Babyla's World

I have always found it difficult to take a break. Even when I am tired, even when my body quietly reminds me that it needs rest, my mind continues to run through the endless list of things waiting for me. There is always another email to respond to, another responsibility to attend to, another task that feels too important to postpone. I have somehow convinced myself over the years that resting is something I can do only after everything else is completed, forgetting that there is rarely a moment when everything is truly finished. Perhaps that is why my body eventually had to make the decision for me. More than a week ago, a viral flu entered my life uninvited and decided that it was not ready to leave anytime soon. What I thought would be a short illness that would disappear after a few days of rest turned into a long and exhausting battle with fever, body aches, nausea, weakness, and a level of tiredness that made me realize how much we take our normal health for granted. At this poi...

Every year, as the college empties and the familiar rhythm of campus life slows down, people often assume that lecturers are finally enjoying a well-deserved summer or winter break. I smile when I hear that because, for some of us, the holidays exist only on the academic calendar. Since taking on the role of Programme Leader for the PgDE programme, my understanding of what a "college break" means has changed completely. While classrooms fall silent and students head home, my workload simply shifts from teaching to planning, coordinating, developing, and improving. In many ways, the work behind the scenes is even more demanding than what happens during the semester. This break has been no exception. The days have been filled with preparing for the   Council for the Accreditation of Educator Preparation (CAEP) accreditation process,  an undertaking that demands meticulous attention to detail, strategic planning, evidence collection, and collaboration. Every document, every poli...

On the 27th of February, I quietly stepped into my 40th year, carrying with me a lifetime of memories, lessons, and small moments that have shaped who I am today.  The number itself feels significant, almost ceremonial. Forty years of living, learning, stumbling, growing, loving, and becoming. It feels like standing at a quiet crossroads, where the past gently meets the future. When I was younger, 40 seemed so far away, like a distant mountain peak. I imagined that by this age, life would be neatly figured out, with plans perfectly in place and emotions carefully managed. But standing here today, I realize life was never meant to be neatly arranged. It is meant to be lived, experienced, questioned, and felt deeply. And I am grateful for every bit of it. Forty years have taught me that life is not about perfection. It is about resilience, about showing up again and again, even when things feel uncertain, and about carrying both joy and sorrow in the same heart. Over the years, I hav...

It feels good to be back to blogging after nearly four months away. I hadn’t planned for the pause to stretch that long, but life has its own way of keeping me occupied. What I thought were small shifts, cutting my hair short and slipping back into glasses, ended up reshaping not just how I look, but how I feel about myself. For the longest time, nothing felt worth putting into words here. Then, a few weeks ago, on a whim, I cut my hair. Such a simple change, yet it carried with it surprise, laughter, and a quiet moment of reflection. It reminded me why I love sharing these little slices of life with you. In this blog, I will be sharing a set of pictures that trace my journey: short hair during my school days, long, flowing hair in my prime youth, and now, this new short-hair era. The contrasts are surprising, a little nostalgic, sometimes even amusing, but together they weave a story of change and self-discovery. The shortest hair I ever had was during my school years, right up unt...

“This year’s going by so fast,” Zamin said as she chopped tomatoes, her youthful voice rising just enough to cut through the music blaring from the Bluetooth speaker on top of the table. It was a lazy Sunday afternoon, and we were preparing lunch in our small kitchen, the windows fogged slightly from steam and the warmth of spices dancing in the air. Precious was sprawled on the table like royalty, curled into herself, soft belly exposed, completely unbothered by the buzz of our lives. I nodded, stirring the kewa datshi absently. “It really is,” I said. “Last year felt like it crawled with a broken foot. This one’s galloping ahead like it’s in a race.” We smiled, both letting the thought settle, how strange time can be. In Bhutan, life follows a gentler rhythm, prayer flags fluttering on distant hills, the sound of monks chanting in the distance, the weight of tradition grounding the chaos. And yet, even here, I can feel the days slipping faster than they used to.  Zamin has grow...

Lately, I have been writing more than ever. It’s not just a passing urge, it’s an undeniable need as if my thoughts are too restless to stay inside my head. Every moment, big or small, feels like a story waiting to be told. Whether it’s a fleeting emotion, an unexpected encounter, or a moment of reflection, I reach for words to capture it all. Maybe this desire has always been in me, but now, I feel the urgency to write more deeply, more frequently, and more freely. Writing through every experience; My recent trip was filled with moments that demanded to be written about experiences so vivid they lingered in my mind long after they passed. There was the night music festival at Pattaya Beach, a whirlwind of sound and energy. The music pulsed through the crowd, the ocean breeze mixed with neon lights, and for a few hours, nothing else mattered. I danced, I laughed, I let go. It was one of those nights that felt infinite, where the world blurred into a beautiful, chaotic rhythm. And when ...