When you reflect on your life, what moment stands out as the one you’re most proud of?
Is it the big accomplishments? The degrees earned, jobs landed, or relationships formed. Were you to pose that question to friends, family, or colleagues, what would they think your proudest moment should be? How far apart is your view of it from their take?
Maybe they’d point to the fact that you’re an Engineer or a Data Scientist, mentioning the degrees you’ve earned—being one of the few in your family to hold one, let alone two. Or perhaps they’d mention how you should be proud just for being in one piece—given your reckless streak of broken bones and torn ligaments along the way. Or that you managed to make it through a disadvantaged environment filled with distractions like drugs, pornography, and risky flings—while many of your high school friends didn’t.
Or maybe they’d point to you landing one of the world’s “sexiest jobs” after realizing you were stuck in a dead-end role and decided to return to school—juggling a master’s degree while still working full-time to carve out a new path. That’s probably something many of us have done—balancing commitments and working hard to create the life we want, even when the road feels uncertain.
They might also talk about your personal life—how you married the love of your life, an ambitious and brilliant doctor from a family that, on paper, couldn’t be more different from your own. Or maybe they’d joke that she or he is still by your side, given how unadventurous and fussy you are about food. (what would our relationships be if we were free from quirks?)
Maybe they’d even mention that you’ve built a life thriving in well-paying jobs across two first-world countries. Or you’re fortunate that your faith is still intact, even after moving far from the communities and structures meant to support and strengthen it. Many have felt that tension—wanting to stay grounded in our beliefs while life pulls us in different directions.
By now, you’ve probably deciphered that these are all reasons people around me might think I should be proud.
And while a younger version of me may have taken pride in those achievements—largely because society’s imprint of success hadn’t yet worn off—they’re not what come to mind anymore. After leaving the comforts of home in South Africa and moving across two continents in the span of three years, I’ve had quite a rude awakening. A well-needed one, too.
I had just finished a simple grocery errand in St. Austell when I decided to take the usual detour to Charlestown for sunset. Lo and behold, I was pulled into a world where time slowed, music filled the streets, and joy was everywhere. The lively carnival atmosphere, with three adults in their work attire, caught mid-dance, reinforced my brave decision to leave city life.
This is a corner of the world I hadn’t known existed until I stumbled upon it on a Netflix show (Poldark, I’m a sucker for periodic pieces). Yet, I’ve been incredibly fortunate to have called Cornwall home for the past two and a half years, thanks to a remote job. Nestled at the far southwestern tip of England, it’s a world apart from London’s noise and constant motion. It has rugged coastlines, windswept moors, and quaint villages where time stretches out endlessly. And it’s in moments like this carnival, where everything feels alive and real, I realize why I came here.
It wasn’t just a peaceful retreat where I could take pretty pictures—it became my crucible.
In the solitude, I was forced to confront myself, stripped of the at-hand pastimes and distractions that city life had offered—its museums, theatres, my favorite vegan cupcakes from Lola’s, the vegetarian restaurants, the friends, the family, and the temple community—all faded away, taking with them the comforts I’d relied on for so long. I had to face the quiet for the first time, with no distractions or excuses. And in that stillness, the voice I had spent years drowning out finally had the space to be heard.
Rumi, the Sufi poet, wrote about this voice, “The quieter you become, the more you are able to hear.” And in that quiet, I began to listen.
I came to realize something I’d always known deep down—my true passion lies in being an artist and visual storyteller. Whether through photography, filmmaking, or writing (albeit poorly), I finally found a way to express myself that felt more genuine than anything I’d done before.
For most of my childhood, I was expected to follow a very different path—one that involved becoming a monk or something akin to a Jehovah’s Witness. While nothing is wrong with that, that wasn’t the life I wanted, even though I spent most weekends in my childhood learning from the scriptures and behaving in a certain way. Sure, I wanted to inspire people toward their calling in life, but in my own way—with a camera and color, not being a puppet with words behind a pulpit. For years, I gave speeches to youth in my temple community, supposedly leading and inspiring them, but I knew deep down that I wasn’t truly making an impact because I wasn’t living in alignment with who I really was. Those around me dismissed the idea of pursuing art (they didn’t even see it as art), who thought it was beneath me—so I went along with it, as I was young and impressionable, eager to please friends, mentors, family, and the community.
But this path feels real; it feels congruent. It’s as if the faith I was supposed to strengthen by becoming a monk is the same faith I’ve found by staying true to the direction this voice is leading me.
It might seem ironic to the outside world that my greatest pride doesn’t come from my degrees, my job title, or making it in first-world countries but from something as simple as moving my life to the Cornish countryside.
It was not because it was bold or involved leaving behind a comfortable life in London but because it marked the first time I allowed my inner voice to take the lead. In Cornwall, that voice found space to grow, and I started listening to it earnestly—pursuing what truly matters to me, not what others expect.
We all have that inner voice buried beneath the noise, expectations, and fear. True joy and fulfillment only come when we start to listen. A life without regret begins when you give that voice space to guide you and summon the courage to follow it—knowing you’ll stumble because the path is unchartered. But you must keep going, trusting in what feels like a void, because that’s where the real journey begins.
For me, that journey began with the decision to move to Cornwall. It’s embodied in moments like this—dancing in a carnival, surrounded by pure joy and spontaneity, where the noise fades, and all that remains is the unburdened feeling of knowing that, come what may, at least you won’t live with the regret of never having tried.
I hope you enjoyed tagging along.
Until the next one.
Abhay.