17 ~ Living in an Ashram. Part 5: "I". Conclusion(s).

January 1st

The days went by quickly. I can still see myself in that room, sitting on the bed with my talismans, my new saints, my Tibetan bowl, and myself, in an old room with the Guru’s photo. Meditating, performing rituals, crying, curled up in bed like a little girl, scared, not knowing what to do, or how, or where. Disoriented and lost.

As the days passed, everything started to fade away—Christmas, New Year's, the distance, the guilt, the calls with my family, the weight of lies, not being there, and being here. I went through the strongest fear and loneliness of my life—not physical, but that point of individuality where no one but you can understand yourself, the unique singularity of our being. But then, someone started to emerge—someone I didn’t know that well.

I appeared—a different "me," one who was beginning to understand that everything depended on her. Everything—the good and the bad, how I choose my life, and how I decide to see it—everything. Then, I realized I could create, I could break patterns, I could transform, I could transform myself, and I could also choose what to believe in. Of course, I always knew it, but sometimes we forget.

This time, I was taking responsibility on an extreme level. I was disconnected from everything and everyone, and, at times, it started to feel pretty damn good.

Maybe that's what an Ashram is? A bubble of peace in the middle of so much stimulation? That gives us the distance to stop responding almost mechanically to everything. Time and clarity to listen inwardly, to give importance to what truly matters—to what slips through our fingers like water in the rush of everyday life.

Here, there is no rush—there are many fountains with water. This time, I could just be. I didn’t have to prove anything or meet anyone’s expectations—not the world’s, not anyone’s. I had found a way to make time.

I came to fix something. I still couldn’t quite identify what, but I was forcing myself to react. It seemed like everything slowly aligned for that, and I had the clarity to listen.

I took responsibility and grabbed the helm of my ship—the same one I had handed over to someone else long ago. And I realized it wasn’t him… it was me who abandoned the place I was meant to occupy. It was me who was "comfortable" letting someone else steer my boat while I watched my life slowly crash through the window. But sometimes, it seems like it takes less effort to look out the window and be carried along than to grab your own wheel.

Is it really?

In the end, it cost me dearly, of course—everything has its price…

I no longer wanted to give my wheel to anyone else. I was truly tired of hiding from myself while shame and anger ate me up inside. Shame with myself for not being able to do what I knew I had to do, for not stepping away from a place I didn’t deserve to be in, for holding on to something I knew was hurting me and was long overdue to let go of. Shame for not recognizing myself—or for starting to know that part of me I preferred not to know—and all the anger that came with that.

No more. No one deserves to stay in unhappy places.

Now, even if I’m scared to death, if I don’t know what to do, I breathe and face it. And if I'm going to turn the board upside down, let it be for bravery.

Every decision was a challenge; I had no one to consult with. But that had its advantages: I also had no one to explain myself to.

I was free—what a beautiful feeling. No one judged me but myself—as if that weren’t enough—and little by little, I was learning to deal with myself.

Slowly, I became kinder and more empathetic. More patient and less judgmental.

I understood myself and embraced myself like a little girl when I was scared, and I forgave myself. I was learning to make mistakes, to endure them, and to be grateful.

I was giving myself time. One of the most valuable things someone can give to another person: time.

So why not give it to myself?

Time to stop reproaching myself for everything I "should be," that I wasn’t, and probably no longer wanted to be. Time to forgive myself for that and accept that everything is fine as it is, that I don’t have to be it, that I no longer need to meet anyone’s expectations but my own—and perhaps even those I should revisit.

Do they really make me happy, or do they just inflate my ego?

When you start to expand your consciousness, you realize that perhaps this is a question we should ask ourselves daily because reality and our ego always play confusing games.

I had given myself time and space to face my guilt. To take responsibility and realize how foolish it is to try to please everyone, when, in the end, the only thing that matters is taking charge of your own life. Pleasing yourself—and surely, that is the only sustainable path in the long run. It is also the hardest, of course, but ultimately, it was the only thing worth learning.

And that path of personal happiness, in the depth I was beginning to see it, would also extend to others if I truly sought real happiness because it was a "change of lens," an expansion.

I began to understand how to give myself a voice: how to listen to myself, how to take care of myself, how to seek my own harmony—and I realized that I didn’t really know how to do it.

Those were very hard days. The days of arriving in India, the days in the Ashram, and the days yet to come. But they passed—and not just because time moved on, but because I went through them.

I chose to spend Christmas and New Year's Eve inside the Ashram too. The doors closed at 11 pm, so midnight found me alone in my room. Christmas is not celebrated in India. I wasn't planning on celebrating it either. I greeted my family gathered together through a camera, hugged them virtually, and sent them love while telling my mom that soon I would "get together with the girls to celebrate." Nothing could be further from what I was actually living. Those calls broke me. I felt selfish and guilty for being where I was, for giving myself the privilege to think about myself while life went on, while my mother was alone in Argentina, while my little cousins asked when I would come back, and the rest of the family did the same. Soon, it would be three years since I had last been to Argentina. The only thing I could do was tell my mom that I missed her and that I would be there soon. Did anyone say that following your own desires is easy?

I forced myself to let the red button on the phone call close a portal to something I couldn't resolve, and through some tears, I fell asleep, only to wake up the next day and continue on the path I had chosen. Still unsure, but trying to be as conscious as I could.

On New Year's Eve, there was a huge bonfire on the banks of the Ganges. Everyone from the Ashram was there, including me, Gulnara and Elke. They gave us a small stone to throw into the flames, one by one, while chants and mantras filled the air. A huge Shiva gleamed in the darkness of the night, stars scattered above, and a giant fire reflected on a sacred river. I watched the past year unfold like a movie. Wow. I looked around... What was I doing in India? I never would have thought that the end of this year would find me here, like this, in this way. It hadn't been my plan, and that was what was so shockingly unexpected—but little by little, it was also turning into a blessing. I was grateful—what I was living through was magic, too.

Throughout the night, we let go of everything we wanted to release to welcome the new year lighter, with less burden. I tried to let go of that "me" I no longer wanted to be and of a lethal hatred that was eating me up inside—my frustrations, several broken dreams, and everything that could not be. I let it all go like the current of the Ganga—or at least as much as I could. I no longer wanted to—couldn't—carry that weight anymore. I needed to free myself.

If only it were as easy as throwing a stone into the fire. It was going to be a daily effort, a conscious choice every day. It already was.

Symbolically, I asked the universe to help me and to do its part. I was doing everything I could to do mine.