I wasn’t born into a temple.

I was born into noise—into a culture of always striving, always scrolling, always rushing toward the next thing.

Gratitude was something reserved for holidays.

Stillness felt like laziness.

And rest was something you earned only after exhaustion—not something sacred you honored daily.

I was raised to chase goals, not meaning.

To be productive, not present.

To look successful, even if I felt empty.

And if something didn’t feel right?

Complain. Fix it. Shop it away.

Never pause. Never ask what the ache was really pointing toward.

We were taught how to survive.

But not how to be.

Not how to feel without numbing.

Not how to listen without interrupting.

Not how to honor the sacred moments in everyday life.

But somewhere deep in me, I always knew there had to be more.

So I left.

Not with a map. Not with a plan. Just a strange pull in the chest and a whisper I couldn’t ignore.

I walked through Bali’s smoky offerings and Indian Temples with more questions than answers.

And I watched as everything I thought I was supposed to be—collapsed.

No one asked me about my degrees.

No one praised me for my achievements.

They just looked at me.

And saw me.

That’s when I started remembering.

Not learning. Remembering.

That the body carries ancient stories.

That silence is not empty.

That when your heart breaks open wide enough, something holy seeps through the cracks.

It didn’t come with light beams and angels.

It came with breath.

With the way the morning incense curls like a prayer.

With the sound of temple bells in the far distance, ringing not for me but through me.

That’s when I realized:

The temple I was searching for wasn’t a place.

It was a rhythm.

A way of being.

A home I forgot I already belonged to.

It’s easy to think spirituality is reserved for the monks, the mystics, the lucky few who were “born awakened.”

But I know better now.

Because I came to this path not with devotion, but with doubt.

Not with trust, but with exhaustion.

And somehow, the temple still let me in.

So if you’re reading this from a place of “not enough”—not spiritual enough, not still enough, not ready enough—please know:

The temple does not need your perfection.

It only needs your presence.

There’s no passport required to return to yourself.

No certificate to say you’re worthy.

You can start today.

With one deep breath.

And a tiny whisper to your soul:

I’m ready to remember.

~