Don’t move,” I instructed, as a band of cockroaches scurried across the train car wall, straight toward Amanda’s head. She sat rooted in place on the sticky seat cushion, squeezing her eyes shut and bracing for my attack.

Clutching our Lonely Planet: Southern India, I moved in for the kill. In one fluid kung fu motion, I propelled the book past Amanda’s face, adding more carcasses to our growing collection. At the same time, Holly leapt up and splattered a few culprits en route to our stash of assorted snacks, while Amanda pulled a flip-flop from her own foot to pick off newcomers streaming in from the windowsill.

By this point in the trip, the girls and I had grown fairly accustomed to third-world conditions, learning to tolerate a vast assortment of creepy crawlies and less-than-desirable accommodations. But nothing could have prepared us for this, our first overnight train ride through the sun-scorched subcontinent of India.

We’d arrived in Bangalore a few days earlier, and, for the first time since leaving New York City, we were racing to meet a deadline. Our assignment: we had less than twenty-four hours to get Holly to Trivandrum for the first day of her monthlong yoga teacher training program.

With nearly five hundred miles of ground to cover, we’d planned to hop a domestic flight to save time, but after hearing news reports that terrorists were targeting southern Indian airports, we’d decided that riding the rails would be safer. Not to mention an infinitely cheaper and more authentic way to travel. If only we’d known that the 6526 Bangalore-Kanyakumari Express was not only competing for the Guinness World Record as the slowest express train in the world but was also in serious need of an exterminator.

Since we’d booked our passage at the last minute, all the first- and second-class tickets had been sold out, so we had to settle for the third-class sleeper car. For ten bucks, we figured the compartment wouldn’t have air-conditioning, but we didn’t count on the complimentary army of cockroaches. No sooner had we slid into our assigned seats than a river of six-legged critters poured down the walls and over the benches.

“I feel like we’re playing that game they used to have at Chuck E. Cheese’s. You know? The one where you bash the fuzzy purple moles that pop out of their holes?” I said, wildly scanning the area, ready to pounce at the first sign of movement.

“Umm, thanks for tarnishing the image of one of my favorite childhood pastimes,” Holly joked, inspecting our coveted food bag for stowaways. “Uh, this is seriously gross.”

“It’s our cockroach curse. They’ve followed us from Kenya, I swear,” Amanda said, shrieking and wildly shaking out her curls to eliminate the chance of hangers-on. “And yet again, it seems like we’re the only ones on this train who are concerned about sleeping with a million bugs.”

Many times in India, Amanda, Holly, and I had felt like a three-ring circus, constantly on display to amuse and bewilder the locals. This train ride proved no different. As floods of extended families spilled on board, they’d stop dead in their tracks in front of our bench seats, mouths agape at the sight of three white women in mass hysterics over a few tiny insects.

Unable to repress our cockroach-slaying instincts, we ignored the obvious stares—at least at first. But eventually, embarrassment and the sheer exhaustion from jumping up and down every two seconds forced us into silent submission. If we were going to survive the remainder of the claustrophobic seventeen-hour journey, we’d have to sit down, remain calm, and pretend that we hadn’t stepped into an episode of Fear Factor: India.

For once the utter lack of personal space in this part of the world worked to our advantage. As hundreds of passengers wedged themselves into every available square inch of the locomotive—unhinging foldaway beds from the walls to stockpile bundles of fabric, oversized trunks, and picnic baskets—our unwelcome bug mates scattered for cover. Our skin no longer crawling (at least not as much), we hunkered down in our booths, falling into rhythm with the train as it rattled along the tracks.

As night fell, Holly settled into one of the coffinlike sleep compartments, face mask and earplugs firmly in place. Along with the majority of other passengers, she soon dozed off, leaving Amanda and me to indulge our night-owl tendencies. Headlamps at the ready, we holed up across from one another on bottom bunks to savor reading the rare glossy magazines we’d managed to pilfer from a guesthouse lobby.

“Hey, listen to this,” I whispered. “Dear Marie Claire India: I have been in an arranged marriage for almost five years and while I respect my husband, I greatly dislike having sex with him. Most nights, I feel physically ill when we have intercourse. I have considered leaving him, but this would destroy my family. Is there anything I can do to learn to like sex with my husband more?”

“Wow, does it really say that?” Amanda asked, pulling the page down to look. “That’s terrible. She must feel so trapped. I guess that sort of puts our petty troubles with men in perspective. At the very least we get to have a physical connection before we walk down the aisle.”

“True. Although statistically I think arranged marriages work out more often than love matches, so maybe we’re no better off in some ways. Hey, you should totally pitch a story about that. It could be something like ‘Dating Around the World: Would you have better luck in someone else’s country?’”

“Good call, but no thanks,” Amanda replied with an odd seriousness to her tone.

“Oh, c’mon. It’s an awesome idea. I mean, I would totally read that article,” I whispered between the vociferous snores and guttural coughs that filled the car.

“While I don’t dispute its awesomeness”—she paused and took a breath—“I meant that I’ve decided that I’m not going to pitch stories anymore.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, brushing an imaginary bug off my neck.

“I’ve actually been planning to talk to you about this. I think I’m finally ready to shelve the idea of being an international journalist. At least for a little while anyway.”

“Okay, am I on Candid Camera or something?” I said, hoping to joke my way out of another potentially tense conversation.

“No, I’m serious. I’ve been thinking a lot about this over the past few days, and I’m just not sure it’s the right thing for me to do anymore. I mean, I’ve sent out dozens of idea memos and query letters and pitches. And spent about a jillion hours holed up in Internet cafés. For what? None of my editors are even getting back to me anymore, so lately I’ve felt like it’s all been for nothing,” she replied, sifting through the pile of magazines in front of her.

“Look, I really shouldn’t have snapped at you the way I did that day at Pathfinder,” I said, thinking back to the argument we’d had in Kenya. “At least you have something you want to accomplish, unlike me. I’m just running away from real life altogether. I mean, who am I to tell you what’s best?”

“I know, but I honestly think it would be best for me to give up working for a while and just try to enjoy traveling without some sort of mission or purpose attached. Seriously, for the next couple weeks, I’ve decided: we’re doing the trip your way.”

Scanning Amanda’s face with the beam of my headlamp, I could see that she genuinely meant what she was saying. As much as I hadn’t wanted to guilt her into abandoning her on-the-road career goals, I couldn’t help but feel relieved. I knew that a week later, we were going to part ways with Holly and travel as a duo for nearly a month, and I didn’t want to have any unresolved tension between us.

“All right, you win,” I said, holding up one of my hands in surrender. “And hey, you never know. You might love backpacker life so much, you’ll want to give up working for the rest of the trip.”

“Don’t push it, Baggett,” she replied, throwing me a mockevil scowl.

“Never.” I grinned before turning my attention back to the joys and woes of other women that danced across the moonlit pages of Marie Claire India.

Chai, chai, chai…coffee, coffee, coffee, chai, chai,” ricocheted off the metal walls, piercing my seemingly ephemeral slumber.

I cracked one eye open and peered out of my protective silk sleep sack to see what on earth was making such a racket. A rail-thin man, draped in white linen from headdress to toe, maneuvered a pushcart with a tall silver kettle and plastic cups through the cramped corridor. Every few feet he’d pause to swap a steaming libation for 5 rupees (about 10 cents), all the while projecting the same nasally sales pitch into the muggy, cardamom-scented air.

Across the aisle, I spotted a fresh-faced Holly cheerfully making conversation with a family of eight. She glanced over at me and grinned.

“So do you know if chai is available on this train?” I asked sarcastically, groaning as I stripped the sweat-soaked fabric from the top half of my body.

“You’re awake—finally! You and Amanda have been dead to the world for hours. I was starting to get worried.”

“We didn’t go to bed until nearly three in the morning. What time is it now?”

“I think almost ten a.m., but I’m not sure. My watch is still on Kenya time. How many hours are we ahead now?”

“I don’t know. Three? Four? What time do we get to Trivandrum?”

“Not till two p.m.,” she said.

“Well in that case, I’m going back to bed,” I replied, fumbling through my daypack-turned-pillow to locate my iPod.

“What? No way. You have to keep me company,” Holly protested.

“Sorry, can’t hear you,” I replied sweetly before cramming my earbuds in and rolling over.

I was just on the verge of drifting off when I felt a hand on my back. Startled, I flew up and hit my head on the bunk above me. A little girl with a mop of raven curls and an armful of sparkly pink bangles jumped back and giggled. Cajoling her baby brother to join her, the two tag-teamed me, pulling at the cord running into my ears. Oh well, it’s too hot and noisy to sleep anyway, I thought, sitting up.

“You want to listen?” I asked, pulling out my right earbud and holding it out to them.

Awestruck by the realization that music could flow out of such a tiny machine, they squealed and leaned in, pressing their heads against each other. At first they were content to share the speaker, but before long, sibling rivalry reared its ugly head and an all-out tug-of-war ensued. Across the aisle, mom, dad, grandparents, and cousins sat chuckling at their feisty brood’s attempts to play with the Westerner’s toy.

I’m sure any child psychologist would have scolded me for indulging their bad behavior, but rather than risk destroying my main form of on-the-road entertainment, I decided it was easier to surrender it, giving them each one earbud to listen to. With the delinquent little duo tucked safely in the corner of the bench, quietly jamming to Monster Ballads, Volume 2, I felt free to roam about the cabin with Amanda, who was finally awake.

As we slowly edged our way down the aisles, we were swept up in a montage of strange and exotic scenes. Men sporting polyester bell-bottoms and disco jackets from the Saturday Night Fever era smoked hand-rolled cigarettes in the vestibules between cars. Mothers cloaked in Day-Glo saris pressed chunks of buttery naan into outstretched hands. Babies with kohl-smudged eyes howled in time with the screeching brakes.

Although I would’ve gladly accepted a space in first class, I doubted it would have been even a tenth as interesting as the third-class end of the train. And as much as I hadn’t relished bunking with cockroaches (or cared to repeat the act), I felt a twinge of pride: we’d toughed it out, done as the locals had, and earned ourselves one very important backpacker merit badge in the process.

Maybe it was the soft rays of sunlight casting warm shadows on the walls or the absence of any obvious bugs, but our compartment felt considerably more inviting during the day. Finding a seat near an open window, I settled in for the remainder of the journey. As the train drifted through Kerala, the glossy photos I’d seen of the picturesque region boasting vast mangrove forests, golden sand beaches, jade green backwaters, and fields of coconut trees materialized before my eyes. The cleanest and best-educated state in India (literacy rates top 90 percent here), Kerala is a renowned tourist destination and one we were eager to explore.

Three hours (and one dead iPod battery) later, our train finally arrived in Trivandrum. Tucked among verdant hillsides at the southern tip of the country, the state’s capital city—reputed to be a hub of art, literature, and politics—was the jumping-off point for our Kerala tour. Our first stop: the Shraddha Ashram, one of the subcontinent’s innumerable spiritual centers, which, according to its Web site, was an easy sixty-minute drive from the station.

Staggering through the thick crowd of tourists, food vendors, and ticket touts, we emerged from the train station into the chaotic city streets. Heaving our packs onto our shoulders, we began the sluggish swim through a sea of residents, shopkeepers, stray dogs, auto-rickshaws, and taxi drivers waiting to pounce on us. In less than a minute, sweat poured from our foreheads, down our bodies to our filthy toes. An excitable young man, assuring us that he knew the way to “the very sacred, very special Shraddha place,” squished our stuff into the trunk of his cab and we set off down a bumpy dirt path—hopefully toward enlightenment.

Prior to planning our trip, I didn’t really know much at all about ashrams, let alone considered living in one. But with all the enthusiasm of a spartan cheerleader, Holly had educated us on the bountiful physical and spiritual benefits that the yoga/meditation center provided. While the rigorous thirty-day teacher training program Holly signed up for sounded like a form of cruel and unusual punishment to Amanda and me, we were inspired enough to commit to a more moderate-sounding weeklong vacation package. Why not, right? Where else could we mingle with serpentine cerulean Gods? This was India—land of powerful Hindu deities, birthplace of yoga, religious epicenter of the world (plus, a little exercise and healthy eating couldn’t hurt before we headed north to the beaches in Goa to pursue more earthly pleasures).

After a surprisingly accurate hourlong journey, we rumbled up a gravel slope to the entrance of Shraddha. All the noise and congestion of the city had fallen far behind us, replaced by a peaceful, sprawling paradise of lush green forests and tropical flowers. Set above a sparkling lake in the foothills of the western Ghats, the ashram certainly afforded its devotees some pretty spectacular views. Although, as we soon learned, smoking, alcohol, drugs, meat, fish, eggs, garlic, onions, cell phones, sleeveless shirts, and public displays of affection (to name a few) were all strictly prohibited on the premises, so I figured the actual premises had to make up for that somehow.

As we followed the palm-fringed path in pursuit of the check-in area, a deep “Om” echoed through the treetops like the ominous hum of a battle horn. But rather than an angry militia, we were met by hundreds of serene yogis in drawstring pants and baggy T-shirts who floated up the hill toward an open-air pavilion.

We arrived at the front desk, and an impish blond waved us over to the end of the counter, where she stood guard over stacks of colored folders. She explained that the students had just finished their second asana (yoga) class of the day and were headed to dinner. Once we finished filling out the mandatory paperwork, we were welcome to join the group or just chill out until evening satsung (silent meditation and chanting).

After quickly scribbling our signatures on dozens of forms, we headed to our assigned dorm to set up camp with our Shraddha-issued sheets, pillowcases, and mosquito nets. While Holly busied herself with the massive teacher-training manual, Amanda and I reviewed the daily schedule:

Despite all the rebellious thoughts swimming through my mind (“There’s no way in hell I’m getting up that early! Are two satsung sessions really necessary? Lecture, smecture!”), I was intrigued by ashram culture and genuinely excited about the yoga, brunch, dinner, and tea sections of the itinerary. And thanks to the über-cheap price tag of $11 per day for all meals, classes, and lodging, Amanda and I would shave enough money off our weekly budget to splurge on a scuba dive outing in Goa.

While I suspected that conforming to such a chaste existence might prove challenging, the first couple days were surprisingly carefree and rewarding. Sure, my foot fell asleep during morning meditation, sending me into an epileptic tailspin, and I was shushed by goody-goody students for disregarding the SILENCE signs during the meals, but I’d held my own in the more advanced of the two yoga classes, almost enjoyed the vegetarian slop, and memorized a few lines from the “Shri Ganesha” chant. Yes, I was well on my way to achieving transcendence.

You can check out anytime you like, but you can never leave!

The line from the Eagles song echoed through my head as the gangly, bug-eyed Indian blocked the exit gate, refusing to let Amanda and me pass. Even though the sun had already burned off the early-morning mist, I could feel a Hotel California–twisted haze settle over the sacred grounds. Somehow, an innocent attempt to swap our satsung for a DIY nature hike had landed us in the middle of a hostage crisis.

“You can’t stop us from leaving,” Amanda sputtered in disbelief. “We’re just going to walk out!”

“No, no, you must be needing a pass from Swami, permission and then to go,” the bewildered guard replied in fractured “Hindlish”—rapid-fire Hindu with English-sounding words tossed in.

“Yeah, well, the swami is kind of tied up at the moment leading satsung,” Amanda replied tersely. “And we’d like to go now.”

“Oh, Christ, it’s barely sunrise and I already need a drink,” I muttered under my breath. At this rate, I was beginning to think a few mimosas might help me reach nirvana faster than chanting and headstands ever could. But now I’d never get to test that theory, as it seemed Amanda and I were trapped here forever, or at least until we were reincarnated as dung beetles and could scurry under the fence undetected. Damn! If only I’d bothered to read the epic list of Shraddha rules, I would have noticed that my personal freedom was in direct violation of its strict moral code.

“If you leave, it must go forever. And you must to pay,” the guard shouted, maniacally bobbling his head and shaking his nightstick at us in disgust.

“Are you saying you’re going to kick us out for trying to take a walk?” Amanda asked.

“You very bad womens! You go!” our captor spewed, rendering us speechless.

Ordinarily, a comment like that would have rolled right off my backpack-toughened shoulders. After all, this overzealous ashram guard was far from the toughest adversary we’d faced on the road. But as our minor dispute with him escalated into a full-scale Bollywood battle scene, an overwhelming sense of anger and panic began to brew deep within my gut. I had come here to relax, clear my head, and tap into my inner harmony (or something like that), not to be reprimanded by some staff member with a clipboard holding me prisoner against my will.

All of a sudden, I couldn’t breathe. The cement walls started to close in around me, the neck of my sports top tightened like a noose and the guard’s face twisted and distorted like a clown in a fun house mirror. Despite having lived for half a decade in a city where residents regularly popped Paxil and Xanax with their postwork martinis, I’d never personally experienced a bona fide anxiety attack. But in the heat of this bizarre moment, I was beginning to unravel.

“This is absolutely ridiculous!” I wailed, my shrill voice practically sending a ripple across the placid lake. “We’re just trying to take a freakin’ walk by the water, to connect with nature and find some peace, for crying out loud! You can’t keep us locked in this crazy place! I will not put up with it anymore!” I shouted. Turning my back on the astonished gatekeeper, I immediately fled the scene, my arms flailing like those of a petulant child in the midst of a tantrum.

As I cut across the meticulously pruned lawn, my chest seized and spasmed as freshly formed tears threatened to spill. I heard Amanda calling after me, but I refused to stop. I stumbled blindly through the Serenity Garden, inadvertently mowing down a few Shiva and Krishna statues in my path. Perfect, another blasphemous deed to heap onto my overflowing bad karma plate. Before a swarm of angry locusts could attack, I sprinted up the stairway to the dank and dingy communal student barracks and collapsed onto my cot.

To an innocent bystander, my behavior might have appeared a little erratic. Okay, maybe a lot erratic. But it didn’t take a guru (or a shrink) to figure out that my intense overreaction sprang from a much deeper place. After only a few days of spiritual training, even I was enlightened enough to realize that the true source of my emotional outburst was not the shrunken Indian man blocking the ashram exit but rather a taller American one back home.

Less than twelve hours earlier, I’d made a quick trip to the Internet hut near the ashram check-in desk and found an e-mail from Brian waiting in my inbox. While our exchanges had been understandably strained, we’d still been making an effort to keep in touch, periodically checking in, and trying to come to terms with our breakup as best as we could from such a long distance. Although hearing from him caused my heart to seize and my stomach to sink down to my knees, I was more than willing to endure the pain if it meant getting to keep him in my life in some capacity. But his latest message made it clear that he didn’t feel the same way.

In the kindest way possible, he explained that it was too difficult for him to continue any communication with me and asked for some time—without e-mail messages or calls—to get over everything. At the time, I’d simply logged out and pretended the e-mail didn’t exist. It’s not that I was in total denial. I’d seen the writing on the wall for quite some time, but I’d hoped that it was scribbled in disappearing ink. And that after a couple months apart, Brian would feel different about everything and that maybe someday we could even go back to being friends.

Sprawled across the creaky ashram cot, I felt reality hit me. I had lost my best friend, probably forever, and there was absolutely nothing I could do about it. Maybe the ashram guard was right. Maybe I was a bad woman. I had convinced myself that it would be easier on Brian if we stayed together until I left on the trip, but I could see now how selfish that choice had really been. In an effort to delay the pain of separation, I’d strung Brian along and maybe hurt him more than I would have if I’d just made a clean break the moment I knew I was leaving NYC. And worst of all, I was the one who got to move on—experiencing new things, meeting new people every single day of my adventure—while he was the one left behind to pick up the pieces.

Suddenly I felt sick. For the past two months, I’d successfully repressed any breakup-related emotions, pretending that if I wasn’t back in New York, none of it was actually real. Now, as I sat alone in the Shraddha dorm, a hollow sensation settled in the base of my stomach like a sticky mass of pulp at the bottom of a freshly carved pumpkin. I could run away to the farthest recesses of the globe, but I could never really escape my problems. All the irrational fears I thought I’d gotten over suddenly came flooding back: What if I never found anyone I loved more than Brian? By the time I got back from the trip I’d be twenty-nine. What if that was too old to start my dating career? What if I never found The One or got married and had kids? What if I wound up an old lady surrounded by cats and other scary things, like doilies and dusty knickknacks?

Of course I remembered having had a similar reaction when things had ended for good with my first serious boyfriend, Rick, but back then, I’d been a naive twenty-two, not a practically over-the-hill twenty-eight. And at the time I’d been living at home in Maryland with a huge support system of friends and family. If I’d been back in the States right now, my girlfriends would have organized an emergency intervention session: sappy chick flicks, an overstuffed box of Puffs, and a full pan of extra-fudgy brownies (the real deal too, not the bullshit low-fat kind). Or I would call one of my best guy friends, and he’d be at my door in a second, ready to cuddle on the couch with a funny movie or to take me out dancing until 3 a.m.

But here at the ashram, all I had was a pamphlet on Proper Breathing and Ayurvedic Massage, a lumpy mattress, and a few raisins for dessert—if I was lucky. Just as I was slipping further into my self-created pit of despair, an unexpected voice pulled me back.

“You’re cutting meditation class too, huh?” asked the friendly girl who slept on the cot around the corner from mine. I’d chatted with her a few times in the twenty minutes they gave us between evening chanting sessions and mandatory lights out, but I couldn’t for the life of me remember her name. “I’m Laura, by the way,” she said, saving me from asking her again.

“I’m Jen. And yes, I too am a Shraddha slacker,” I replied, extracting myself from the cot.

We both laughed, and Laura admitted that she was mainly there for the yoga. I could believe it. With a six-pack that could rival Gwen Stefani’s, she appeared to take her practice very seriously.

“Have you been doing yoga for a while?” I asked, contemplating the insane amount of crunches and cardio I’d need to add to my workout repertoire to get even a single ab of steel like hers.

She sat down across from me. “For almost seven years, actually. I got into it right after my divorce, and it seriously brought me back from the dead. Now I have my own studio in L.A., which, ironically, my ex-husband has been running for me while I’ve been touring Southeast Asia and India,” she added, pulling on a baggy T-shirt, a requirement for our morning yoga session.

“Wow, are you serious? The fact that you have your own business and are on good terms with your ex is pretty impressive,” I said, rummaging through my bag to locate my sports watch.

“Yeah, well, it took a long time for us to make peace with one another, but eventually we realized we were much better off as friends. Lucky for me, I was only twenty-seven when we split, so I had plenty of time to start over.” I mentally did the calculation, and my brain did a double take. I’d assumed Laura couldn’t have been much older than I was, but in fact she was thirty-four. If that was the effect yoga had on the aging process, I might change my mind and move into the ashram for good.

“And really, all of my most delicious love affairs have been in my thirties,” she added.

“Really? That’s comforting to hear. I’m twenty-eight and recently single for the first time in four years and I kinda freaked out about it just now,” I confessed, oddly comfortable chatting with this relative stranger about my personal crisis. “Not because it wasn’t the right thing to do, but it’s hard to say good-bye to a boyfriend no matter what the circumstances.”

“I totally understand. I know how devastating breakups are, but it does get easier. And on the bright side, you don’t have to deal with divorce lawyers,” Laura replied. “But you really are in a great place right now. I’m so envious that you’re starting this phase of your life because it’s the best. You can travel for a couple years, date whoever you want along the way, and still have plenty of time to get married when you get back. Or not at all if you’re smart,” she added with a wink.

Clang, clang, clang, the postmeditation bell sounded, signaling the half-hour tea break.

“Ooh, I better get going before the flock descends. But I’ll see you in asana class,” Laura said.

“Definitely. And thanks for the pep talk,” I replied.

As I watched Laura head down the hall to the communal bathroom, I wondered if maybe she’d been dropped in my path for a purpose. It’s not as if I was already drinking the ashram Kool-Aid or anything, but our meeting just seemed like too much of a coincidence. Maybe I had done something right in a previous life after all?

Just then Amanda poked her head around the gauzy fabric “wall” that separated our bunks. “You okay?” she asked.

“You know what? I actually am,” I said. “I just had a temporary freak-out about a bunch of stuff. The guard was just the icing on my stress cake, but I’m feeling a lot better now.”

“Only you, Jenny B,” Amanda replied, laughing and plopping down next to me. “I’m glad to hear you’re okay. But just in case, I brought you a little surprise,” she said, reaching into her pants pocket. “Ta da!” In her hand were two mini Kit Kat bars from the stash of chocolate we’d secretly purchased for Holly.

While being forced to remain inside the walls of Shraddha had triggered my emotional free fall, in a paradoxical twist, it was the ashram that helped get me back on my feet again (and my head too, if you count the vertical posture I finally mastered). It’s not as if my sorrow and panic miraculously disappeared. But surrounded by hundreds of people, all seeking stillness of mind and mental peace, I eventually started to absorb that energy.

As soon as I got out of my own head a little, I discovered that I wasn’t the only one wrestling with inner demons. Many of the students were facing a personal or professional crisis of some kind. A handful admitted to borderline abuse of booze, pills, or powders. In sadder cases, a few were grieving the loss of a loved one. But no matter what their reason, most considered Shraddha an ideal place to gain clarity or seek refuge.

Although swamis in cotton robes subbed in for men in white coats, in some ways, ashram culture wasn’t a far stretch from a drug rehab or mental health center. Which, in a way, made it that much more appealing to me. A strange admission, I know, but books and films about substance abuse facilities or psychiatric hospitals—stories like 28 Days, A Million Little Pieces, One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, and Girl, Interrupted—have always fueled one of my escape fantasies. It’s the one where I selfishly fall apart for once in my overachieving, always-put-together life, run far away from society and all its pressures, and just chill out and heal with the other patients. A product of my hyperactive imagination? Of course. But since arriving at the ashram, I had begun to wonder if maybe this trip around the world wasn’t my own subconscious version of therapy.

As the week at Shraddha passed, something interesting happened: I actually began to let go. Let go of my regrets about the past. Let go of all the fears about my future. Let go of trying to figure out exactly who I was or who I was supposed to be. Maybe it was the constant surge of endorphins or the absence of liver-corrupting substances in my bloodstream or the mandatory hours of silence, but as the days floated by, a calmer and happier version of me pushed its way to the surface.

It was a slow and subtle evolution. But as my legs wobbled up into their very first half-locust pose, I felt an exhilarating sense of control over my body. On another occasion, I was sitting cross-legged on the lakeside yoga platform, eyes closed and hands in the chin mudra pose, and I could suddenly quiet my mind for ten whole minutes. But the most valuable and meaningful ability I gained at the ashram was to send a prayer out to the universe each day that Brian would find happiness and romance in his life.

When Rick had professed the same desire for me right after he broke things off, I’d been too devastated to comprehend the magnitude of what that meant. But as the wounds healed and we reconnected as friends, I realized how blessed I was to have had someone in my life who loved me enough to let me go. And I could only hope that, someday, Brian would understand that too. Because I did love him with all my heart and knew we both needed to take our own time to heal and move forward. That’s what I was going to do for myself and what I’d always wish for Brian. Because we both deserved love in our lives—wherever and whenever we would find it again.