I went to Bali alone.
Just me, a backpack, a tired heart, and no clear plan.
I wasn’t chasing some big transformation. I didn’t go looking for healing or spirituality or answers.
I just needed to go.
To get out.
To breathe again.
To be far away from everything — and maybe get a little closer to myself.
At first, it was perfect. Like something out of a dream.
I found a simple room in Canggu — nothing fancy, but it had a little terrace, a bunch of green plants, and warm light pouring in through the windows. The air smelled of incense, and every morning the ocean whispered to me like it knew my name.
Of course, the first thing I tried was surfing.
Spoiler: I sucked at it.
I fell again and again. But I laughed harder than I had in months.
After one especially bad fall, a local surf instructor handed me a coconut and said,
“First you fall. Then you fly.”
Maybe he was talking about surfing. Maybe about life. I held on to those words either way.
Just when things started to feel good again… I got sick.
I woke up on my birthday with the worst stomach pain of my life. I tried to power through it, hoping it would pass. It didn’t.
That night I ended up in a hospital in Denpasar.
Gastritis.
No cake. No hugs. No plans. No one.
But then something happened. Something small, but human.
A nurse took my hand. She brought me warm rice broth and smiled softly.
“Bali is taking care of you too,” she said.
“Sometimes it heals you through pain.”
It sounded strange.
But I believed her.
As soon as I could walk again, I went to Ubud.
There, I joined a Balinese water purification ceremony — a melukat — at a sacred temple.
Wearing a white sarong, I stepped into freezing water and let it crash over my head.
And something cracked open. I cried — not out of sadness, but release.
I don’t even know what I let go of.
But I know it had been inside me for a long, long time.
After that, I felt lighter. And even though I was still traveling solo, I never felt truly alone.
Every night, tiny geckos — the cecak — kept me company.
They chirped from behind the curtains, scurried across the walls, peeked out from shadows.
I named them.
One of them, Komang, sat by my lamp every evening.
They became part of my little Bali family.
Of course, not everything was magical.
The internet was terrible.
Some days I couldn’t even load a map or send a message.
At first, I was frustrated. Then… I just let it go.
I started to look up more. Talk more. Be more present.
And then… I got lost.
My phone died while I was walking alone through the rice fields. I didn’t know where I was. I couldn’t read the signs. No one around.
I panicked.
Until an older woman smiled and waved from her porch.
She walked a few meters with me and pointed me in the right direction.
Later, a young boy on a scooter stopped and offered me a ride.
On the way, he climbed a tree, picked a coconut, and handed it to me.
“No money,” he said. “You’re a guest.”
And that moment broke me open in a whole different way.
I cried again. Not from fear — but from how deeply seen and safe I felt.
How much kindness can exist in total strangers.
Then came the chaos.
A cyclone formed. A volcano erupted on a nearby island.
Tides rose. Winds howled. The sky turned black.
And yet… I wasn’t scared.
It felt like Bali was saying:
“This is who I am. Beauty and chaos. Both live here — and so can you.”
Some days were so hot I couldn’t breathe. The air felt heavy. Even the shade burned.
But every sip of coconut water felt like a blessing.
And every cold shower brought me back to life.
Then came March 28 — the Ogoh-Ogoh parades.
Huge paper-mâché demons filled the streets. Drums. Fire. Screaming. Dancing. Laughter.
It was raw and wild and unforgettable.
And the next day: absolute stillness.
Nyepi. Balinese New Year.
No lights. No noise. No movement.
Just stars above me. And silence around me.
And for the first time in a long time, I felt like the whole world had finally stopped — just so I could hear myself think.
During my last week, I volunteered at a small village school, teaching English to Balinese kids.
Barefoot, bright-eyed, always smiling.
One little girl placed a flower behind my ear and said,
“Now you look like you’re from here.”
And just like that… I felt like I was.
I fell in love with Bali.
Not the postcard version — the real one.
With its heat and its rain. Its storms and sunshine. Its coconuts and chaos. Its bugs and lizards and kind strangers.
With every hard part. Every soft part. Every part that scared me. Every part that healed me.
It wasn’t perfect.
But it was real.
And maybe that’s what I needed most.
Because now I know: I can break and not fall apart.
I can get lost and still find my way.
And sometimes, a place you never planned to go… can feel more like home than anything you ever knew.
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by Meyora
