Blessed Are the Ones Who Let Us Leave

An Ode to the Family That Made Me Brave

Hi, angel! Welcome back to the inside of my brain!

I hope these words find you thriving and jubilant!

Today, I’d love to share a travel story from one of my favorite places in the world: Bangkok!

We’ll get into lessons on the importance of family, exploration, and free thinking!

Not gonna lie, I cried while writing this one!

Hope you enjoy!

But first, here are a few of my latest yoga resources:

The Silent Struggles of a Nurse: Finding Peace in the Chaos

^^this is a new series where I publish conversations I’ve had with students of mine!

They tell me their problems and I give them yoga solutions!

I trust you’ll learn a lot from this conversation!

THIS PODCAST IS AVAILABLE ON ALL PLATFORMS BTW!

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Melt Your Invisible Armor: Guided Meditation for Open-Heartedness

Clearing Cortisol's Name: Harness Its Power for Better Health

Without further ado, here’s that Bangkok story!

January 18th, 2025

Bangkok, Thailand

Bangkok hums like a living organism—horns blaring, incense curling, tuk-tuks darting like dragonflies—but on this final day with my family, the city seemed to hush itself. As if it knew. As if its golden spires and chaotic arteries could feel the slow, swelling ache inside me. After a week of shared meals, childhood stories resurrected at breakfast, and the simple joy of being together, the thought of parting became the silent drumbeat behind every moment. A rhythm no one spoke of, but all of us heard.

We began at the Grand Palace, that shimmering fortress where every surface gleams like the dream of a god. Tourists snapped photos with frantic reverence, but inside the Temple of the Emerald Buddha, silence ruled. No cameras, no clicks. Just gold on gold, and the small jade figure perched high above us in his winter robe—distant, calm, and radiant. My parents stood to my right, my sister to my left, and I felt like a child again, tethered between them, suspended in time. The air thick with incense and breathless awe. I didn’t want to speak. I didn’t want to move. In that stillness, I felt something sacred rise in me—not religion, not dogma, but surrender. A surrender to something I couldn’t name. Something that loved me anyway.

Later, at Wat Pho, we met the reclining Buddha—forty-six meters of golden silence. His eyes half-lidded, lips curved in a knowing smile, as if he’d seen the end of every story and still found it worth telling. My parents had stood in that same hall on their honeymoon 25 years ago. They tried to summon memories, conjuring flashes of tuk-tuks and noodles and the smell of heat. But the past is slippery. Their stories came in fogged windows, and yet something about their effort—how they reached, how they laughed at what they’d forgotten—made me realize: some memories aren’t meant to be kept. They’re meant to pass through us, do their quiet work, and fade. Not everything sacred is permanent.

Afternoon pulled us into Khao San Road, that carnival of contradiction—tourists munching fried scorpions, henna artists sketching futures, massage stalls lined up like confessionals. I skipped the insects and chose mango sticky rice, still warm, still sweet, like the summers of my childhood. My sister and I sat on a curb, plastic spoons in hand, planning out her imaginary backpacking route. She was lit from within, barely twenty, brimming with maps and maybes. I watched her, and for a moment, saw myself again—at the edge of the world, breathless and buzzing, trying to stretch my skin to fit a bigger soul.

By sunset, we were quieter. Not sad—just reverent. Like we all knew this was the last laugh before the lights dim. My parents sat at a cramped table in an Irish pub, their fingers laced around sweating beer bottles, looking younger than I’d seen them in years. My sister and I swapped dumb jokes and secret glances, the kind that need no explanation. All week we’d been rebuilding old bridges, unspoken gestures that reminded me we were more than blood—we were rhythm, music only we could hear.

But time doesn’t yield to tenderness.

At 5 AM, under the dim orange hush of hotel lights, I hugged each of them. My mom, with her lavender scent that has followed me across decades. My dad, whose hands are always steady, even when the world isn’t. My sister, whose laugh feels like a spell that keeps the dark away. I didn’t want to let go. But I did. The taxi pulled away, swallowed by Bangkok’s maze of shadows and neon. And then they were gone.

I stood alone on the curb as a single tear traced down my cheek. It didn’t burn. It bloomed. This wasn’t grief. This was love—wide, wild, and impossible to measure. Love that does not cling, but expands.

I’ve met travelers who speak of escape—who say leaving their families was the first breath of freedom. But for me, departure is never about escape. It’s about devotion. Gratitude. The kind that humbles you. The kind that says: I will go not because I don’t belong, but because you gave me the courage to seek where I do.

Later that morning, I boarded a plane to Koh Phangan—an island suspended between sun and moon, rituals and raves. A place where strangers become mirrors and solitude becomes scripture. As I buckled in, I stared out at Bangkok one last time. I thought about the road ahead—not just toward the sea, but toward the person I keep discovering inside myself.

Before yoga, I’d avoid silence like a wound. I’d scroll endlessly, stuff my thoughts beneath noise, keep myself too busy to feel. But these days? My mind feels like a palace. A vast, strange place where I know every corridor—even the dark ones. Especially the dark ones.

Solo travel is like that. It strips away illusion. It peels you raw. And if you’re lucky, it teaches you to love the skin underneath. I will miss them. My mother’s scent, my father’s steadiness, my sister’s light. But I don’t need proximity to carry them. They live in my breath, my posture, my prayers. In every moment of stillness, they arrive.

As the plane lifted and the sky swallowed the city, I closed my eyes. No fear. No ache. Just this quiet knowing: Wherever I go, there I am. And for the first time in a long, long time, I like the person waiting for me.