There’s this idea floating around—especially in self-help circles—that living without regret is some kind of badge of honor. That the goal is to charge forward, fearless, proclaiming, “I wouldn’t change a thing.”
But here’s the thing: I would change things. And I’m not ashamed to say that.
I have regrets. Deep ones. Sharp ones. Soft, lingering ones that show up in the background of sleepless nights.
That’s being human.
My current self regrets things my former self said, or didn’t say.
Things I tolerated when I shouldn’t have.
Things I avoided because I was afraid.
People I hurt.
Opportunities I let pass because I didn’t think I was ready—or worthy.
But here’s the grace in it:
That former version of me, the one I sometimes wince to look back on, was doing the best she could. With what she knew. With what she had.
She made choices out of survival. She wasn’t trying to sabotage her future. She was trying to make it through the day.
So yes, I have regrets. But I don’t use them as weapons. I use them as teachers.
To claim a life with no regret is to deny evolution. It’s to pretend that the person you were ten years ago had it all figured out—which, let’s be honest, they didn’t.
Regret, to me, is a sign that growth has occurred. It means I’ve become someone who sees more clearly. Someone who knows better now.
And maybe that’s the most human thing of all:
To look back with both sorrow and compassion.
To hold your past self accountable—but gently.
To say: You could’ve done better, but I understand why you didn’t.
I must have been eight, maybe nine. That in-between age where the world still feels enormous but begins to take shape in small, sudden ways. My mom took me along on a visit to a friend’s apartment in Hanover, Pennsylvania. She was a college professor, though I didn’t really know what that meant yet. I just remember that her apartment didn’t look like anyone else’s. It was cluttered and colorful and filled with books. A kind of beautiful mess. The air smelled like coffee and incense, and every surface—tables, shelves, even some parts of the floor—was stacked with papers, journals, and mysterious little artifacts from what I assumed were faraway places.
I sat on the floor while they chatted. I remember that clearly—me cross-legged on floorboards, my eyes tracing the edges of a pile of paper next to me. They were student assignments, I realized, marked with red pen. Pages filled with sentences and crossed-out words, suggestions in the margins, underlined passages. It felt like a treasure map, like I’d found something important. Something private and full of potential. I don’t remember the conversation the adults were having. What I remember was the feeling in my chest: This is what I want to do when I grow up.
I wanted to be around writing. I wanted to live in a world where stories were taken seriously, where words mattered, where people shared ideas and someone—like this professor in the bohemian apartment—helped shape them. It was the first time I saw that such a life was possible. That you could have a home filled with books, that you could spend your days reading and helping others find their voices. I didn’t know how or when or even where—but I knew I wanted in.
Now, years later, I’m living that dream. Not in Pennsylvania, but in Bhutan, on a quiet hillside campus overlooking Thimphu. I teach writing to students who are just beginning to find their footing in prose, in argument, in voice. And yes—my weekends are often spent with a cup of coffee and a stack of essays, just like the ones I saw that day in Hanover. Figurative red pen in hand. (Sometimes it’s purple, sometimes green.) Words in progress. Lives opening up on the page.
It’s not always easy. There are deadlines and distractions. But then there are moments—small, bright ones—when a sentence lands with surprising grace. When a student writes something that startles me. I remember that girl on the floor, eyes wide, sensing something sacred in the work.
Thank you, universe. For the long, winding road. For the papers to mark. For the life I once only imagined.
Our campus view with Buddha Dordenma always there.
When I first decided to move to Bhutan for at least a year, I made a deal with myself, that I would finally focus on my writing more. I knew there wasn’t going to be much street art, like what I had been documenting extensively for over a decade. And I knew I was going to be teaching writing, and I knew in general, life was going to move slower here. “Meditate and write,” I told myself.
And so I feel like I’m here, but not here. Present, but slipping. The past two weeks have been a strange kind of limbo—somewhere between dream and articulation, between the pull to write and the weight of existing outside of it. Words spill out, but they don’t quite land. Thoughts stretch, dissolve, reappear in fragments. Is it the altitude? But, how can it be? I’ve been good with it since last Fall.
I feel myself disappearing into the abyss of it—the writing, the feeling, the attempt to pin something down that refuses to be named. A breath caught mid-chest, not quite reaching its end. The edges of reality blur like ink bleeding into water. Some moments, I’m electrified, the words coming too fast to catch. Others, I’m staring at the page, knowing there’s something there but unable to pull it through.
Is it inspiration or exhaustion? Dreaming or unraveling? I can’t tell. But I keep writing. Keep sinking into the haze, hoping that somewhere in the mess of words and breath and blurred edges, something true will take shape.
Adding to this precarious state has to be the fact that I’m reading the new Haruki Murakami and his books are just one long dream, aren’t they?
“A monk strides past, beads clicking, wrapped in his ochre cocoon, carrying the kind of certainty I can’t seem to hold onto.”
Nowhere, Somewhere, Everywhere
The air is thin in Thimphu. Thin like the veil between past and present, like the space between knowing and not knowing.
Last night, I got lost in old photos, each one a postcard from another life—Kyiv’s cold blue mornings, Saigon’s ‘Bread and Butter Pub’ nights, Bogotá’s thundercloud afternoons, Paris in art, Miami burning bright. I let them wash over me, these ghosts of past selves, all those cities where I was briefly someone, then no one, then gone.
I sip my coffee at a nameless café, watching the morning unfold. A monk strides past, beads clicking, wrapped in his ochre cocoon, carrying the kind of certainty I can’t seem to hold onto. The traffic cop stands straight-backed, radio in hand, a fixed point in a world that shifts beneath my feet.
I don’t know where I’m going next. I never have. But the road—she always finds me.
“The traffic cop stands straight-backed, radio in hand, a fixed point in a world that shifts beneath my feet.”
On Confidence, Solitude, and the Quiet Courage of My Students
Reading my students’ essays today has left me feeling existential. Their words, their struggles, their dreams—they all sit with me. Many of them dream of travel, of seeing the world beyond Bhutan. But what strikes me most is how many of them aspire to something I’ve never thought twice about: the confidence to walk into a restaurant or café alone, to order a coffee, to sit with themselves.
It’s a quiet kind of courage, one I’ve taken for granted.
For the past 22 years, I’ve lived as a nomad, moving from country to country, city to city. Sitting alone in a café, watching the world move around me, has always been my preference. It’s where I feel most at home. I’ve never needed to summon the courage to do it—it’s simply who I am. But for my students, it’s a milestone, a step toward self-assurance, toward independence.
And that humbles me.
It reminds me to never take my freedom for granted. The ability to move through the world with ease, to find joy in solitude, to sit alone without questioning my place—these are privileges, built on years of experience, maybe even an innate confidence I never had to develop.
But for my students, confidence isn’t always innate. It’s something they reach for. And I see that in their writing, in their longing to step beyond their comfort zones, in their quiet dreams of sitting in a café alone, ordering a meal without hesitation.
It makes me wonder: When did something so small, so ordinary to me, become an act of bravery for them?
Maybe that’s the lesson for today. What we take for granted might be someone else’s mountain to climb. And what we see as effortless, others might see as courage.
Bhutan is often painted as some mystical kingdom, a paradise tucked away in the Himalayas, where Gross National Happiness (GNH) replaces GDP, and people live in harmony with nature and tradition. It is a compelling ideal—one that has brought travelers, seekers, and dreamers like myself, to its mountains, hoping to find a world untouched by the pressures of modern life. And in some ways, it is like that, but in other ways, it is not.
What happens when the myth meets reality?
For those who live here, Bhutan is not just a land of fluttering prayer flags and serene monks. (Even though this photo I took in February 2025 may say otherwise.) In reality, it is very much still a developing country with the same struggles as any other—youth unemployment, economic dependence, rural-to-urban migration, and a generation caught between the past and the future. The philosophy of GNH, though admirable, does not shield people from hardship. While Bhutan measures progress differently, it is still vulnerable to the forces of globalization, climate change, and an increasingly materialistic world.
The disillusionment comes not from the failure of Bhutan itself, but from the unrealistic expectations placed upon it. Tourists and outsiders arrive expecting enlightenment, only to find WiFi cafes in Thimphu, social media-fueled aspirations, and young Bhutanese dreaming of life abroad. Even for those within the country, the promise of GNH can sometimes feel like an illusion—how happy can one be when opportunities feel limited, when tradition and modernity clash, when the reality of daily life is far more complicated than government policies suggest? A lot of this insight comes from students’ writing assignments in my Prose Writing class.
And yet, even in disillusionment, Bhutan remains unique. The country is not a utopia, but it is trying. While others chase economic growth at all costs, Bhutan still values the intangible—community, environment, cultural preservation. It is not perfect, but perhaps the real beauty lies in the struggle itself: the attempt to balance old and new, happiness and development, myth and reality.
Maybe the disillusionment is necessary. Only by seeing Bhutan for what it truly is—not just a dream, but a living, evolving nation—can we appreciate its real story. One that is neither perfect nor broken, but simply, deeply human.
A lama (spiritual leader) walks alone across Clock Tower Square in Thimphu, Bhutan. 🇧🇹 ( 📸 : always by me, February 2025)
Solitude in the Last Shangri-La
There is a quiet magic to being alone in Bhutan. A solitude that is not loneliness, but something richer—an immersion into the slow rhythm of a country that exists between past and present, tradition and modernity, simplicity and complexity.
For 22 years, I have wandered, a nomad in search of something just beyond the horizon. I have seen solitude in many forms—on vast desert roads, in neon-lit cities, in the hum of unfamiliar languages—but in Bhutan, solitude feels different. Here, it is not an emptiness to be filled but a presence to be embraced.
This is a land often called the last Shangri-La, a phrase both true and misleading. To outsiders, Bhutan is a mystery, a nation of prayer flags fluttering against Himalayan peaks, of monks in deep meditation, of Gross National Happiness (GNH) instead of GDP. But how are the people, really?
The truth is more layered than the tourist brochures suggest. Bhutanese life is both simple and intricate, woven from centuries of Buddhist philosophy, rural traditions, and an evolving modern identity. Villages still operate on an economy of barter and belief, while Thimphu’s youth dance between their cultural roots and global influences. The GNH philosophy—often misunderstood as a utopian dream—is not about relentless joy, but about balance, about measuring progress in more human terms.
And yet, the realities of a developing country remain. The economy is small, opportunities can feel limited, and Bhutanese youth increasingly look outward. Solitude, too, is not always a choice here—many live in remote villages where isolation is a fact of life, not a meditative retreat.
For those of us who seek solitude, Bhutan offers an introspection that few places can. A silent afternoon in a monastery’s courtyard—these moments remind us that solitude is not about being away from people, but about being present with oneself.
Perhaps that is Bhutan’s greatest gift to me, a wandering soul. The permission to be alone, without being lost. For the time being.
Disillusionment. Floating aimlessly, the only direction is when I’m teaching. Other than that, outside of my passion for my work, I am only partially a being. “I don’t know,” is the only answer I’m comfortable giving to almost every question I get. I keep waiting for a sign, a reason, for being. And nothing ever comes. Will I die, still waiting? Is life sometimes a thing that never gets figured out?
The mountains are green with growth, vitality, hope, and light. I sit in this café, as in so many others, alone. Whether there are people around or not. Flags of belonging wave in the wind, reminding the souls who don’t question, not to worry, they’re a part of something. How many flags will it take to convince me?
16JULY24 – If I didn’t think there could be a worse experience than at JFK on the 13th, when I was kicked out of the boarding line due to American Airlines’ staff not communicating effectively, I was fooling myself. It could get worse. People could get worse.
On Monday the 15th, I was finally able to fly out of JFK at 8:45pm. This would put me in New Delhi at 9:00pm on Tuesday the 16th. Upon arriving at the transfer desk in Delhi, I could see various issues arising with other passengers from other flights that just arrived. I’m not the only one with transfer/visa issues. In times like those, misery really does love company. You feel less alone and it does something to one’s spirit when one realizes “my problem isn’t that bad.” It’s a survival instinct, I guess. So, I was helping to give advice to others about some things I had learned about transit visas needed in New Delhi. It made me feel better.
When my turn finally came with a lady, maybe her name was ‘Diwandali,’ or something. I’m sure it’s spelled wrong. She explained that the airline I am flying, Bhutan Airlines, will not have staff available to issue boarding passes for my connecting flight to Paro, Bhutan that evening, that I’d have to wait until the next morning at around 7am for the staff to arrive to check me in. There’s only one flight a day at 10:55am, so that made sense. I have never had any problems sleeping in an airport. So, I thanked her and went to the transfer area. I sat down and fiddled around with my bag and then out of nowhere, a lady in an orange blazer came up to me and asked “Bhutan Air?” A little confused, I replied, “Yes.” She says, “Bhutan Air staff are coming in 30 minutes to check you in, you can go.” “But, I was told they won’t be here until tomorrow morning, so I’m supposed to hang out here.” “No. You can go.” So, I got up, more confused, and returned to the transfer desk. I saw ‘Diwandali’ and I asked her “Is Bhutan Air really coming tonight?” She replies “No! I told you not until tomorrow!” I back up a bit and say, “I’m not asking for me, I’m asking because some woman in an orange blazer told me they were coming! I didn’t think it sounded right, but what was I supposed to do? That’s why I’m asking you now for clarification.” “No, they are not coming.” “Great, then I wonder why she said such a thing.” Then I saw her from afar, and I said “That’s her! Ask her!” So, a male staff member came with me and he went up to her and asked her and she denied ever seeing me, ever saying that (it was surreal!) and so he came back to me and said “My colleague said she didn’t say that.” “Ok, but I’m telling you she did. Why would I make this up? Seriously, tell me. Is this cultural? Is there something about wanting to make people feel better or something, so you lie to them and give them false hope?” “I don’t know anything about that cultural characteristic, ma’am.” “Ok. This is insane. Never mind.” Shaking my head in disbelief until it’s about to fall off.
I go back to the transfer area and try to get comfortable for the long night. Then (!) a man with a goatee comes up to me and says “Ma’am, Bhutan Air is coming tonight, in about a half an hour to check you in and then you can go to the gates where you will be more comfortable.” “But, I was already told that they won’t be coming until tomorrow morning, which I’m fine with.” “No, ma’am, you will be more comfortable,” and he walked me out of the transfer area to specifically point to a woman whom he said had called them and they are coming in 30 minutes. Really confused now, I guess I have to listen to staff, so I go back to the transfer desk, start taking my bags apart because security needs a lot of stuff to be put in trays. Then I see ‘Diwandali’ again and tell her what is happening and again, she said “No, they are not coming!” So, I see the guy and he’s coming our way and I say “That’s him! Ask him!” They ask him and I shit you not, he says, right in front of me, “When was this Ma’am?” “What do you mean when was this?” “Ma’am, I never said anything to you, I don’t know what you’re talking about.” “Oh my God, are you joking? What is happening?! Why are you denying this?! You came up to me and told me all of that and you know you did! This is INSANE!” “Ma’am, if I came to you…” “Stop with the IF! You KNOW you did! Why are you lying and denying? What is going on?! Seriously, this is sick!” “Ma’am, I’m sorry, I never spoke to you.” “Oh my God, WHY are you doing this?! This is insane!” He kept trying to talk and I said “Stop! I don’t want to hear your lies, you’ve got something seriously wrong with you!” Then I asked everyone, “Do you have security cameras in that area? I’m sure you do. Let’s check them and you can all see that they BOTH came up to me! Freaking denying they’ve ever seen me?! This is insane! What is wrong with you?!” So, he left, and I asked them, “Who is the head of security? Who can I talk to for the camera footage?” They told me to go to the soldiers in the transfer area. One was the woman who had been snickering with the lady in the orange blazer earlier, so I know she saw both interactions. She acted stupid, had the grossest shit-eating grin on her face, and pretended to listen to me, but I could tell she was never going to help me. She eventually said “Sit down over there, I will call someone.” So, I sat down and waited and then it was like 3:30am by that time, so I went over to one of the lounge chairs to have a nap. When I woke up, I went back to the woman and asked if anyone was coming. She replied, “No one is coming.” Of course, I wasn’t surprised. Another lie from New Delhi staff, a staff of which was clearly in kahoots with each other. It was a no-win situation and basically I realized those three are just horrible people and their lives must be miserable in and out of work, so I handed it over to karma. It will get them. Of that, I have no doubt. Horrible people.
Feeling so gaslit and frustrated, and sad, really for how awful humans can be…I went over to charge my phone and a woman sitting down asked me how I was doing. I sat down and talked to her and before we knew it, it was time for me to go back to the transfer desk. It was already that time in the morning. She is Bangladeshi and she was literally a godsend at the time. Exactly what I needed in order to feel good about humanity once again. She invited me to visit her in Bangladesh any time. So, I made a friend for life in those twilight hours. Knowing that I was heading to Bhutan, inshallah, she said “Don’t worry. Once you get to Bhutan, you will instantly forget about New Delhi.”
And, she was right.
Photograph taken of “Buddha Point” from a taxi window. 18July24
There’s something uniquely comforting about a canned coffee for me. My appreciation for it began back in Japan in 2003, where I first encountered the iconic hot and cold cans from Boss, Georgia, and Fire. Each sip of coffee in a can now takes me back to either the chaotic motion of Tokyo or the early, still mornings of Kobe. Or, to a friend and our road trip in Moldova a lifetime ago. I went on a road trip through Moldova with one of my best friends, who is Ukrainian. We stopped at a gas station on our way to Transnistria and I remember our mutual giddiness when we came upon a couple of canned coffees in the fridge. It’s the simple things in life. Yes, I do get excited, really excited, for things in life which may seem small and valueless to others, but are priceless to me. We both excitedly started telling each other our “canned coffee origin stories.” For me, today, I’m struck at how a simple coffee in a can is able to transport me across the world and back in time. All the while sitting on a balcony under the sun in Florida in 2024. I mean, I can see us laughing in the gas station. I can see myself stopping at one of the many vending machines around Ebisu or at the one I would stop at when I was living and working in Kobe. It feels as though I am reliving those moments right now. In this chair. Is this maybe why there’s no going back? That there’s no reason to go back to a place? Instead, make the memories that will stay with you forever. If you can recall a memory so vividly, why go back?
Do you have a favorite nostalgic drink that brings back memories? Or do you have thoughts on staying in the present and not revisiting the past? Share your thoughts and stories below! ☕️💭
