The Weightless Sweetness of Falling in Love with Life Again.

Sri Lanka Diaries. Part 1. A Different Kind of Love.

February tends to spotlight romantic love.

But as I sat with the energy of this month, I found myself reflecting on a different kind of devotion. Not to a person. Not to a relationship. But to the quiet pull I sometimes feel to leave the familiar and spend time alone.

This is not new for me. I travel solo often. What felt important this time was not the going, but the deeper question beneath it.

Why does solitude call me so clearly, every now and then?

My life is not lacking. I have been with my husband for nearly sixteen years. There is trust between us. No interrogations when I say I am going away. No emotional bargaining. Just an understanding that this rhythm is part of who I am.

I consciously chose not to have children, and that decision shaped the architecture of my life. It gave me mobility. If something inside whispers, I can listen.

We travel both together and alone. The only real planning revolves around Leela, our gentle cat. As long as she has a loving companion, everything flows. Sometimes that means we take turns traveling solo. Sometimes we go away together. What matters is that her world stays steady and cared for.

Freedom, for me, has never meant carelessness. It simply means we have created space inside commitment.

Nothing in my daily life pushes me away.

And yet, from time to time, something calls me inward.

It is not escape.
It is not dissatisfaction.
It is not a need to disappear.

It feels more like recalibration.

At home, I am woven into shared rhythms. I am a wife, a daughter, a teacher, a friend, etc. I am in conversation. I am responding. I am part of routines built over years. None of this feels heavy. It feels meaningful.

But even chosen roles create subtle layers. Solitude removes the mirror.

Sri Lanka Diaries, 2026.

When I arrive somewhere alone, where no one knows my history, something shifts. There is no reference point. No expectations. No familiar version of me to uphold. I wake when my body wakes. I eat when I am hungry. I walk without needing a destination.

In that quiet, I hear myself more clearly.

The urge to go often arises when life feels dense. Not chaotic. Not overwhelming. Just layered. Conversations, responsibilities, affection, planning. It accumulates.

Solitude creates space between those layers.

Sometimes I think of it as energetic hygiene. A clearing. A nervous system reset. Other times it feels older than logic, as if retreat is simply part of my nature.

Recently, sitting in Sri Lanka, moving at the pace of heat and ocean air, I felt how quickly my body softened once I was alone. My breath deepened. My thoughts slowed. I was not trying to be calm. I simply was.

And that is when the February theme made sense.

We often speak about love as closeness. Togetherness. Merging. But there is another expression of love that requires space. Space to remain whole. Space to return to yourself.

Falling in love with life is not about constant connection. It is about staying connected to your own pulse.

When I travel alone, I am not stepping away from love. I am strengthening my relationship with it. Because when I return, I am clearer. More grounded. Less reactive. More available.

The urge to be alone is not a rejection of connection.

It is devotion to it.

Solitude has never taken me away from love.

It has only made my love clearer. Softer. More conscious.

In Part II, I explore this through the lens of yoga philosophy and the practice of non-attachment, and how space can deepen connection rather than threaten it.

With love and gratitude,

Victoria.