Trying Something for the First Time

If you had asked me a few years ago what I’d like to try for the first time, I might have said something lighthearted — skydiving, maybe salsa dancing, or learning French so I could order coffee in Paris without fumbling. Trying something new used to mean chasing excitement. Something that gave a rush, an escape, a new story to tell.

But then life happened — not the kind of cinematic, neatly tied-up life that changes in a single scene, but the slow unraveling kind, where everything you’ve built starts to loosen, one invisible thread at a time.

For me, the real “first” came not with adventure, but with loss.

After nearly two decades in the U.S., the place that had quietly become home, I was told I didn’t belong anymore. Not in the cruel way of words, but in the sterile language of documents and visa clauses. It’s strange how one email, one legal update, one government notice can undo years of roots, relationships, and routines.

I had a good life there — the kind of “good” that’s ordinary but comforting. A job that kept me busy, a dog who believed the world revolved around me, friends who didn’t look like me but understood me better than anyone ever had. There were grocery store runs in the rain, early morning drives with steaming coffee cups, and lazy Sundays that smelled of pancakes and peace.

And then, just like that, it was over.

When I landed back in India — my so-called home — I carried two suitcases and an ache that had no name. The walls looked familiar, the smells were nostalgic, but I was a stranger in my own story. Everything that once defined me was gone.

So I did something I had never done before — I stopped pretending I had it all figured out.

That was the first time I truly tried something new.

I tried waking up without a plan. I tried cooking breakfast for myself instead of rushing through emails. I tried fasting — not for weight loss, but for clarity. I tried sitting with silence, even when it was unbearable. And most of all, I tried forgiving myself — for not being where I thought I should be, for losing things I once clung to, for falling apart.

In About Life Choices and Potholes, I wrote about this phase — not as a story of triumph, but as one of transformation. Because life doesn’t hand out medals for surviving. It offers mirrors instead — asking us to look closer, to peel away the layers of identity we once thought were permanent.

I remember one afternoon vividly. The monsoon had just started, and I was sitting by the window with a cup of chai, watching the first raindrops gather on the grill. There was something achingly simple about it — the smell of wet earth, the distant honking of cars, the cool air brushing against my skin. For the first time in years, I wasn’t rushing anywhere. I wasn’t chasing goals, or visas, or dreams. I was just being.

That was new. That was terrifying. That was freedom.

Trying something for the first time doesn’t always look like learning a new skill or checking something off your bucket list. Sometimes, it’s learning to live without certainty. To embrace pauses instead of fearing them. To understand that home is not a pin on a map, but a feeling that travels with you.

And maybe that’s what I want this book to remind people of — that every so-called “pothole” in life isn’t a setback; it’s an invitation. An invitation to try again. To rebuild. To become.

So, if you ask me today what I could try for the first time, I’d say —
I’d like to try trusting life completely.
Even when it reroutes me.
Even when I don’t understand where it’s taking me.

Because maybe, just maybe, that’s where all the magic begins.