I left it all behind me — a life rife with stress, resentment, and exhaustion from constant wanting and never receiving. I ran all the way to Singapore and was unsure where I was headed next.

The corporate grind promised freedom that can only be found in endless servitude, an inherent responsibility that requires us to ensure the world thrives through our contributions. But I was left wondering where there was room for reciprocity in this system because, as much as I could understand, as clearly as I could hear the whispers of my ancestors, this process had a new look but the same purpose.

I peeled my clenched fingers from the false stories I told myself out of fear of the uncertainty. I needed to relinquish everything that was against me. Persistent pangs of fear, guilt, and dreadful doubt stalked the breath between inhales and exhales. These feelings lurked along the dusty, daily crossroads of critical life decisions, where all time converges and where, often, I wandered down pathways to either a painful past or paralyzing mirages of an unborn future.

The subtle cruelty behind the phrase, “I was dying to let go,” is that it was true. My body deteriorated, screaming its pain into my flesh. Finally, I surfaced from years of illness and, in being granted another life, another chance to do things differently, I scrambled at what that would look like.

Pause. Let go. Breathe.

I promised to permit my spirit to lead with joy. Lead me to where? I knew not, but sweet sensations filled me at the prospect of living a life through feminine grace and ease.

All I needed to do was surrender, and my heart would unfurl like a budding rose, softly releasing beauty into the world. I’d no longer need to claim that I was just a thorny stem expected to be strong and resistant; I could be both — fierce but, first and foremost, a delicate woman worthy of receiving.

Inspired action tickled my thoughts, and I abandoned fanning flames of anxiety and searched for empty pages in my journal to fill whitespace with words that praised the presence of beauty. By writing, I called out to Time, etching instructions that spellbound me to the moment I desired — here, now.

I surfaced from my frenzied liberation anew and, triumphantly, observed the black-inked scribbles that looped and swirled across crisp white pages, taking up space, taking up so much space, that I smiled.

With each word, I thanked all memories, experiences, and people for their lessons. Then, I inserted myself back into life’s narration, now a main character no longer supporting a script written for me.

The clanging bell of Singapore’s Sri Veeramakaliamman Temple conjured the ancestors whose burdens I carried, conflating generational trauma with a sense of purpose, and carried them away on each vibrating tune.

And so it is. It is done. Asé.

I looked out at the temple’s rooftop, which was covered in a lavender sunset. Its engravings were kissed with hues of pink and adorned in gold. Lanky, dried palm leaves beaten by the ripping heat absorbed all the plight to protect the temple’s beauty.

I mistook the shade that followed me throughout my life for an unfortunate, overcast shadow. But the shade had been there to lull my restless soul, to grant me moments of reflection and insight, if only I would heed an experience’s lesson.

I don’t know where my spirit will lead me next. For now, I will rest beneath a Bodhi tree. The shade reminds me not of my fears but that, “You are divinely covered, My dear.”