A Love Letter to the Kingdom of Thailand & A Rescued Kitten

I didn’t document much of my time living in Thailand. As cliché as it sounds, when you’re swept up in the whirlwind of joy, surrounded by people who feel like home, you just want to soak in the now as much as possible.

Often, I felt homesick for moments before they had even ended—because they were that beautiful. A recurring theme in my life, if my blog posts over the years are anything to go by.

I learnt so much during this chapter—lessons passed on, stories shared, wisdom exchanged between the people I walked, swam, meditated, and laughed with. The ones I sat beside in ice baths, ate with under swaying palms, cried with beneath full moons.

Of course, there were moments of uncertainty, of sadness. But above all, the greatest lesson I continue to learn is this: to simply feel.

Feel it all.

Don’t apologise for it. Don’t wish it away. Because so much of what we fear—so much of what aches—stems from love. And to make space for love, over and over again, is all we really need. That’s the secret. And even more so, to surround yourself with people who remind you of that.

There were so many in-between moments, so many faces, so much laughter woven into slow afternoons and fleeting hours. They weren’t documented, but they live within me, endlessly looping—growing love and wildflowers in the corners of my being I never even knew existed.

From leading snorkelling tours and learning about marine life and ocean sustainability, to hiking through snake-filled jungles and swimming in waterfalls—slipping too many times on the rocks, being chased by a water spider.

From cacao ceremonies and nights spent playing Tibetan and crystal singing bowls until my dreams took the shape of sound baths. From full moon bonfires and creating floating pool meditations—where, one day, a guest who was wheelchair-bound floated freely for the first time in years, and we all cried together. We danced under every full moon, around bonfires and piping hot pots of cacao.

I am reminded of Hafiz when he wrote, ‘O, sacred one, untangle my feet from all that ensnares. Free my soul that we might dance, and that our dancing might be contagious.’

From feeding the street dogs near my home—falling in love with each of them, except for (but especially) the slightly overweight one who stole my kitten’s food. The same one who somehow learned to open my sliding door by himself and scared me half to death in the shower. My bathroom didn’t have a proper door, so it was always a risky game.

To being tattooed and blessed by an ex-monk I met through a man called Wolfgang—one of the most incredible healers I’ve ever known.

A small fraction of what life looked like for nearly five months.

I am so grateful. For the bamboo house I called home. For the housemates I feasted and danced with. For the three different bicycles I rode everywhere on the island (except for the last one, where the brakes didn’t work and my life flashed before my eyes more than once). For that one canoe Tamara insisted we take—despite the hole in it—far too distant from the shore.

All of it. Beautiful. Unforgettable.

And then, the world locked down. What even is a lockdown?

About my sweet, brave Kendi

About a week and a half after I arrived in Thailand, I took in a two-week-old kitten. She had been found wandering alone near a roadside restaurant, tiny and covered in dust, cars and motorbikes speeding past. No littermates in sight. No mother. She was weak—so close to not making it.

She was like my Christmas present.

With the help of local vets, I nursed her back to life. I fell in love with her completely. And ten days before I had to leave, I found her a home—adopted by a friend working in our kitchen, just down the road from where I lived.

Leaving her broke my heart. But I was grateful. She had been mine for the first part of her life.

She was my home at the end of each day.

I’ll never forget the day she was still so tiny and managed to escape through a gap in my window. As I walked home from the retreat, I heard the faintest meows, coming from somewhere above. I squinted, searching—then gasped.

She was perched on the roof of a house, temple-like in structure, with two labradors circling below.

The woman who lived there was Italian—she often gave me her dinner leftovers when I passed by to feed the street dogs. I had no way to reach Kendi, no way to coax her down. I could only stand there, pleading with her to stay put.

Then, a girl passed by on her bicycle. She spoke no English, but she understood. Holding her bike steady, she gestured for me to climb onto the small leather seat. I didn’t think twice. Laughing through my stress, I scrambled up, reached for Kendi, and cradled her in my palm.

The girl smiled. She patted Kendi’s head three times, said something to her in Thai, and rode off into the moonlight.

A week before my flight, I made the decision. She would be adopted, and I would hear updates on how she was settling in. It was a mess of emotions. A friend of mine told me to write her a letter.

I laughed, called it silly. But it wasn’t.

It helped me say everything I couldn’t.

Even now, I still miss her every single day. But writing that letter made me realise—it was never really for her. It was for me.

I named you Kendi because it means ‘the loved one.’

You were rescued so small, so sick, so alone. And when I held you for the first time, my heart overflowed with love, ready to be poured into you. But all this time, you were giving it back to me—in quiet, magical moments.

The sound of your bell is forever ingrained in my memory.

In nearly half a year, you grew up so beautifully. You’re brave and healthy now, with a whole life of love ahead of you.

Thank you for trusting me. For letting me be part of your first adventures—the palm trees, the birds, the dead bugs you so lovingly collected for me. You’re wild and cuddly and ridiculous, and you taught me so much.

I will miss you, but I am so grateful you were mine, even if only for a while.

I love you, Kendi. Be good, little one.

Even now, when I hear a bell ring, I flinch. I still look for her. I still feel that sharp ache when I remember I’m across the world.

I reread that letter on days I need a reminder—to let go. To remember how precious life is. How love strips me of every wall I’ve ever built, and how, in the letting go of it, I grow.

I think part of the ache came from knowing that once she had a home, I had no more tether to that chapter of my life. It meant I had to leave—because I was no longer needed there to care for her.

She was growing, and she had more growing to do.

And so did I.

It was a perfect metaphor for growth—for how letting go is often necessary in order for it to happen. For both of us.

But my heart is stubborn like that. It sees the inevitable, yet when the moment arrives, it fights to stay. It tries to enter through the exit door, lingers past closing time, unwilling to let go of something it loves.

I did that this time too. But, God, did I soak it in. I took in all the love, the beauty, the light.

And still, it didn’t feel like enough.

But when does life ever give us enough of something we love?

I let go. And in leaving, I realised—it all still lives in me. It’s a story to tell. Many stories in one.

And on sleepless nights, I think of them all.

As I stood in line at the Phuket airport, eyes swollen from crying, I noticed the man in front of me wearing a black t-shirt.

There was writing on the back.

"Nothing is an end, because it can always be a beginning for something new and different."

I wrote it down on my phone, tears still falling.

And in my head, like an angsty teenager, I muttered, Okay, God. I get it. But it still hurts.

The quote was by Keith Haring. In his journal, he had also written:

"I am not a beginning. I am not an end. I am a link in a chain."

As the plane took off that evening, I leaned back, breathing deeply, the way I had guided so many others to do in countless meditations. I was resisting what felt like an unbearable, unnecessary and unprepared letting go.

I felt the plane take flight. Weightlessness. I whispered to myself, like a prayer,

"I am a link in a chain. I am a link in a chain. I am a link in a chain."