“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 grown taller than me now, a fact she reminds me of with cheeky delight. She would drape her arm across my shoulders and say things like, “I am way taller than you, Aunty.” And her feet? Let’s just say I have stopped trying to borrow her socks unless I want to wear them like leg warmers. I blinked, and she was no longer the little girl clinging to my hand on walks to the chorten. She is blooming, leaving me both proud and a little breathless.
And then there’s Precious. My fur-daughter. My most consistent companion. I still remember the kitten she once was, all fluff and fury and squeaky meows. Now she’s well, big. Let’s just say that when she jumps on the bed, I feel it. She sprawls across pillows like she owns them (because she does), and purrs like she’s got ancient wisdom buried in her chest.
Time shows up in my reflection, too. The gentle slivers of silver threading through my hair. The laugh lines that linger after a joke. A few wrinkles around my eyes, like soft folds in a well-loved map. At 38, I no longer see them with panic. I see them as stories of survival, joy, solitude, and soft strength.
There’s a quiet that finds me often now. Not loneliness, just quiet. A different kind of fullness. As a single woman in Bhutan, I have learned that silence doesn’t mean absence. It means presence. It means hearing the wind rustle prayer flags on the hills outside. It means watching Precious sleep while incense curls toward the ceiling. It means afternoon sun on the tiled floor and the laughter of my niece echoing from another room.
I do occasionally catch the fleeting attention of a few eligible bachelors while I walk to the chorten, their glances lingering for a moment as they pass by. I know the eyes are there, the hint of curiosity, maybe even admiration. But, despite it all, I am hopeless when it comes to flirting. Perhaps I have lost my knack, or maybe I am just no longer interested in the chase. Instead, I laugh it off with my girlfriends, Sapna, Madam KC, and Tashi, who know me well. We talk about the non-existent love life I have come to accept, teasing me with their own stories and offering gentle nudges about someone new, but I have learned to embrace this space. The quiet, the calm, and the contentment that comes with knowing I don’t have to prove anything to anyone.
Of course, there are bright sparks too. The girls’ night out with Sapna, Madam KC, and Tashi, what a night. It felt like a warm hug stretched across hours. Laughter under dim lights, stories shared over drinks, music that reminded us we are still alive in ways that matter. In a country where quiet grace is prized, those nights of wild honesty feel like treasure.
Not too long ago, I stood under the moonlight in Pattaya, my feet buried in sand, music pulsing in the background, the sea stretching like a soft promise. And yet, here I am again, with incense and ritual, scrolls and chants, anchoring my days in something deeper. I flirt. I ache. I scroll. I laugh. I forget my walks. I remember my mantras. Life moves forward, even when I don’t.
I used to think every day had to be meaningful, accounted for, measured, and purposeful. But now I know: even the blurry days matter. Even the days I barely show up are teaching me how to stay.
Maybe this is the gift of growing older, the realization that presence is not about being loud. It’s about being there. Fully. Quietly. Gently. Choosing to stay soft in a world that asks us to harden. Choosing joy without explanation. Choosing love even when it's quiet.
In the soft glow of these moments, I have learned that love isn’t always a great sweeping thing. Sometimes, it’s as quiet as the wind in the pines, as constant as the flickering of a candle in the dark. It’s a gentle persistence, and I can feel it, even when I am standing still, wrapped in the arms of my life as it is now. And so, I choose it.
So if you, too, feel time slipping through your fingers, let it. Let it move as it must. Let it rush and pause and swirl. Let it remind you that every day, even the quiet ones, are sacred.
Because even in this small corner of Bhutan, with a cat on the table and a niece at my side, I know this: we are allowed, and perhaps meant, to move gently.
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