Category: BHUTAN

Something slipping away with each sunrise…

Departure is coming. I know it. My body knows it. My chest feels hollowed out, as though something is being carefully scooped from me—day by day, breath by breath. I walk the same streets I’ve walked all year, but now the light hits differently. Now everything is tinged with the ache of leaving. The trees, the sounds—they’ve all become part of the goodbye.

My breathing has gone shallow. Not out of panic. It’s like I’m trying not to breathe too deeply, because I might drown in it. There’s too much here. Too many moments stored in the air. I exhale carefully, afraid that if I breathe too hard, I’ll let go of something I haven’t said goodbye to yet.

What’s worse is that I chose this. I always do. I walk into places knowing I’ll one day walk out of them. But it doesn’t make it easier. It never does. Each place leaves its mark. And each time, I convince myself I’m getting better at leaving—stronger, wiser, more practiced. But my body says otherwise. It tenses. It stalls. It aches in places I didn’t know could ache.

There’s no romanticizing it today. This isn’t one of those “bittersweet” posts. This is bitter. Full stop. This is the knowing that I won’t sit in this café again with this particular light pooling through the window. This is the kind of grief that doesn’t come with funerals or parting words. Just a quiet vacuum, pressing in on the ribs.

I’ve begun collecting moments like talismans—sunsets, laughter, strangers’ kindnesses. I hoard them selfishly, trying to build some kind of armor for the journey ahead. But I know it’s useless. Memory doesn’t replace presence. It can’t. And maybe it shouldn’t.

Soon, I’ll be on the other side of this. In a new city, with a new rhythm. But right now, I’m here. On the edge of a place I’ve loved. Breathing shallow. Holding time gently, even as it slips through my fingers.

Departure is coming.

And my chest remembers it before my mind does.

July2025

The lasts are stacking up now.

The last bagel and caramel latte at Ambient Café. The quiet hum of conversation that’s always felt like white noise to my thoughts. I took my time, but still—it ended too fast. I stared at the foam, thinking how many times I’d sat there, writing, marking essays, reading, or editing photos.

The last watermelon juice at Le Petit Café.

The last time I’ll slide postcards through the red slot of the Thimphu Post Office letterbox. I always loved that small ritual—the flick of the wrist, the thunk of paper falling inside.

The last bus pickup from the stadium. I memorized the way the mountains rise like old souls behind the buildings.

And now, tonight—tightening the suitcases. Zippers pulling shut on a year. Fitting a life into shapes that roll. Packing feels like erasing. Like folding a chapter closed, knowing you can never unfold it exactly the same again.

I leave in the middle of the night. Quiet. The city won’t notice. That’s okay. It gave me what I needed. A year to be still. A year to be quiet. A year to be with myself. A year to write.

I’m closing out a season of solitude. I didn’t know I needed it this badly until I was in it.

But it’s time now.

Time to move forward.

Time to carry the hush of this place with me, to Kathmandu.

july25
Thimphu, Bhutan 🇧🇹

When I first arrived in Thimphu, everything felt dipped in magic. Even the air felt like it carried some quiet, ancient truth. I moved through those early days in a kind of hush—watching, listening, grateful. Everything felt meaningful. Everything felt sacred.

But time does what time always does. It settles in.

After a year, the mystique has peeled away in layers. The mountains are still here, unchanged, but I no longer stare at them like they hold answers. The prayer flags have faded, both literally and figuratively. The rituals that once filled me with reverence now feel…routine. And that shift—it stings a little.

It’s not that I don’t love this place anymore. I do. But love has changed shape. What started as awe has morphed into something quieter, more grounded, and less poetic. I see the potholes now. I notice the dogs that don’t stop barking. I feel the weight of systems, of bureaucracy, of the everyday. I’m no longer the wide-eyed outsider; I’m someone who knows where to get decent coffee and which shop will overcharge me for fruit.

And yet.

Even as the wonder fades, something else grows. A different kind of knowing. A different kind of respect.

Because once the mystique is gone, what’s left is real. And real is where the work begins. Real is where you stop romanticizing and start understanding.

There’s grief in that. But also grace.

I came looking for something I couldn’t name. I found it, for a while, in every corner and cloud. And then I lost it.

But maybe the mystique has to fade, so you can stop chasing magic and start standing still.

So you can stop looking at a place and start living in it.

So you can say goodbye not with illusions, but with clarity.

And in its own way, that’s a kind of magic too.

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Thimphu, Bhutan. One year in.