Understanding Change: A Story of How it All Started
Towards the end of 2019, I left behind a career I had thrived and grown in for nearly two decades. Yes, it was a big step letting go of everything I had known and been for so long, but I knew it was time for a new adventure—despite not knowing who I was outside of my career.
I’d read psychology many years ago, and more recently I’d fallen in love with neuroscience. Once just hobbies, I found myself seriously planning my transition from finance into neuroscience and psychotherapy.
I had my life planned and it was going to be an adventure; I would travel and study for a few more years before going into private practice. I’d do some research work to understand why we make the decisions we do, and delve into how our circumstances influence the trajectory of our lives.
I had a plan. And then life happened.
I travelled to a number of cities in India, always eating, sometimes praying, and often hoping to learn to love. I was leaving behind the only career I had ever known, but I was also grieving the sudden loss of my mother, losing an important friendship, and I was in the process of finalizing my divorce.
I’d always felt a connection to India, yet this would be my first exploration of this magical country. The assault of colours, smells, sounds, and tastes on my senses was overwhelming but in the most wonderful and humbling ways.
I’d met so many new people on my travels and saw an entirely different reality. Yet, of the many experiences I had, I want to share three short stories with you that stand out for me to this day, and that have changed so much of who I was, and who I am becoming.
My first story begins in Varanasi—the Hindu holy city. It is said that dying, or even being cremated in Varanasi, means liberation from reincarnation.
My tour started on a little boat on the river Ganges. I was so eager to see the prayer ceremony I had heard and read so much about, and I wanted to experience this for myself.
As it began, I could feel the atmosphere change. A large crowd had gathered before I could even start noticing it, but there was something strange in the air.
All around was the all-too-familiar sight of men carrying teapots. It was a bone-chilling winter and these little clay cups of hot chai warmed my hands and everything inside of me.
The carefully planned ritual itself was mesmerising. Each choreographed offering of light, fire, water, and flowers was intensified by the smell of incense in the air. The bright colours, the pyres burning in the background, the sounds of bells and drums, and the crowd of now thousands chanting together.
This was an energy all around that I had never experienced before. And yet, despite all this hum, there was also a stillness I cannot better describe than to say that the weight of the air had changed and become noticeably heavier.
In the middle of a very light conversation with some other tourists on the boat, intently watching this spectacular ceremony on the river, I began to cry for no specific reason I could think of. A deep, heartfelt crying I had not experienced since losing my own mother. It didn’t make sense, but I was being embraced. First by my tour guide, who once thoroughly soaked in my tears stepped back to allow one of the ladies I had met earlier to take over. “Your body just needs to cry”, she whispered.
I realised I had never truly allowed myself to grieve or sit with the many changes I was going through. I took her advice and simply allowed my body to cry, and when I was finally ready and there were no tears left, I smiled and as usual, I apologised.
I felt a release in my shoulders and a familiar lightness I thought I had long forgotten. The heavy air comforted me like a warm blanket. I felt clarity, soft confidence, and a sense of purpose—even though I didn’t know what this would mean for me.
My second experience: Varanasi.
I’ll admit I was apprehensive about the idea of human bodies being cremated in the open, yet I couldn’t contain my intrigue. I walked along the river bank watching body after body being burnt. I would stop for a few minutes, watch the events and the people, and continue walking. Nothing about what I was seeing was gruesome. There was an acceptance of the cycle of life I found to be so peaceful.
I found myself on a new part of the river bank I had not yet explored. A smaller number of cremations took place here, and it was calmer with fewer spectators.
I sat down, pulled out my phone, and began to type detailed notes about what I was seeing, feeling, and hearing as it happened.
I had learned that to end the ritual, once a body had turned to ash, a male–usually the eldest son— would collect water from the river in a clay pot, and with his back facing what was the cremation site, he would throw the clay bowl over his shoulder onto the fire, before walking away without ever turning back.
Deeply engrossed in the experience, I hadn’t noticed someone sit down next to me. In my peripheral, I could see him looking at my phone, then at me, and again at my phone. I turned and smiled at him. He smiled back at me. His eyes were warm and kind and I could tell he was intrigued by what I was writing.
He introduced himself and asked if I was a reporter. I explained that I was just writing my experience and what I was seeing. Satish is a farmer, husband, and father of two.
Ahead, another body had been laid on top of a pyre, and logs were being placed on top of the body. This would be my first start-to-finish cremation experience—a man probably 70 years old I had guessed. I began typing again and as I wrote, Satish told me that the man was his brother-in-law.
Embarrassed, I quickly locked my phone and slipped it into my pocket, not wanting to offend Satish. He insisted I continue writing and proceeded to tell me the life story of the very person whose body I was watching slowly burn away.
I learned about his brother-in-law, “Bala”, and he told me everything about his life, his character, and his family.
I would only later see the poetry in writing a new story while another was ending.
I also learned about Satish’s life and how hard he had worked to get his daughter through medical school and his son through his engineering studies.
In true Western fashion, I asked Satish, “what happened to him?”. He replied, “he changed”.
“Yes, but what happened to him?” I asked. His response was the same, “he changed”, Satish answered, smiling confidently.
“Let me rephrase. What was his cause of death?” I was expecting to hear that it was a heart condition, blood pressure-related, or something else.
“He changed”, Satish repeated.
I was confused by his response and assumed it was a language issue.
“It doesn’t matter what happened. Death is a part of life. He changed”, Satish explained. This time I understood.
These simple words of acceptance would help me navigate my own grief and pain. I had been hurting about losing my own mother. She changed. I had forgotten about the person, the whole life before death, and a whole life after, because I had been so focussed on the event. She changed.
My career, my marriage, one of the most important friendships I knew, and my sense of self. They had all changed.
Bala’s son collected water from the river in a clay pot, and with his back facing the cremation site, threw the clay pot over his shoulder before walking away. The rest of his family, one by one, stood up and followed behind him.
Satish placed his hands on mine to say goodbye before standing up and walking away. I watched for a few seconds before standing up and walking in the opposite direction back to my apartment, never once turning back, but ready to face whatever was ahead of me.
I may never see him again, but Satish and I shared an experience that helped me understand the importance and constancy of change.
And finally, a story about South Africa.
I was enjoying what was meant to be a three-week trip to Johannesburg, South Africa, before heading off to Norway to celebrate my 40th birthday with friends. And then the lockdown happened. I ended up spending 10 months in South Africa.
I did some volunteer work feeding the poor to bide the time. I will admit my volunteering did not stem from a desire to give—I needed to get out and this was a way to do that.
In an area in Johannesburg, where my grandparents once lived and where my own mother and her siblings grew up, I discovered an informal settlement had popped up on a once vacant area of land. There were thousands of homeless people who had built makeshift homes living there, right alongside this once quaint little suburb.
I helped prepare ingredients for the meal early in the morning and cook the food on wood fires. I served the hot food to the queues of people. Occasionally, I would break away to talk to the people in the queue, especially the children, and I’d learn about their stories. And at the end of the day, I’d help clean up after all the feeding was over. It felt good to give back.
I met some wonderful people, and a few opportunists, but I sensed something was compelling me to go back each day. So I did.
Unemployment was high, and for most, the only source of food was the once-a-day meal sponsored by concerned community members. It was when I began to simply observe, that I began to understand more how the pandemic was further impacting an already struggling society. Each new day amplified the differences between the haves and the have-nots.
There were also issues in the way things were run. I could see that the cash given to feed the poor was not always used as intended. It was also blatantly obvious that people were treated very differently—members of the community received warmer greetings and far more generous portions of food than those from the informal settlements. And there was often an unspoken “be grateful” attitude from the people doing the feeding, rather than one of service.
Something needed to change.
Two short months after my experiences in India, I started The Dandelion Philosophy—to embrace and accept the changes which had broken our people, and to create new change.
Things will always happen to us and sometimes happen for us. Either way, change is inevitable. But it is in EMBRACING THE CHANGE that we find ourselves, each other, and the healing we all need.
