started to allow myself small indulgences.

Dessert before a meal!

Sweets like my favorite, the famous Mysore Pak, that my internal discipline would normally have resisted, became an almost daily treat.

And it felt oddly liberating. I was learning that healing required something beyond discipline. It required tenderness and grace. This realization helped me center on ease for my transition out of India and back to the Pacific Northwest.

Ease in Acceptance

As I began to plan and prepare for my journey out of India, the word ease became an important focal point. With all of the uncontrollable external factors affecting our journey, inviting ease into every moment became my goal.

I had stopped demanding that life be any different than it was. I accepted my body in its imperfection and sometimes in its pain. Ease was accepting help from others. It was noticing the deliciousness of ordinary moments.

The Real Journey

So yeah, my definition of a well-lived life has been inexorably altered. And for a while, it felt like defeat.

But slowly, through sleepless nights and pain-filled days, with consistent care and kind intentions, a new definition of a well-lived life has begun to emerge.

Being strong doesn’t mean going it alone. It means allowing yourself to accept help. To understand that the healing you need might have to come from beyond your own application of discipline and resilience. This new definition has also left room for me to discover something new about myself. It has pushed me to question my own narrative and to begin to rewrite my story of a well-lived life.

I’ll be honest – I didn’t expect this kind of rapid growth, but I think what seems to resonate is a willingness to reflect, to sit with uncertainty, and to talk about difficult things, even while the journey is still unfolding.

We’re all trying to make sense of life in the messy middle of the unresolved, finding joy where we can and seeking ways to relate our own experience to those of others.

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What This Space Is (and is Becoming)

This is a space where mindfulness meets lived (and shared) experiences. It’s where we explore leadership as awareness, reflection, and introspection.

Most of you are navigating change in your own lives. You are leading teams, organizations, and families. You are tasked with making decisions in increasingly uncertain environments.

At the same time, you are asking important questions. Questions like:

• How do I remain centered when the ground feels like it is shifting underneath me?

• How do I lead with authenticity?

• How do I stay open and mindful with all the external pressures?

These are not questions that can easily be answered with frameworks and carefully executed organizational development formulas.

This is where the work is. And where the magic happens.

Spreading Joy and Shifting Perspectives

Joy. This growth is a source of joy for me. It is a signal that people are interested and resonating with the material. It means that I can spread joy around the world and help shift perspectives more broadly.

But with this growth is also a sense of responsibility to be thoughtful about what I share and honest about what I’m going through, even when it’s not pleasant or resolved.

There are still a few more reflections from India that I’ll be sharing in the coming months - they are stories that continue to unfold in their own special ways the longer I sit with them.

I’ll also be sharing takeaways from two podcast interviews I am hosting with some incredibly inspirational business leaders whom I met while there. These discussions will explore elements of leadership, development, and community engagement.

And together, we’ll continue to explore the beauty of life unfolding around us. We’ll marvel at the big moments and reflect on the small, almost inconsequential ones that form the tapestry of our lives.

Quite Simply, Thank You

If you’ve been here from the beginning or joined just recently, thank you.

Thank you for reading and for being open to these kinds of reflections. If something in here has resonated with you, I invite you to share it with someone who might find it valuable as well.

I always appreciate hearing from you, so let me know what’s stirring!

I’m grateful to be here, together with you.

You always heard her before you saw her.

Her voice rose blaringly loud above the incessant traffic, beeping horns, buzzing engines, chattering conversations — it was a full-bodied call - to behold the delectable treasure trove of fresh fruits and vegetables she was selling.

Every announcement had an operatic quality to it - expansive enough to fill a concert hall. Then, she would turn the corner.

She was as thin as could be. Her skin weathered from constant exposure to the elements. Hair unkempt in the definition of a messy bun. Her slippers were broken, barely protecting the bottoms of her feet from the hot asphalt.

Every day she pushed a massive cart — heavy, wooden, and not particularly road-ready but piled high with fresh produce. She was strong. Determined. And she laughed easily. She was thrilled when I told her the photos would be in my blog!

There is something about seeing someone living so visibly on the edge — economically and even physically — that can make you uncomfortable.

To see… Struggle. Hardship. Inequality. And yes, all of that is probably true.

But what I got to see was the opposite of defeat. It was determination.

Her voice was not apologetic for the intrusion. It was authoritarian, with an edge almost like an order that you must obey. Crying out the tempting vegetables on offer. Each word launched into the air like a missile trying to find its target.

I found myself anticipating her arrival. Not just for her delicious produce.

But because she embodied something I didn’t expect. Joy.

Not the curated joy of planned retreats and blissful, mindful meditation.

But street joy. Sunburnt joy. Joy that coexists with hardship.

There is a temptation, when witnessing someone toiling so hard under difficult conditions, to pity. But she did not ask for pity. Nor did she deserve it.

She commanded attention. Took up space with her voice.

Over these past few weeks, I have been thinking a great deal about healing. About compassion and hope.

There are people whose circumstances look objectively hard. Yet they remain expansive.

There are people whose circumstances look objectively comfortable. But they live their life in contraction - never truly claiming their joy.

The correlation is not as simple as we would like it to be but watching her each morning, I began to realize that she was not joyful because her life was easy. She was joyful because she was present. There for every moment. 

She pushed that cart with conviction. With determination.

She will never know that she became a part of my healing. But she did. A life lived on the edge can still be filled with joy.

During my healing journey in Bangalore, at an Ayurveda center, one young woman became an important part of my daily routine. Tanu was nineteen. Small in frame, she was slight and almost delicate in appearance. Yet the strength in her hands was astonishing.

Ayurvedic therapy is demanding work with long hours and repetitive movements. Careful attention must be paid to the body, requiring stamina, discipline, and unwavering focus.

There was nothing rushed about her work. Every movement was intentional. Every touch carried with it a purpose. And the treatments themselves were unlike anything I had experienced before.

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One of the therapies performed was Pichu (a treatment in which cotton pads soaked in warm medicated oil are placed on a specific area of the body for sustained nourishment and healing).

In my case, this meant that thick layers of cotton were soaked in herbal oils and placed carefully along my spine and lower back. Every few minutes the cotton was lifted, reheated in oil, and placed back again so the warmth would remain constant. The medicated oil seeped into my skin while the heat relaxed the muscles and nerves.

At other times, Tanu performed Patra Pinda Sweda (a form of Ayurvedic massage in which cloth bundles filled with medicinal herbs and rice are dipped in warm medicated oils or milk and pressed rhythmically across the body). These bundles were repeatedly heated and applied with firm, steady pressure across my back, hips, and legs. It was most definitely demanding physical labor.

I often thought about the effort behind the movements — the dipping, reheating, pressing, and lifting repeated again and again for hours at a time. Yet it was carried out with focus and determination.

There were times when Tanu worked with me alone, giving us more chances to talk between treatments. That’s how I came to know her better and how I’ve been considerably blessed to share her story with you.

The Father Who Nurtured a Dream

Tanu told me about her father. When he was young, his father and mother passed away at around the same time. He suddenly found himself thrust into responsibility at a very tender age. He’d been studying, but he dropped out of school to support his brothers and sisters.

His dad had owned a small fishing boat, so he took to the sea to provide for the household while ensuring that his siblings could continue their education. He still fishes even today, and the sea remains one of their primary sources of income.

For many years he’d determined not to marry, devoting himself instead to raising and supporting his brothers and sisters. But, he realized that the household needed more stability. No one was managing daily life or preparing meals while everyone worked and studied. So, he reconsidered his approach to help provide a more stable environment for everyone to continue their education and married Tanu’s mother.

Growing Up in Diglipur

Tanu grew up far from the mainland of India - far from the noisy hustle and bustle of modern-day Bangalore. Instead, she’s from the Andaman and Nicobar Islands, sheltered in the Bay of Bengal. Here there are over 800 tiny islands - only 31 of which are actually inhabited.

Island life has a very different pace from that of the cities. They are remote and lush. Over the decades, people from different parts of the subcontinent have settled there, building new lives far from their original homes.

Tanu’s family is no different. Their roots trace back to Bangladesh, and, like many Bengali-origin immigrant families who eventually settled in the Andaman Islands, they built a new life in Diglipur.

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The only road that connects some of the small islands passes through the Jarawa Tribal Reserve. Home to the Jarawa people, they are a hunter-gatherer tribe and one of the indigenous communities of the Andaman Islands, with a dwindling population of less than 500 people remaining.

They are believed to have migrated out of Africa tens of thousands of years ago by sea and were isolated until just about 15 years ago. This has caused rapid lifestyle changes and increased risk of disease and exploitation.

As a result of the consequences of interaction with the Jawara, travel through the reserve is tightly regulated. Vehicles must be escorted by police, ensuring that both travelers and the Jarawa community remain safe.

For families like Tanu’s returning home, the journey itself becomes a part of the story. There are ferries, long roads through dense forest, and even police-escorted passage through protected lands before finally reaching Diglipur. It is a world that feels far, far removed from the busy-ness of India’s modern, mainland cities.

A New Chapter

Over time and with dedication, Tanu’s family built stability. They cultivate rice and areca nut (betel nut) – maintaining a farm with around a thousand areca trees. Today, fishing and farming more than sustain the family. Compared to the uncertainty her father faced when he was young, their family today is much more stable. The sacrifices of one generation created opportunities for the next.

Like many young people from the islands, Tanu left home to build a livelihood of her own. She came to Bangalore to train and work in Ayurvedic therapy, and her life is about to take another step forward.

With her father’s encouragement, she has been admitted to a nursing program, a five-year course that will begin in Bangalore, in the fall. Before starting her studies, she plans to return home to Diglipur for a few months.

She wants to help her family during the areca harvest, spend time with her parents, and even learn a new skill. She plans to get her driver’s license. It’s her ticket to independence.

Our dreams are universal - a better future for our children, an easier life for our siblings or our parents, a comfortable community for our neighbors, a license and new wheels so we can get around easier.

The dreams Tanu shared were not exceptional, but the sacrifices her father continues to make to help her achieve them while struggling to find stability is.

It’s a story as old as time and yet still brand new. It’s generational sacrifice that propels the next onward to a bigger and brighter future. Inside every one of us, there are entire worlds – stories to tell – motivations that drive us – lessons we can share.

As for me, I carry the unwavering strength of Tanu and the enduring courage of her father into my own life here in Seattle. Different worlds, different circumstances — but the same dreams, the same devotion to family, the same longing to build a better and brighter tomorrow.

This time, the surprises were external – global disruption brought on by conflict in the Middle East vs. the internal disruption that took place on the way in.

So with bombs and missiles being lobbed in the area, Dubai airspace was suddenly shut down. Our carefully designed return completely unraveled.

What followed was a detour across continents, across oceans, across time zones. With so many others making the same last-minute scramble, finding smooth connections was challenging. This left us with super-long layovers and sleepless airport time spent in no man’s land in Thailand and Taiwan.

Long flights tend to dull the senses, but one thing remains vivid even now from that journey: a small plate of mango sticky rice at a Bangkok airport café. Sweet mango, warm coconut rice, a moment of stillness and pleasure between flights. Even now, the taste lingers.

But beneath the travel fatigue, something else was surfacing for me. After so much time away, I felt an unexpected hesitation about returning.

Part of it was the long journey. Part of it was the health challenges that would surely be my burden to bear. And part of it was simply the feeling of stepping back into a life that had continued on without me while I was away.

When we finally landed in Seattle, something sweetly special happened. There were no complications. No sniffer dogs inspected my bags. Just a heart-warming phrase from the border control agent, “Welcome home, ma`am.”

And outside the airport doors, our friends were waiting to pick us up. Grey Seattle rain fell gently on the windows of their car. When I remarked about it, they laughed and said winter had been unusually mild this year. Not a single snowfall.

I chuckled and said, almost without thinking, “Snow would be nice.” Seattle obliged.

Within the next three days, the weather delivered rain, snow, hail, and even one bright sunshine-y day.

After months of hot, humid weather, the beauty of that first snowfall was unexpectedly welcome. Like a breath of fresh air.

When I was finally able to step outside again after the snow melted, I noticed the cherry blossoms already nearing the end of their brief season. Petals drifted through the breeze and gathered along the sidewalks.

Only a few days earlier, I had been standing beneath the pink trumpet trees in Bangalore, experiencing their version of cherry blossom season.

Different trees. Different continents. Same fleeting beauty.

As the petals fell around me in Seattle, I thought about the moment in Bangalore when I stood beneath those pink canopies, wondering when and how we would make our way home.

Spring had been blooming in both places at once. And now, standing here, watching the last cherry blossoms fall, I felt something settle inside me too.

My journey had come full circle. I’d returned to where I started, and along the way, I’d grown so much. The unexpected resilience of managing health conditions and of being open to receiving treatment enriched my awareness of the depths of compassion and caregiving. About how it can affect the giver and the receiver, too.

I also learned that joy can be found in unexpected places, in unplanned experiences – and this improvisational joy can be just as beautiful as carefully designed joy.

Sharp, shiny glass towers thrust boldly into the sky alongside squat corrugated-tin roofs. Luxury cars glide silently past auto-rickshaws and noisy, crowded local trains. Designer storefronts welcome wealthy shoppers, while just steps away, narrow lanes weave through dense clusters of humble homes.

In Mumbai, everything exists together. All at once.

I’d visited the city many times, but this time I saw the contrast more closely than ever before. Part of what really opened my eyes was taking a walking tour on one of my first days in the city with an insightful and inspirational guide named Rushita.

Circumstances Do Not Define Her

Rushita is twenty years old.

She and her family live in the slums of Bandra East. Their home is about 15 feet by 6 feet, just under 100 square feet total. It shelters her father, mother, sister, and herself.

Her father has spent most of his life driving a rickshaw. At 60, his health is starting to fail, and the long days on the road are taking a toll on his body. Rushita helps support the family by leading walking tours and tutoring fellow students.

She is pursuing a Bachelor of Science degree. Her favorite subject is zoology. She loves animals and plants and speaks about them with the kind of enthusiasm that makes you want to listen.

As we explored the area, it quickly became clear that Rushita understood Mumbai in ways that those who live comfortably in the city never could.

She knew its frenetic rhythm. Its hidden economies. Its resilient humanity. And that day, she shared her treasures with me.

Walking Through the City

From the main road, Rushita led me toward the sea.

It was the air that changed first. A briny smell of salt and fish drifted in from the Arabian Sea. We’d entered one of Bandra’s old fishing villages — a neighborhood that existed long before Mumbai became the relentless metropolis it is today.

Determined dinghies clung to the rocky shoreline, their colorful paint faded by the unrelenting sun and the sea. Nets hung drying in the open air while fishermen moved their wares into the narrow, winding lanes behind them, where they would later become someone’s dinner.

From the fishing village, we moved into the older Catholic lanes of Bandra, and almost immediately, the city's pace changed once more.

Cheerfully painted homes abutted one another, their walls weathered by years of monsoon rain and blistering sun. Along the way, crosses and shrines to saints began to appear at corners and in courtyards. These unmistakable signs told of a community with roots stretching back to the Portuguese who arrived on this coast so many centuries ago. Then, the road we were on began to climb.

The path to Mount Mary ascended along a staircase, and with it, the mood of the neighborhood shifted again. Brightly painted murals appeared one after another along the stairs — a rolling rickshaw, cups of steaming chai, and fragments of everyday life splashed brightly into view.

The art felt playful and bold — an element of whimsy layered onto what has long been a pilgrimage.

People have walked these same steps for generations, making their way devotionally toward Mount Mary Church — each with their own burden to bear.

Step by step, the city fell away below us. And above us, at the top of the hill, the Basilica of Our Lady of the Mount, known simply as Mount Mary, stood gracefully above the neighborhood, looking out toward the Arabian Sea.

The church has stood watch over this neighborhood for centuries. The first chapel here dates back to the sixteenth century, and while the structure has been rebuilt and restored over time, the devotion has been unwavering.

Outside the basilica, small stalls sell wax figures shaped like the things people might pray for. A heart for healing. Eyes for restored sight. Tiny homes. Hands, feet, lungs, children, entire families. Each figure a wish. Each a heartfelt plea.

I bought a wax figure representing the part of the body that had been troubling me. It felt oddly intimate to hold it in my hand, but somehow doing so filled me with hope that my body might find its way back to health.

Inside the church, Rushita stood beside me as I gently placed the wax offering and lit a candle. She closed her eyes and prayed with me.

Around us were strangers doing the same thing. Different languages. Different beliefs. Different troubles. Lives compressed into small spaces with big wishes.

A City of Extremes

Mumbai does not try to hide its contrasts.

There are no carefully drawn lines separating wealth from poverty, no buffers designed to soften the view. Everything exists side by side. And to an outsider, it can feel overwhelming.

We are used to cities compartmentalized by building zones and structured with norms — where life appears orderly and predictable.

Mumbai is none of that.

It is vast. Uncontained. Intensely alive. Mumbai makes no excuses.

The Capacity to Flourish

What has stayed with me most from the walking tour was not the contrast between the slums and the skyscrapers. It was my guide.

It was Rushita.

Here was a young woman living in a tiny, shared space with her family, studying science, tutoring students, helping visitors experience another side of her city, while dreaming about a better future.

Rushita narrated her life in the city with pride. She explained how families support one another and how education can become a pathway forward. For her, the slums were not a place of limits. They were her foundation and a springboard toward a better life.

She was not waiting for perfect conditions. She was hope and conviction in motion.

And she is not alone. Across the city, millions of others are doing the same.

Rethinking Happiness

Many believe that achieving happiness requires the right conditions. But cities like Mumbai challenge that assumption. Life here is demanding.

Yet people laugh. They study. They work. They create art. They raise families. They imagine futures much larger than their current circumstances.

My tour with Rushita reminded me that we don’t need perfect conditions to begin building a life. In a city defined by contrast, she was not waiting for better circumstances to arrive. She was already moving toward her future.

Much like my arrival, we’d planned a deliberate departure from India. Every detail was carefully considered. But now, we must be flexible. Once again.

March 4th. That was our return date. A month later than we had originally intended, yes, but this visit has been unlike any other. It has given us perspective. It has stretched us. In literal and figurative ways.

We have been preparing thoughtfully for our return to Seattle, where I will continue my healing journey. My body is tender. Almost raw. My nerves still feel electric, making themselves known at the most inopportune times. That is why I deliberately chose the word ease for March.

Partly because the journey home would not be simple. We’d transit through Dubai. A 14+ hour-long flight from there across continents and oceans. Fighting against the rotation of the earth. Patience would be required. Surrender necessary.

We were headed home. Home to probable grey drizzle. Or the promising sun of false spring. We’d be home to catch the peak of cherry blossom season in Seattle.

Blossoms bloom suddenly — seemingly appearing overnight. Clouds of fragile pink blossoms shimmer against overcast skies.

For a few short weeks, sidewalks become carpets of fallen petals. Neighbors slow down to take photos. Children play beneath branches heavily laden with blooms.

Then, just as quickly as they appeared — the petals vanish.

The beauty of cherry blossoms is that they are inseparable from their impermanence.

I’d imagined arriving back in time to catch them — to stand beneath them in that brief, fragile window. To feel them fluttering to the ground around me.

I’d planned for a graceful return and an easy transition.

But by midday last Saturday, we knew this would not be the case.

Escalating conflict in the Middle East disrupted airspace. Flights around the world were grounded. Transit routes through Dubai were locked down.

Suddenly, our carefully planned departure dissolved into so many questions.

Should we delay departure again? Re-route? Cancel entirely and rebook?

With dollar signs attached to every decision, even the airspace around me felt unsettled.

Yet, here in Bengaluru, the trees are blooming now too.

They are referred to as the cherry blossoms of Bangalore, though they are actually pink trumpet trees — tabebuia rosea. Their blossoms are vibrant, stretching across entire avenues in sweeping arcs of color.

People pause beneath them the same way they do in Seattle. Phones tilt upward. Heads lift toward the canopy. Selfies are snapped.

Different hemispheres. Different cultures. Different climates. Same appreciation.

Both experience the same seasonal offerings: Beauty. Bloom. Regeneration. Surrender.

So, as I walk beneath these pink trumpet trees still on the other side of the world, uncertain about when or how we will leave, I am struck by something so simple.

Spring does not wait for stability before beauty bursts forth. Trees do not check to make sure the soil they are planted in is perfectly balanced and prepared for their arrival. They bloom in a time of transition. In a place of imperfection. And perhaps that’s why they move us.

They are reminders that impermanence is a thing of beauty. It’s time to appreciate and bear witness to this once-in-a-lifetime moment.

Blossoms in Seattle will fall. Blossoms in Bangalore will fall too.

Hopefully, just as simply, this period of global unease will pass too.

But for now, we wait while global geopolitics sorts out the way back home. And the same questions remain. Rethink? Re-route? Delay?

But these are all just logistics.

The bigger question that arises is: how do I stay open to ease amid all this complexity?

My body is tender, and my spirit feels unsettled within this world that is also unsettled.

I cannot control global tensions. I cannot reopen airspace. I cannot force my body to heal. What I can do is observe.

I can notice the blossoms overhead. Notice the celebration of renewal they invite. Notice that both places nearest to me are overflowing with blossoms at the same time.

Two cities. Two springtimes. One shared impermanence.

As we continue to anticipate our departure from India, I realize that I’m in less control than I’d imagined, but I am far more aware than I expected. And I am being asked to trust once more. To surrender to what is and to stay tender and open to the possibilities.

And perhaps that’s partly what ease is. The acceptance of transition. The willingness to stand beneath beautiful, blossoming trees and remember that this season, too, shall pass.

I thought I knew what that meant.

But by the end of the month, I was forced to redefine it entirely.

This month, my focus word is Miracle.

Not the audacious kind that saints are born from, but the kind that asks:

What if healing can happen in more ways than just one?

A Different Kind of Healing

In early 2026, an MRI revealed a cyst attached to my spinal cord. That sentence sometimes still feels alien when I write it. Like it’s happening to someone else.

So, now I am under medical supervision. I’ve met with doctors and some of the best spinal surgeons in India. We are monitoring my health carefully.

After canceling the yoga retreat, I earnestly began a different routine.

Almost daily, I lie on a hard, wooden table while two Ayurvedic therapists work with warm oils, gentle pressure, and careful, intuitive attention on my body.

Sometimes the session begins with them building a barrier of flour and water that surrounds my eyes. Next, they pour warm, medicated ghee into the pool.

The feeling of warm, silky ghee pooling over your eyes so they can no longer open can feel unnerving at first, but once you surrender to the experience, you begin to relax.

The eyes are considered the seat of fire in Ayurveda. Cooling them helps calm the nervous system. Calming the nervous system reduces anxiety and agitation. A calmer body is a more receptive body.

Alongside the Ayurvedic treatments, I am working with a team of physiotherapists using Interferential therapy to calm the irritated nerves and receiving ultrasounds to reduce inflammation deep within my tissues. I also undergo myofascial release to help soften the protective, knotty armor my body has built up over time. These sessions are clinical, structured, and methodical.

They are completely different in tone from the warm oils and ghee, yet equally intentional. Healing, I am learning, can speak in many languages.

The Energy of Hope

My therapists, Tanu and Sreelakshmi, are absolutely convinced the cyst will be reduced with their treatments.

They say it with enthusiasm. With absolute certainty. With their whole hearts.

Of course, they are not surgeons. Not even doctors. And there is no guarantee.

But, they are giving me hope. And that might be the most important thing of all.

The freedom to hope creates space for me to receive their healing touch differently. To be open to possibilities.

Miracle of Possibility

I am still doing the work.

• Daily therapy.

• Medical consultations.

• Rest. Reflection.

• Ongoing monitoring.

The possibility of a miracle does not replace personal responsibility. They coexist.

For me, miracle is a willingness to remain open to outcomes I cannot yet see. It is the decision not to dwell on worst-case scenarios and negative outcomes. It is choosing to be a conduit for healing.

Several weeks in, I feel better. Anecdotally, my body feels stronger. Less inflamed. Less reactive. Doctors have observed improvement.

Will the cyst disappear? I don’t know.

Will surgery still be required? Maybe.

But something already feels miraculous.

• My nervous system is calmer.

• I am less anxious.

• I feel supported.

Miracle is about expanding possibilities. It is about receiving care on multiple levels - physically, spiritually, and energetically.

In January, I learned that joy could exist in ways I had not designed.

In February, I am learning that a miracle might not be a one-time incident but rather a state of possibility.

Cabin lights were dim. Most people were asleep. I was liminally suspended. Between time zones. Between languages. Between cultures. Between years.

I was crossing the world with an intention written plainly in my journal and in my heart. My word for 2026 was joy.

Everything about January had been carefully designed around the intention for joy.

I knew my body was still recovering. But something compelled me onward. Back to Ayurveda. To yoga. To a blissful retreat at a 104-year-old ashram. Gentle healing by the sea. Kerala. Lonavala. A long-planned Nonviolent Communication training.

It was a return to India, with an intention of joy.

I believed I was more than ready.

In fact, I was not.

The flight made that clear. The discomfort I had been living with for months became undeniable. My hip and knee protested unyieldingly. Pain has a way of stripping away denial when there is nowhere to escape and nothing to distract.

Body & Mind Negotiation

In Mumbai, it became a constant negotiation between my mind and my body.

Mumbai has a way of pulling you in. The sea. The delectable smells of food. The relentless pulse of humanity. The chaos. It was all there. My mind wanted to experience everything. My body refused to cooperate.

I began to doubt whether going to the yoga and Ayurveda retreat even made sense. Still, I stubbornly held on. I mean, this pain is exactly why retreats and healing modalities exist after all, right?

Then, the MRI results arrived.

Unclear language. Clinical phrasing. Alarming words. I didn’t fully understand them, but I knew enough to feel uneasy.

I spoke to the doctor at the retreat center. His response was immediate and firm: Please don’t come. Go to a local hospital instead.

Just Like That, Everything Shifted

The carefully curated month of joy dissolved into hospital corridors, blood tests, scans, and countless waiting rooms. India, which had always been about family visits, shopping, shopping, and more shopping, food indulgences, personal wellness, and rich history, suddenly became something else entirely.

The joy I had carefully designed for myself was no longer accessible.

In Bangalore, I found myself surrounded, not by yoga teachers, but by doctors, specialists, surgeons, and therapists.

By people who cared for me. By experts who made time for me. By the two young massage therapists who worked with me tirelessly and attentively. Their laughter filled the room. Their compassion flowed naturally.

Joy was showing up.

Just not in the way I had designed.

From Another Point of View

One evening, I walked — slowly and with effort — to a café near the sea in Mumbai. I was alone. Around me, tables of young women laughed loudly and unapologetically. I watched them, feeling just a little sorry for myself, and remembered that being alone does not mean you can’t find joy.

That’s when a woman walked in wearing a bright, orange t-shirt. She sat beside me, waiting for a friend. The text on her shirt, written upside down, read: “From another point of view.”

We began talking. Ritika Bajaj is a storyteller and founder of Indian Storytellers Pvt. Limited. She’s a showrunner. A creative director. Curious. Present. She invited me to tell my own story. And to question the story I was telling myself. Our conversation and the phrase on her shirt have stayed with me.

It became a theme and a grounding thought for uncertain times.

Redefining Joy

I’d started the year with a very specific definition of joy.

• Joy was travel.

• Joy was learning.

• Joy was spiritual immersion.

• Joy was carefully curated healing experiences.

• Joy was something I could design. It was something I could control.

But, January had other plans for me.

Instead, joy arrived in unexpected ways:

• In Flight Attendants looking out for me.

• In Care Coordinators intervening on my behalf.

• In Doctors who took time to explain without rushing.

• In Surgeons who confirmed without criticizing.

• In Therapists whose laughter softened my fear and whose gentle manipulations helped me feel better.

• In Hotel Staff who adjusted meals to meet my dietary restrictions without being asked.

• In dear Family who have held me steady in their kind graces.

My intention for joy was not lost; instead, my definition of joy has expanded.

I’d confused joy with control and design. I had equated joy with execution and accomplishment.

I believed that if I aligned the right experiences, in the right order, in the right place, at the right time, that joy would follow.

But that’s not the way joy works.

Joy was not lost in the retreat I canceled.

It was found in the care that was conferred on me.

Joy was not found in pushing through the pain.

It was found in surrendering to it.

I am letting this unfolding experience continue to redefine my sense of joy, of health, and of wellness.

Are there ways you can think of to expand your definition of joy?

I launched a new website that more fully reflects the heart of my mindfulness practice. I introduced this newsletter as a space for deeper reflection and connection. I relaunched the Mindful Leaders podcast with renewed intention, stepped into a new role as a contributing guest host on the Vivatude podcast, and began re-energizing my YouTube channel in ways that have invited creativity and play.

But apart from all of that, what stood out most was the conversations.

Across discussions with extraordinary guests, spanning diverse experiences and perspectives, we kept circling back to a small set of shared truths about leadership, trust, and what it really means to thrive.

Presence Is Priority One

One of the strongest threads across these conversations was the understanding that trust must be embodied before it can become mutual.

As Diane Woodford reflected, “love in action, a big part of that is just your presence.” Leadership presence is not about doing the right thing at the right time; it’s about being fully there. Sharing space. Regulating ourselves before attempting to influence others.

Many leaders still approach trust as something earned through performance or authority. What emerged instead is that trust begins internally—with awareness and self-regulation—before it can radiate outward. People feel presence long before they register strategy, words, or titles.

JGo Gordon echoed this internal dimension when he spoke about “slowing down to really sit with your thoughts… where the real learning happens.” When leadership presence is absent, trust quietly erodes.

Slowing Down Changes Everything

Another consistent challenge that emerged was our relationship with urgency.

Anna Liotta spoke of the “very powerful practice of pause, notice, and choose” as a way to reset the nervous system and return to what we can control. Pat Copeland reinforced this from a career perspective, reminding us that “self reflection is a big part of managing your career.”

These insights are about recognizing that speed without awareness just creates confusion. Pause allows leadership to become intentional, not reactive.

Authenticity and Resilience Go Hand in Hand

Several guests reflected on moments when their understanding of leadership shifted—not because they learned something new, but because they stopped pretending.

Aaron Craig Mitchell captured this honestly when he said, “we don’t always get to bring our whole selves to work, but we could at least bring as much as is appropriate for the environment.”

Tissa Richards expanded on this connection between authenticity and resilience, reminding us that resilience already lives within us: “Every single person is already resilient… You can be in this pressure cooker environment… and turn pressure into power.”

When leaders release performative action and show up more authentically, trust and resilience begin to take root.

The Power of Holding Space

Perhaps the most profound lesson for me this year was that leadership is not always about fixing. Sometimes it’s not even about leading.

In moments of cultural grief, transition, and uncertainty, staying present without rushing toward solutions becomes an act of leadership in itself.

Catherine Hammond reflected that what families—and people—need most is not money or problem-solving, but support that helps them thrive and become who they are meant to be. Heather Shafter spoke to the courage required to remain curious across differences, noting that when people feel understood, they become open to understanding others.

These reflections challenge a deeply ingrained reflex to react and push forward without listening.

Looking Ahead

As I reflect on the year and look toward what’s next, I’m struck by how much we’ve learned together.

These conversations reaffirm my belief that the future of leadership will be defined by presence, trust, and humanity—not force or power. Mindful leadership is not about knowing exactly how to handle every challenge, but about showing up to each one with self-awareness and regulation.

Thank you for being part of this journey. Thank you for listening, reflecting, and doing the courageous work of building resilience.

If you’re ready to keep in touch on my primary newsletter, subscribe to Beehiiv here.

It was a strange year, not just in terms of where the world was going, but on the personal friend front as well.

It was my son’s wedding. The world required me to go fast, to speed up. The mother in me, the planner in me, the initiator wanted to do too much in a small amount of time, and yet my heart desired to slow down, to savor every single minute of this experience for my soul, to fill it up, to absorb, to live in all the emotions that were coming up in this experience. And that wasn’t the only juxtaposition.

The relationships were shifting, new relationships were forming. It brought so much joy and happiness. Then some were shifting, changing, and brought their own grief.

The other common thread throughout the year was community. Community is something I set a theme for 2025 when I reflected on 2024 around this time last year, I wanted to develop more authentic and nurturing relationships. I was in this phase of my life, the sandwich I had become this part of the sandwich phase of my life where I’m not this, but I’m not that either, where there are people who are younger than me who wanting my attention, and the people older than me also wanting my attention, and yet nobody really cares.

And I wanted to build my own communities of circle. Some fell into my lap, like Vivatude. It brought me in touch with other women who were in the same state. Wiser. It was so many dimensions of experience and so many other facets that I was unaware of. I built rich communities.

The wedding itself brought me close to the relations. After a long time, we were connecting again and connecting for joy. And boy oh boy, the old times, the beautiful times, we were reliving those but at the same time, these special nurturing circles were feeding me. One being my own mindful momentum podcast, I revived and as a result, met such wonderful, wise people.

Not only did I bring these practices to others, but I enriched my own life. The micro moments of joy. How simple is that, and how easily we forget when we get overwhelmed, we just need to bring one micro moment of joy. I have a running list now. I keep adding items to that, and I say, Oh, I just need to refer to this list. Then I can come back and do maybe item number 34 today, and bring more joy. The vagus nerve reset in the middle of the night, I turn and I’ll find find my jaw clenched and I just. Relax it and suddenly release whatever tension was due to a bad dream or whatever was going on in my head, and I turn to the other side, and I’m back to a deep sleep again, richness, richness from other people in my circle, the community, enriched me.

I also joined the local Toastmasters, and this is the first time I’m not having elaborate notes and memorizing to speak, and I haven’t been there for that long, but just the confidence of standing up and speaking for two minutes often is bringing this sense of impromptu speaking. And of course, you have thoughts you put together, but you don’t need this word by word notes there is a lot of wisdom within you. Just have to let it, let it out. The other aspect of my life that I noticed is that I was in transition. Oh, my transitions, not just a transition. And it wasn’t a linear transition, like I always refer to William Bridges model of transition, the endings, the messy middle and the new beginnings.

And it wasn’t just like something had ended and I was now in the messy middle, and then I was waiting to get into the new beginnings. It wasn’t like that. It was as if multiple transitions were running in parallel. Some were ending, some were in Messy middle, and some were in stages of new formation that made life complex and rich, and at the same time, it reminds me of waves. Lives are not linear. They are not even chapters. They are waves. Some are going up and some are going down and they are crashing, and there’s just so much going on. And you learn, you learn to be present with all this.

My own body was testing me again and again. My old injury came back and pushed me. What I felt initially was pushed me to the corner, and then I felt, Oh, this is yet another transition. What if we look at it just like that, just like a wave, and not wait for the next chapter to be there or a next phase to arrive? This is it. This is it. This is how life is, and what if we can stay present and comfortable with all of this? And that, to me, was my biggest gift of this life, or rather, of this year, the biggest gift to be comfortable, as is in this moment, in this being, this is who I am.

I won’t arrive tomorrow. It’s not like I can wait for all of my life to arrive. I have arrived in this moment, and tomorrow I’ll arrive, and I’ll be different, but I shall arrive again and again and again, but not waiting for things to fall into its place and something magical will appear, because magic is happening right now, and for The first time in my life I dropped all notes, I dropped all conditions, I dropped all assumptions. I dropped all waiting to be. I and here I am present with you right now as I look forward to the next year.

And of course, I do look forward to next year. I have dreams, I have goals, I have milestones. But more than dreams, goals and milestones, I ask myself, “How do I want to be present? How do I want to show up right now, tomorrow, day after and 2026 What do I want to bring to the world? What is it that needs to shift within me? What’s, what’s, what’s the theme that can guide me?” And you know, what comes up is joy. Is pure joy, if I can bring smile to a few more faces …and why a few? More, millions?

If my words, my wisdom, my experiences, my being where I am in life and showing up fully can bring smile to other faces. My life is worth it is meaningful, if I can help people relax in their own being and don’t have to wait until my age to drop their notes of what, how they should, would, could, my Life would be worth it, and that’s what I intend to be, and that’s the theme I want to stay with me — Joy.

Let’s bring joy. Let’s bring so much joy that we can cry. We can cry with joy, and let’s just wish for that. Let’s take a moment to pause here.

Pause with me. May we all know joy. So let’s set up an intention for all of us. May we all know joy. May we share joy, spread it. Spread it. Spread it. Spread it. Let your smile light up others. Spread it. May we become joy and may joy find us where we are! May we know joy! May we share joy! May we become joy and may joy find us wherever we are. Thank you for being a part of this journey, and we’ll keep spreading joy.

Happy 2026!

But suddenly, a moment of clarity: “If I stay with this breath… then this step…and the next… I will reach Base Camp.”

Not because the path was easy. But because the only thing in my way was me.

And I did reach it.
All eight of us did.

At Base Camp, tears streamed down my face. You might think it was exhaustion or the unyielding pain in my hip, but really, it was from remembering my own vastness.

It was then I learned that: When you get out of your own way, deeper strength steps forward.

Did you know more people are scared of public speaking than death?

Stepping into public speaking is like stepping into the unknown. And doing so has required me to get out of my own way. It has required me to trust that this is something I know how to do and to keep moving forward with it.

As our Everest Base Camp lead guide, Avi’s kind words often remind me, “you will cross your own limits.”

So, here’s to more limit-crossing in 2026. Here’s to getting out of our own way. To beginning again. To surrendering what we can’t control. To reframing for the present. To finding magic where we can. I look forward to a magically unfolding 2026 and am thankful to be here on this journey with you.

Mindful Moment of Reflection:

• When have you held yourself back? How can you step out of your way in 2026?

No roads lead to Tengboche.
No machinery could have carried it.

I sat there stunned: “How did this massive statue get here?”

The question dissolved into a feeling, a knowing — Life is full of mysteries we are not meant to solve. Wonder is nourishment. It is a necessity.

Magic is not extraordinary.
Magic is deeply ordinary, but you must be present to see it.

Our trip to Utah felt magical. And that’s probably why I kept wanting to push through the pain. To stubbornly push forward through half-day hikes just to behold the beauty and wonder of the natural environment that has become Arches National Park.

Every turn took my breath away. Every scramble revealed a new delight unfolding before me. There was magic in every step. From the kind stranger whose outstretched hand was there just when I needed it, to the whispers from my ancestors on the wind, to the soul-touching memories we took from that place. Magic is all around us.

Mindful Moment of Reflection:

• What moments of magic (large or small) have you witnessed this year?

One moment, the route is clear.
The next, a landslide changes everything.
Weather shifts without warning.

I watched trekkers crumble under the weight of uncertainty. Saw them argue with guides, lash out, and demand control.

But I watched others remain steady, grounded in their breath, navigating their emotions with ease.

Midway through the trek, as pain surged through my body and fear of the unknown arose, I learned to ask myself: “What’s happening right now? What do I need (to do) at this exact moment?”

Reframing for the present became my anchor.

This year social and political divisions have caused significant perspective shifts in the US and around the world making it challenging at times to empathize with the perspective of people who support opposing viewpoints.

Master negotiator William Ury’s book Possible: How We Survive (and Thrive) in an Age of Conflict, helps us understand how we can find common ground. He says, “The path to possible is to go to the balcony, build a golden bridge, and engage the third side—all together, all at once.” This quote reflects his core strategy for conflict resolution, which involves gaining perspective, creatively addressing the other side’s needs, and involving the community. Are there ways you can build a bridge and find common ground?

Mindful Moment of Reflection:

• What helped you stay steady this year when life shifted unexpectedly?

Fatigue settles into your bones. And stays there.

Every morning, before the first rays of the brand new day’s sunlight hit the craggy peaks, our lead guide Avi, would gather us together and say: “Leave yesterday to the mountain. Today, we begin again.”

Easy enough for him to say.

My injured hip throbbed every single moment of every single day of the trek. Each morning, I woke wondering if my leg would hold.

But Avi’s words reminded me that I didn’t have to conquer the whole day.

I only had to take the first step.

Slowly. Gingerly.

Intentionally.

Vistare Vistare (Nepali: slowly, slowly)— one breath, one step.

This mantra guided every step of my Everest journey and still helps me feel centered when I need encouragement to move forward: Our point of power is in the now. Today, we begin again.

This omnipresent hip pain reared its ugly head once again this year. This October, on an intense hiking trip in Utah’s Arches National Park, I felt the all-too-familiar sharp, shooting pain emanate from my hip once more.

This time, I wanted to push through the pain. I wanted to keep moving forward. But, I had to realize that I couldn’t force healing to happen. I couldn’t force the hike to happen.

Instead, I had to and still have to, simply honor where my body is in every moment and focus on healing, one step at a time. Vistare, vistare.

Mindful Moment of Reflection:

• What are you ready to put down from this past year so you can begin again?

Physical therapy.
No hiking for six weeks.
BUT - our Everest departure was in six weeks!

Certain that my trek was but over, I called Deepak, the owner of Trekking Planner Nepal: “Deepak, we need a new plan.”

His response was calm and seemed almost amused as he said, “No problem. But remember — you do not choose the mountain. The mountain chooses you.” You must surrender things you cannot control.

2025 has been a year of transition for me. I have been drawn into the world of public speaking and am excited to expand the impact of my coaching practice by taking the next natural step onto the big stage.

On a personal level, my son got married this summer, which was an incredible experience for my whole family and our extended community. But in the process, I had to surrender. I had to give up my idea of the perfect wedding so that my son and his new wife could have their own.

Through all of this change and personal surrender, it was helpful to remember that the mountain chooses you.

Mindful Moments of Reflection:

• Are there areas of your life where you can surrender control?

For years, I resisted this season. The shorter days made me restless, as if something precious were slipping away. But over time, I began to see autumn differently—not as an ending, but a time for recalibration.

In Ayurveda, seasonal shifts invite cleansing and renewal. Panchakarma is a ritual of preparing, releasing, and rejuvenating. When I do my own fall cleanse, I notice how it mirrors my inner life: the discomfort of letting go, the fog of the in-between, and the peaceful lightness that follows.

Photo by Adam Neumann on Unsplash

🌿 The Inner Transition

William Bridges, who studied change from a psychological lens, said: “Change is external. Transition is internal.”

He too spoke of endings, the messy middle, and new beginnings — a cycle that aligns with Ayurveda’s rhythm perfectly.

Whether through cleansing or reflection, both frameworks remind us that transformation isn’t about rushing through it. It’s about learning to sit inside the messy and confusing middle.

This isn’t just true for the seasons or our inner work; it’s also true for the world we’re living in right now.

🖥️The Great Reorganization

We are in the midst of a great reorganization - one of systems, minds, and meaning itself.

Artificial Intelligence is not just a technological shift; it’s an inner one as well. It’s changing how we think, create, make decisions, organize our attention, and even redefining what it means to be human.

Like any reorganization, this one asks us to examine our systems — both technical and personal:

• How have we been running on autopilot?

• Where have we optimized for speed but lost sight of our purpose?

• What is our competitive advantage as humans in the AI revolution?

So, perhaps that’s the invitation of this moment — to pause long enough to notice what’s running on autopilot — inside and out — and to choose, consciously, what remains.

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