This is Just for Me
After two weeks in a city with 9 million people and 6 million motorbikes, the constant hustle and bustle in Hanoi had become too overwhelming for me. Every day, groups of men gathered under my Airbnb to drink beer and chat loudly late into the night. I’d grown restless, and I decided it was time for a change of environment, so I headed to Ninh Bình.
One day, I rented a bike and took myself out to Hang Múa for some sightseeing. Among the breathtaking karst mountains and wandering rivers, a deep sense of joy washed over me. I felt invigorated and alive.
I wish you could be here too!
I thought this, yearning to share this moment with someone. It’s a familiar longing, one that has surfaced countless times—not just during my Watson journey but ever since I began living far from friends and family, again and again. It often strikes during moments of beauty or wonder, when I find myself wanting to turn to someone and say, "Look at this!"
But as I noticed this desire to share the experience and my right hand swiping on my phone to turn on the camera, something stopped me.
At the end of September, I went to a 5-day retreat during which I was offline. Day four of the retreat was a day of silence. Participants were not supposed to talk at all to anyone. During the community circle the next day, a reflection shared by a fellow participant, Tom, stuck with me:
"This is just for me!"
He talked about seeing beautiful clouds in the sky, noticing a bird in the tree, or a great idea popping into his head, and no matter how excited he felt, he had to hold it himself as he couldn't share it verbally with anyone. He had to accept and celebrate that all of that was just for him to experience in those very moments.
Standing at the pinnacle of Múa mountain, I remembered Tom's words and reveled in the realization that this breathtaking experience I had was just for me. In that very moment, there and then, all that I saw and heard and smelled and felt could only be for me.
Truth be told, I've been struggling to enjoy things in the last few years—including even on the Watson. It's not that I don't appreciate life's simple pleasures, but that my enjoyment often gets quickly overshadowed by the voice of an inner critic and my worries and concerns about this and that and the past and the future.
But while hiking in Hang Múa, I decided it was the perfect opportunity to practice improving the quality of my thoughts, a goal I had set during the retreat. Instead of feeling pity for having no friends or family next to me with whom to share the beautiful scenery, I acknowledged the impossibility of sharing the entirety of my experience with another—in that moment and always, thereby feeling a sense of comfort and release.
I let myself embrace the joy I felt, however fleeting, and trusted that these moments were mine to cherish and that it was okay to experience joy alone.
While I did still snap some photos, I know sharing the views is different from experiencing the views first-hand. Even for me, recalling how I felt while looking at the pictures isn't the same as reliving those moments.
As obvious as this might sound, it was a powerful reminder of the importance of being present and finding value in personal experiences, even when they can't be fully shared.
This experience felt like a breakthrough on my journey. Maybe my Watson isn't about making others see what I've seen or trying to convey every thought I've had (what a dangerous goal that would be, haha). Instead, it's about understanding what it means for me to be fully present in my own experiences. I think the Watson Foundation would agree.
And perhaps, isn't that true in life as well?
