I contemplated leaving every hour during those first days.
Every time I travel to India, I seem to be tested in some way. It’s the universe asking how badly I want to go back, what will I be willing suffer to make it back to the place that I love so much.
I see groups of friends on Facebook, smiling together in swimsuits at some beach house and know that will never be me. I’m not a team player and my identity feels lost in a crowd. I wonder to myself whether those smiles are genuine.
A psychic once told me that a soul mate doesn’t have to be a lover – it’s anyone who comes into your life and changes its course.
When I was faced with my business failing last year, I questioned my self worth and what I want meant to do in this life.
I want to grab it, squeeze it, embrace it.
To be a real free spirit requires more than a wardrobe of linen smocks and Birkenstocks.
The inner search requires quiet; it requires space and detachment, all things which are antithetical to New York life.
Rather than cultivate inner awareness, people become fixed on the exterior, trying to cobble together an identity inspired by Instagram and purchased in the department stores.
It would have been impossible to imagine only a few years earlier. You were so sure of yourself, of your destiny. You knew that you had the talent and the authenticity to be successful. But another birthday arrives and you take stock – you are still struggling. How could this be?