Lessons from Nepal
December 12, 2024
It’s been over a month since I returned from Nepal, and it’s taken me this full time to process (and finally make peace with) all that happened while I was there. Art and storytelling have been the greatest gifts during this time, allowing me to express a gamut of emotions while capturing the depth and breadth of this life-changing experience.
Read on for my reflections, or read the real, raw, deeper essay, or watch my documentary-style reels of my experience (parts 1, 2, and 3).
Long story short, I went to Nepal to achieve a lifelong dream—to hike to the base of the tallest mountain in the world, Everest—but in a shock of all shocks, we never even set foot on the trail that would take us there.
The short of it is: Cloud cover grounded and delayed flights (which is very common and expected in the mountains). What wasn’t expected is that our trekking company had no real back-up plan. So, my group of 16 hopeful trekkers and I spent three full days in the rural foothills of Nepal, waiting for a flight into the mountains that never came—all while we saw dozens of other groups around us effortlessly take their own back-up helicopters up and into the mountains. My group had put all of our trust in this well-respected company to get us to the base of Everest, and in an absurd comedy of errors, it just didn’t happen.
Each of us was an absolute, emotional mess during the three days when everything felt completely stripped from us and out of our control.
The ironic part is that days before, while we were still blissfully preparing to hike to Everest, my friend asked us to think about our intentions for the trek—what we wanted to focus on or get out of it. And what I had said was, “I want to practice releasing control and letting go.”
My, isn’t the Universe hilarious.
I put the intention out there, and it was as if the powers-that-be said, “Oh, really? Great, then let’s really throw you into the deep end.”
Everything that I had so meticulously planned and prepared—my seven-month training plan, all the gear I bought and meticulously researched, all the articles I read about acute mountain sickness and successfully hiking at altitude—turned to dust within a matter of seconds. And for what? Three days of sitting around, playing cards, sleeping in tents, and nibbling at mediocre buffets?
It would have been easy to let my disappointment sour and devour me, and in all honesty, it kind of did. In retrospect, I can see how I spent almost the entirety of our alternate trek (to Annapurna Base Camp, which was lower and shorter) resisting what was. Here I was, in Nepal, hiking in the Himalayas, experiencing something that few people ever do, and inside my head, I was complaining, comparing, and focusing on how this wasn’t I wanted and this wasn’t what I had planned.
It is such an emotionally challenging place to be in—knowing you should be grateful for whatever you’re given (and that everything always happens for a reason) while grieving the loss of something that felt so important.
It wasn’t until I returned home and started sifting through photos weeks later that I could finally find some peace and joy in it all.
I started favoriting photos. I started filing away videos that brought a smile to my face, reminding me of all of the special and joyous moments despite the grueling mess.
I let go and I created—adding words and music and cadence to my once-in-a-lifetime experience.
I would love nothing more than to wrap this post neatly in a bow, sharing some grand epiphany about how I realized my intention, about how I learned everything there is to know about releasing control. But the truth is, I’m still learning, and probably always will be.
What I know is: My best paintings aren’t tight or planned. They’re loose, free, and of the moment. The most captivating beauty and honesty isn’t in the control; it’s in the acceptance and the letting go.
What I also know is: Expectations almost always ruin us. Because when something or someone doesn’t live up to our expectations, sadness and disappointment can quickly consume us. And on the flip side, life feels best when we let it be—when we simply allow ourselves to experience it, and we delight in the surprise that it is.
I’ll close with this: Nepal (the Himalayan range, specifically) is known as a “thin place.” It’s a place where the veil between the spiritual and physical worlds is said to be thin—a place where you are all-but-guaranteed to catch glimpses of the divine. A place where things like challenge, purpose, direction, and life become clear.
I went to Nepal feeling like I was meant to be there. And, months later, I still think I was meant to be there—just not for the reasons I initially thought. And while I may not have seen Everest like I so desperately wanted to, I was led to thin places all the same.
And this, I think, is what we constantly and ultimately have to remind ourselves. Our vision is so limited. We think we know what’s best, but we rarely do. Rejection isn’t defeat; it’s protection. It’s leading us to somewhere better, if we relax and loosen our grip and open ourselves to seeing it that way. Life reminds me of this time and time again—though usually not until many months or years after the initial disappointment when I can finally see how all the pieces unfold and fit together.
Everest is still in the cards. Maybe next year, maybe not. But what I can tell you is—I’m holding on loosely this time. I don’t need eight months to plan and prepare—as our trek to Annapurna, booked just 24 hours shy of beginning it, so aptly showed us. I don’t need to grip and tug and steer. All I have to do is listen, let go, and trust.