For the last few years, I have sat across from executives, entrepreneurs, and creative experts who have one aspect in common: they’re walking on empty. […]
For the higher part of the last two decades, I have not only constructed homes; I have actually studied why we feel “at home” in […]
I still remember the burn. The sting of posing oil in my eyes, the dehydration that made my tongue stick to the roof of my […]
Over the past 15 years, I’ve been what you might call an “expert optimizer.” My adventure began within the bustling tech hubs of the early […]
In a bustling Delhi café, newlyweds often scroll through their phones. In a quiet home in Kerala, a pair married for 47 years drinks their […]



For many years, I’ve had a front-row seat to the quiet, determined warfare waged by high-quality, ambitious women in high-stakes environments. I’ve seen attorneys prepping for landmark instances, tech leads at some stage in critical product launches, and finance executives navigating market crashes. The pattern is commonplace: a looming, excessive-strain assignment triggers a deeply ingrained script. It whispers, "Grind harder. Push through. Lunch is for the weak. Your worth is measured by using your relentless output." And for years, I watched this script result in the same destination: burnout, diminished creativity, and a frayed...


For the higher part of the last two decades, I have not only constructed homes; I have actually studied why we feel "at home" in some spaces and absolutely alien in others. I genuinely have stood in glass palaces that felt like tombs, and I even have sat in humble wood cabins that felt like cathedrals. My journey started not inside the shape school, but in the wasteland, guiding rites of passage and looking at how the herbal international constructs its non-public shelters—from the spiral of a snail's shell to the insulating bark of

There's a positive kind of magic that takes place whilst you step onto a train, an aircraft, or a dusty course with nobody to reply to, however your yourself. A solo journey is more than a vacation; it is a pilgrimage to the middle of your very personal being. It’s a deeply personal adventure that strips away the familiar and forces a communion with the only person we frequently hold at arm's length within the hustle of ordinary existence: ourselves. This isn't pretty much seeing new places; it's miles about...

We have been conditioned to travel in straight lines. Our vacations are plotted on maps with bold, red arrows. Our walks are tracked by apps that reward us for velocity and distance, turning our ambles into quantified, calorie-burning factors. We move from Point A to Point B, our eyes glued to a blue dot on a display, slaves to the maximum efficient course. The vacation spot is the trophy; the adventure is simply the compulsory going back and forth. But what if we had been navigating the arena with the...

We inhabit a world that has been painstakingly mapped. Our phones vibrate with turn-by-turn directions, leading us from A to B with clinical precision. We draw lines on radiant screens, our journey a flashing point moving through a sea of pixels. We quantify travel in terms of miles, kilometers, and hours. But each of us possesses another, much more intricate atlas—one that standard maps altogether discount. This is our interior landscape of feeling, a world where the greatest journeys of our lives occur. What if we were to map these...

I take into account standing on a cliffside as a toddler, the salt spray stinging my face, watching a gull dangle immobile in the air. It wasn’t flapping; it changed into actually being placed there, suspended via an invisible pressure. My grandfather, standing beside me, pointed and stated, “See that? He’s not flying. He’s listening. He’s found a column of rising air, a thermal, and he’s letting it hold him. He’s traveling with the wind, not just against it.” That phrase caught on with me, evolving from a lesson in...

There is a map of the arena that exists outside of atlases and beyond the sparkling screen of your telephone. It is etched now not in the lines of latitude and longitude, but in the faint impressions of forgotten footpaths, the crumbling stone of abandoned railways, and the whispered instructions of a venerable man in a village without a name on Google Maps. This is the world of the real visitor—the seeker of hidden roads and forgotten memories. We live in an age of ultra-accessible travel. We can Instagram ourselves...



For twenty years, I carried two bags. One becomes a camera bag, worn and weathered, filled with lenses that had visible savannahs and rainforests. The […]
For over fifteen years, I’ve worked in the delicate space between childlike wonder and biological reality. My career, spanning zoological education, wildlife rehabilitation, and designing […]
For twenty-five years, my boots have been muddy. They’ve trodden the sodden peat of vanishing bathrooms, crunched the desiccating soil of encroaching deserts, and slipped […]
For over twenty years, my life has been framed via the sound of snapping twigs in dense rainforests, the misty blow of a whale in […]
We’ve all heard the testimonies. The clever crow, the loyal dog, and the mischievous parrot. But for every animal celebrated for its smarts, there are […]
There’s a memory that lives in my bones, one that surfaces whenever town life becomes a continuing, steel hum. It’s the memory of a path […]