March 1-4 2025
An Invitation from Lakshmi: Seeking Balance in the Chaos
The next morning after the red string incident, I woke up feeling off—a mix of exhaustion, uncertainty, and the lingering effects of everything I had been navigating. Still, I pushed forward with my plan: Tapovan Day. My intention was to cross the river, check out some hotels, and begin the process of moving out of my current stay. But, as has been the pattern of this trip, nothing went as expected.
The day was thrown off immediately when I saw that my refund from the Thai massage training was significantly lower than what I had paid. As if that wasn’t frustrating enough, when I went to transfer money, the transaction was declined. Another thing. One thing after another, after another. But it was Sunday—there was nothing I could do about it, so I had no choice but to let it go.
I made my way over to Tapovan, weaving through the chaos of honking scooters, free-roaming cows, and vendors calling out in Hindi. Eventually, I arrived at The Secret Garden, one of my favorite cafes in Rishikesh—a quiet, hipster-like space.
I am fond of the smoothie bowls, outdoor seating and welcoming community. I ordered a chocolate peanut butter banana bowl, excited for some comfort food, but when it arrived, it was about 25% granola. I sent it back and asked for the granola to be removed, but the moment the bowl was placed in front of me again, I felt guilt creeping in.
The richness of the peanut butter. The indulgence of chocolate. The little voice in my head analyzing every bite. Eating disorder thoughts were surfacing again, like shadows creeping in where light was trying to shine through. I had been doing so well before i left, but this trip was triggering so much—the anxiety, the doom, the compulsive thinking. I sat with it, unable to understand why these thoughts kept returning, why my mind kept cycling back to the same places. Maybe I was the problem.
I spoke with a few girls at the cafe who mentioned they were heading to Sri Lanka, and suddenly, my mind started running through my own escape routes. Nepal, Thailand, Sri Lanka—the three places I had considered if I chose to leave India early. They all sounded appealing in theory, but in reality? I was tired. A part of me didn’t want to run anymore. But finding peace and quiet in Rishikesh felt nearly impossible, so I felt stuck in a loop, unsure of where to go or what I needed.
I spent the next few hours hotel-hopping, stopping at different places to check prices, noise levels, and overall vibes. Then, I stumbled upon Hotel Divine Lakshmi. The moment I walked in, I felt a shift. The ceilings were high and expansive, a stark contrast to the dense, heavy energy of Kali that I had been living with. And maybe that’s exactly what I needed—a break from Kali. An invitation from Lakshmi instead.
Kali vs. Lakshmi: Destruction vs. Abundance
Kali and Lakshmi exist as two extremes of the divine feminine. Kali is fierce, chaotic, untamed—she destroys illusions, strips you down, and forces transformation through fire. Lakshmi, on the other hand, is gentle, nurturing, abundant—she brings grace, beauty, and stability.
For the past few weeks, Kali had been running the show. Lessons through pain. Initiations through hardship. Destruction after destruction. But stepping into this new hotel, I felt something softer. Something that didn’t require me to be at war with my surroundings.
I was hesitant at first—the prices online seemed high. But I’ve been getting better at haggling, an art form in itself, and I managed to negotiate a fair deal without breakfast included. I wasn’t 100% sold until I saw the rooftop—complete with a pool and a view of the mountains. That sealed the deal. Sold. A space where I could be outside, above the noise, beside water. A shift in energy. A little bit of Lakshmi’s grace. And best of all? No commitment required. I could decide as I went, move with the flow, and finally breathe.
Processing in Stillness
After securing my new hotel, I stopped by a familiarnearby cafe for ginger water and some quiet time with my blog. Writing had been hard lately—not because there wasn’t anything to say, but because there was too much. When I journal about something, it becomes real. And sometimes, the weight of it is too much to put into words. But I reminded myself:
If I don’t process it through writing, I will process it some other way.
And I’m not bingeing and purging.
That reminder grounded me. Even if the thoughts came, even if the discomfort rose, I was not going to engage in old behaviors.
Once I finished my ginger water, I walked back to The Secret Garden for some real food. A spicy chickpea quinoa bowl with pickles. (Fuck, I miss pickles. Especially those deli pickles from New York.) I called my mom while I ate, allowing myself a little comfort.
A Random Encounter & A Ride Across the Bridge
After finishing my meal, I began the long walk back to the bridge. I decided not to take a tuk-tuk, wanting to move my body and burn off some of the excess energy in my system. As I walked, I noticed a guy carrying a flute bag.
I asked if he played, and we struck up a conversation. Turns out, he was a doctor taking flute lessons. He then offered me a ride to the bridge. It wasn’t a long distance, but something about the spontaneity of it made me say why not?
For a moment, I felt the childlike joy of connection, of unexpected conversations, of trusting the journey. He gave me his music teacher’s information before dropping me off, and just like that, the interaction ended—another fleeting, beautiful moment in this ever-unfolding journey.
Settling Debts & Surrendering to What Is
Back at my hotel, I finally settled up my payment with the manager. It was fair—I was nine days in and had been delaying payment while I figured out my next steps. Now, with Lakshmi in sight, I told him I’d be checking out on Tuesday.
Before heading to my room, I stopped by the cafe to pick up my packed lunch, expecting the usual portion. Instead, I was surprised to find a beautifully prepared, abundant meal—larger than anything they had packed for me before. The irony?
This was the one day I wasn’t even that hungry.
Still, I forced myself to eat, knowing my body needed nourishment. I took the rest to my room, where I mindlessly finished it over a small joint that Rick had given me.
It wasn’t about the food. It wasn’t about the money. It wasn’t about the laundry.
It was about the feeling of control constantly slipping through my fingers.
But maybe, just maybe, that’s where Lakshmi comes in. Kali teaches through destruction, through loss, through breaking down every illusion of control. But Lakshmi teaches through surrender. Through trusting that abundance will come. Through understanding that peace isn’t something to be found—it’s something to be allowed.
Maybe it’s okay to receive. Maybe it’s okay to rest. Maybe, for once, I don’t have to fight.
Surrendering to the Chaos: Blood, Pain & the Unseen Grace of the Divine
I woke up feeling like complete shit—no voice, no energy, no ambition. The sickness that had been creeping in had fully taken hold, and there was nothing I could do but sit in it. Chills, body aches, a raw throat that burned with every breath. Maybe it was a sign that I should stay longer, so I asked if I could extend my stay for a few more days. I also asked if they could push back my lunch so I could get some much-needed rest. The answer was no. The food would be sent to my room immediately.
When it arrived, I lost control. I ate everything in one sitting, much earlier in the day than I usually do, and immediately, I knew. This was my sign to leave. The anxiety of having no control over my meal times was more than I wanted to deal with. The temptation to binge and purge was loud, but instead of giving in, I packed my bags. I was leaving tomorrow.
The rest of the day was a blur of frustration—doing laundry, looking at Airbnbs, fighting with terrible WiFi, and battling exhaustion. My body needed rest, but my mind was stuck in overdrive, searching for an escape plan. How could I get out of India as soon as possible? I wasn’t sure if it was the sickness talking or if I really just needed to leave.
At dusk, I dragged myself to the pharmacy for Ayurvedic cough syrup and lozenges, then wandered down to the Ganga, hoping the water would bring some clarity. But Rishikesh was getting packed—the International Yoga Festival was starting in a few days, and the once peaceful banks of the river were now swarming with people.
Another sign. Get across the river. Get out.
I reached out to friends, hoping connection would help. It didn’t. I felt more alone, more broken, more defective. I went back to my room and numbed myself with gum and sucking candies, trying to distract from my raw throat and aching body.
Then, in the middle of the night, my mind latched onto one more thing to unravel over. I had been overcharged. At 2 AM, I sat in bed, running the math, realizing I had paid $140 more than I should have for my stay. My body was exhausted, but my brain was in full spiral mode—anger, defeat, feeling like I was constantly being taken advantage of. I knew the conversation would have to wait for morning.
Blood on the Floor: When the Unseen Becomes Unavoidable
Morning came, and with it, a breaking point.
I packed the last of my things, showered, and began gathering my bathroom essentials. My toiletry bag hung from the glass wall shelf, and as I lifted it—the entire shelf shattered.
In the blink of an eye, glass crashed into the sink, shards scattering across the floor. A cup that had been sitting on the shelf smashed against the porcelain. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw it—a sharp piece of glass bouncing off the sink and landing directly into my left leg.
The leg that already held so much pain.
Two deep, jagged gashes. Blood. Real blood, not the metaphorical kind like the Raktabija blood that Kali drinks in battle—actual blood pouring out of my body.
But this time, I didn’t panic.
I just watched it bleed.
There was nothing I could do but apply pressure and wait for it to stop. Another reminder—some things can’t be controlled, they can only be witnessed.
I made my way to the ashram medical clinic—the same place I had gone just days ago for the monkey scratch. They told me I needed a tetanus shot and antibiotics. I didn’t argue. I let them inject me, let them dress the wound (which, of course, came off within an hour, and I had to go back again). Afterward, I walked to Parmarth Niketan and sat near the river, crying.
Was I making the right decision? Should I stay for the festival? Should I stay close so I could get my wound dressed daily? A man saw me crying and stopped. He asked what was wrong, and I broke down. He told me his wife volunteered at the ashram and could help. I spoke to her, and though she didn’t have much practical advice, it felt good just to be heard.
I wandered through nearby hotels, looking for availability, but everything was booked for the festival and Holi.
Another sign. Leave.
I went back to my hotel, bracing for a fight with the manager over the money. But when I brought it up, to my surprise, he handed me 140 cash—no questions, no argument.
I was shocked. I had expected resistance, but instead, the universe handed me exactly what I was owed. For once, no battle. Just balance. I climbed into my taxi, told them about the broken shelf, expecting some kind of reaction. Nothing. They didn’t even blink.
Lakshmi’s Invitation: A Different Kind of Surrender
I arrived at Divine Lakshmi, ready for yet another challenge. The WiFi wasn’t working, the credit card machine wouldn’t process my payment, and my instinct to run kicked in. But instead of immediately jumping into defense mode, I practiced patience.
I went to my room, sat with the discomfort, and within an hour—everything was sorted. The new hotel wasn’t as nice as the last one, but it was in an area where more was happening. More cafes, more people, more opportunities to be in flow. I only booked through Saturday, giving myself the option to extend, but also the freedom to leave if I needed to.
That evening, I walked to the store for medicine, picked up what I needed for my cough and wound, and allowed myself to do nothing.
For dinner? The same thing I had been eating at the last hotel—hummus, steamed veggies, and tofu.
And honestly? That was fine.
This is what it is.
I could plan my “Great India Escape,” but maybe the work wasn’t in escaping. Maybe the real work was in sitting in it.
Sitting in the pain.
Sitting in the discomfort.
Sitting in the chaos.
Letting it all be transmuted.
The Path of Kali, Lakshmi, Hanuman & Shiva: Finding Grace in the Fire
Kali had been ripping everything away, burning me down to nothing—pain, loss, destruction, all in the name of transformation.
But Lakshmi had appeared with grace. With the reminder that balance exists within chaos. That abundance is still available, even in the mess.
Hanuman had shown up through the monkeys, his energy calling me toward devotion, resilience, and strength. Reminding me to laugh at the absurdity of it all.
And Shiva? Shiva was everywhere. In the shattering of illusions, in the destruction before rebirth, in the reminder that everything must dissolve before it can become something new.
Because that’s the truth of the path—when one door closes, another opens… and then one slams in your face. Then you step in a heaping pile of cow shit, then a monkey scratches you, then you get an infection from the river, and then you slice your leg open with glass.
But you keep going.
You don’t quit. You don’t turn back.
You learn from it.
You let it shape you.
You keep fucking going.
This journey is far from easy, far from perfect.
But it’s divine.
Because it’s mine.
Looking forward to sharing more—and the poetry I’ve written while sitting by the Ganga.
With trust and surrender, hands up, heart open,
Kali Grayce
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