I almost went to Chiang Mai for New Year's Eve 2016. I had been harbouring a dream of seeing thousands of lanterns floating up into the night, Tangled-style, even though this wasn't the main festival for it. I've also long harboured a desire to have a special last-day-of-the-year, which is usually a meh affair. So Thailand had seemed like a great plan at the time, but I was hesitating – and then, just as I'd made up my mind to click on the tickets, the prices suddenly skyrocketed. The universe decided for me. It was mostly okay; I was just embarking on a new relationship, there were things to look forward to.
Maybe if I'd known that not going on that trip would start a seven-year travel hiatus, I would have booked it anyway. I had the money, though my job was in trouble. But we have no way of knowing the future, so I folded up the dream and put it away. Over the years, I thought about it again, but the discourse around lanterns had become dimmer: they were toxic to an extent, it appeared, and dreaming of them didn't feel as good anymore. Then two months ago, when my friend of fifteen years asked if I'd like to join her on a trip to Chiang Mai, I took about five minutes to say yes.
We made it there on the afternoon of 31 December 2025. It's nice to have another chance at stuff. My mixed feelings about the galaxy of lanterns were alleviated by the fact that the most famous venue for that event was far outside the city, where we didn't plan to venture. Still, a countdown and fireworks? Sounded grand. Dreamy. We started the celebration at One Nimman near our apartment, all twinkling with fairy lights and pulsing with music and teeming with food. There was a magical violin performance on the street beneath lights that looked like falling stars. At Tha Phae gate following our first songthaew ride, everyone congregated around a giant display wishing us a happy 2026. The streets bore angel wings and photographs of the recently-deceased queen. There was a quiet dinner away from it all, with breadsticks and pumpkin soup and pesto gnocchi and butterfly pea tea – the Thai street food we'd hoped to sample eluded us, but there would be other days.
We came upon a quiet meditation at the beautifully aglow Wat Phantao temple, and sat within for a while. Then to Nawarat Bridge for the main event. Like everything else, it was golden, with blue strobes for effect. There was music, and counting down the final seconds with people from all over the world celebrating the same thing was as magnetic as I'd hoped, even if I ended up viewing a lot of it through a camera. It's so short, and there are so many places we could have been instead, but we make choices. The fireworks lit up the sky, and though I didn't get the perfect shots I'd envisioned, and maybe I wanted more of everything, we lingered for a long time, soaking in the vibe and this new start, even if nothing much would really change.
There were a few lone lanterns dotting the sky, and we found those responsible for them on the banks of the Ping River. Little stalls selling what I'm sure were illegal paper-thin cylinders larger than half of me; for some reason, I hadn't realised they'd be quite so big. We had an internal and external debate, but finally a good deal won, and we decided to buy one lantern for the experience. To the river bank we went, borrowing a lighter from a lady who had been designated the lighter lender (we had to soon ask how to use it, being unfamiliar with the lighting of cigarettes and in danger of burning a finger). We watched a lantern get entangled in some branches. We lit ours and took turns to pose for half-blurry photos of this once-in-a-lifetime event, and then we let go, frazzled and forgetting to make a wish or record videos for posterity. The people cheered as our environmentally-dodgy lantern went up, up, up, skimming the edge of the trees; more cheers when it didn't get stuck after all and continued its ascent.
Maybe it was just right, after everything. Maybe some dreams are bubbles waiting to burst. Is that too dramatic? It was fun, after all. Let me rephrase – maybe some things are slightly underwhelming, but there are other things that happen around them that make it more fun than the imagined image. I'll probably remember the river, the cheering and camaraderie, and the hot black rice crepes dribbled with jaggery that we ate right after the lantern launch more than the event itself.
The thing is, I did a lot of dreaming in 2025. I usually set a theme for each year and reset it if it starts to look different; by the first quarter, it was clear that it would be a year of envisioning. I made my first-ever vision board at the beginning of the year, and achieved most of it. Many of those months were about sitting with discomfort, taking up space, and sometimes leaving the table. And slowly and surely, my outline became bolder and I coloured in my dreams and my vision began to crystallise and my power started to shimmer.
I watched KPop Demon Hunters during an especially inspired period in the second half of the year – or maybe it started the inspiration? It continues to hold me. The soundtrack has offered me hope and ideas, the film itself provided coping mechanisms about my demons that I didn't know I needed. The stories and positive discourse around the well-deserving stars of this project provide endless hope, compounded by all the formal recognition it is also receiving now with awards. I found myself not only in a busy phase, but one that was supported by financial returns, something I do not take lightly. I had some of the best months of my career. I started to feel like the film's anthem was going to become mine, that things were finally going to fall into place and stay that way, that perhaps my theme for 2026 would be "golden".
Yet I felt a bit like Icarus. With every post I shared celebrating my achievements, I wondered if I was flying too close to the sun. Whether I was bragging, whether it really was something to celebrate. Did I deserve it? Could I talk about it? Was I being hubristic? Was I being lame? Was I only sharing what I wanted people to see instead of the whole truth? Would people still be supportive if they knew everything? I did it anyway. The thing with these voices in our ear is that sometimes we have to ignore them, while knowing they may never fully go away. Being consistently self-compassionate and sharing my wins and positive narratives has become important to me after years of facing and internalising contempt. I've often wondered why the negative comments seem to entrench themselves so much deeper, and are so much harder to dislodge. I guess it's become my way of not letting them take over, even when they threaten to.
I was so lucky that a lot of my dreams and goals manifested last year, and I gained a level of clarity, assurance and readiness that I probably haven't ever had. I explored, confronted, ruminated, tore apart and put together again ideas of legacy, security, body positivity, relationships, boundaries, intuition, and even how I want to show up online. It often feels precarious, all of it. As if it could slip through my fingers, as if a rise must be followed by a crash. I'm learning to not let that feeling rule, too. Maybe things last as long as they're meant to. Maybe if dreams feel burdensome, they can be redirected. And maybe, maybe the negative seems overpowering, but the support we receive attaches itself to our core more quietly, until we're shielded.
Letting go is not giving up, but giving new form sometimes. At least that's what I'm telling myself as I enter this year with dreams that have been slightly adjusted. It takes away some of the desperation, but not the depth. It adds lightness, which I need if I am to fly. And as I think of the film again, I wonder if, instead of "golden", I should be aiming for "iridescent" – like the new honmoon, stronger because it embraces flaws and imperfections. Perhaps I could see the beauty in the broken glass, find the magic in the everyday.
Like a glorious moon presiding over flowers and temple roofs.
Like Christmas lights reflected in a cup of tea.
Like lightning bolts seen for the first time from an airplane window.
Like a kitten peeping out of a drawer, and its non-English-speaking owner immediately placing it in front of you when he notices your delight.
Like having fifteen minutes before a bookshop closes but finding the perfect book in five.
Like being terrified of a big spider but appreciating the beauty of its craft.
Like helping a stranger wrap a gift for someone they care about.
Like laughing hysterically into the early morning with a friend.
I lived all these stories in Thailand. And though I've been feeling a shift in my relationship to travel lately, and I've been realising that the journey of healing has no time limit, and I've been accepting that I can't know all the answers, I'm learning that life is so relentless, and yet so beautiful.
Here's to shining like we're born to be.
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