It Is Not The Mountain That We Conquer, But Ourselves

He was exhausted, actually, we all were. It was coming up to sunrise but from memory we still had another hour until we reached the summit. So, he sat down, and then one by one we all did too. Light hadn't even touched the valley yet, but we had already been hiking for about five hours. The world had barely woken up when we reached the summit.

I still remember taking Neel's photo like it was yesterday. He didn't really sit, more like plonked himself down. His face was worn with exhaustion when he faced me and smiled. Then he turned his head towards the sunrise. He didn't really want to give up, he just wanted to watch the sunrise.

Happiness Is A Place Between Too Much And Too Little

I watched the fingers uncurl on my left hand as I counted how many months I’ve been back in New Zealand. Five, I’ve been back five months. Each time I click on my Facebook memories, there’s a photo or a post that reminds me of a year of travel, adventures, friendships...and of course, life. A year of embracing adventure that not only filled my hard drive with gigabytes worth of memories, but also taught me that seeking adventure is as much about our relationship with ourselves as it is to embrace what happens to us externally.

Be Brave Enough To Suck At Something New

As we get older, trying new things or being adventurous doesn’t come as naturally as when you were a kid. We reach a stage in our lives where we like to think we somewhat have it together, and that could be why we’re more likely to shy away at doing things we haven’t tried before. There’s a higher chance we’d suck at it, which means you have to check your ego at the door and that isn’t always easy.

I’m what you call a generalist - I have a lot of accumulated skills, though not really an expert at anything. I’m that friend who likes to give things a go and have a long list of eclectic hobbies and curiosities. Sometimes I envy people who pursue one or two things and know everything about them inside out. That’s never been me.

The Language Of Loss: Giving Grief A Voice (Part 2)

Being an orphan is something we associate with young children, yet that’s exactly how Helen felt when she lost both her parents within three months of each other. A Canadian native with an easy smile, I met Helen a few years ago through professional circles and she’s a woman I continue to admire through her community work. She’s unapologetic for her honesty and has learned to walk in her truth, but not before acknowledging the shadow parts of herself. Her emotional layers are complex, and I feel the school of hard knocks has only strengthened her resolve and resilience.

Like Helen, her son is an only child. She says that her son has her nose, hands and feet - all the features that people say she has taken from her own parents. He also has a similar sense of humour. As much as it brings her joy to see herself in him, there’s also a tinge of melancholy because he never had the chance to meet his grandparents.

A Christmas postcard from Huaraz

It’s my first Christmas away from New Zealand in almost ten years, maybe more, I can’t remember. This time of year has often been a time to recharge more than being about the “festive” season, and because my family has been scattered around the world over the years, gift giving has mostly been more about making the time to catch up or sending each other pictures of the food we had that day. You know, the simple things in life.

December has been a full on month, teaching four classes including Saturdays. I know some teachers do more, and they even study at university after their classes. It’s something I often joke about with one of the teachers, like, when does he actually sleep?

The Not So Typical Like Letter

I actually told someone I liked them today, oh wait, does it count when you also tell them that you “used” to like them? You know, like in the past tense. Not really sure on that one.

It’s been a weird few days for me, my energy has been really up and down. My mornings, when I would normally go to the market and then make time to cook lunch, has been swallowed up by extra commitments. Falling back into those old patterns of being in the business of being busy, not eating as healthy and definitely not sleeping enough.

As I sat there watching my students frown at their exam papers, on impulse, I tore a piece of paper from my notebook. It made that satisfactory tearing sound that made you feel productive in a sea of silent tension. I picked up the pen and began to write. My hands had the usual onset of cramping that anyone who ceased to write essays in their high school years knew too well. No matter how neat your penmanship was back then, as an adult, it just looks like chicken scratches.