I had initially planned to write about my journey down from Everest Base Camp, sharing details of the stunning hikes, special moments, and sad farewells that made up yet another adventurous few days at the heart of the Himalayas. However, I opted against it.
The descent, while just as incredible, never felt essential to the story, and the journey really concludes with me finally feeling fulfilled by an achievement – something I’d rarely experienced before.
The Everest Diaries were my way of telling a story – the details I felt mattered, the people I met along the way, and how it was all connected to my reasons for taking on the adventure of a lifetime. It took a long few months of planning, reshaping, writing, rewriting, editing, and then finally publishing.
But it still wasn’t that simple. The path to publishing started much earlier, and helps explain why this blog feels like such a meaningful step for me, even if that isn’t immediately obvious from the outside.
Indian Inspiration (February, 2025)
The rattle and screech of the Ranthambhore SF Express killed any last hope of an afternoon nap, and I gazed undistracted out of the window as the leaps and jolts of the train somehow amplified the serenity of a burning Rajasthani sunset.
I was travelling from Jaipur to Jodhpur – trading the chaos of the Pink City for the promise of the Blue City’s calmer pulse. For now, though, the world was orange, and I let it wash over me as the colours dissolved into dusk.
I reached for my comically heavy book to escape the chaos of the train, its pages thick with tales of the Mughal Empire and the history of the very lands I was hurtling through. I was reading The Anarchy by William Dalrymple, a Scottish historian, which is essentially an encyclopaedic account of India’s history leading up to British colonial rule and the rise of the East India Company.
It was recommended to me by Sam, a friend I’d met in Sri Lanka, who insisted I bring it. He had been very honest about his own time in India, describing how he struggled with the extremes, the noise, the chaos, yet thoroughly praised this book as a companion for the road.
I’d sampled some of the same chaos already and could empathise, especially while travelling alone, yet I remained hopeful for a gentler rhythm as I escaped to some smaller cities – albeit “small” only by India’s impossible standards.
I must have been reading for hours, the train carrying me forward without any awareness of stations or people shuffling around me. When I finally looked up, the carriage was alive with conversations in a language I couldn’t unravel.
It could have been Hindi, or one of Rajasthan’s many regional dialects. In a state home to more than eighty million people, it made sense that the only word I could rely on with any confidence was the one offered to me again and again with a smile: chai (tea).
I sensed a quiet curiosity across the aisle, as if one of the passengers was trying to decipher what kind of foreigner buried himself in a dense history book while the train was falling apart. A well-groomed man in his late thirties, he appeared surprisingly fresh for a man taking a five-hour commute from Jaipur back to Jodhpur.
He was returning to the familiar: a wife, a young daughter, and a home waiting somewhere beyond the tracks, whereas I was heading into the unknown. He sat upright in his chair, leaning in slightly as we became engrossed in conversation about Indian history, Rajasthan, life in India, and my perceptions as a foreigner – the topics drifted easily between us.
His name was Raj. He spoke so eloquently that even as he switched effortlessly into Hindi to communicate with his compatriots, the melody of his words transcended language to a point where I felt like I could understand the conversation. Though, the words “England” and “Sri Lanka” were scattered throughout his sentences, so it didn’t take a genius to figure out he was explaining this out-of-place foreigner to our neighbouring passengers.
He remained unfazed by this bilingual endeavour, switching between English and Hindi as passengers disrupted our cultural exchange with various requests and questions. The train screeched into Jodhpur and we stepped out into the warm, chaotic air.
I braced myself for the familiar onslaught – taxi drivers, touts and opportunists spotting white tourists across the platform – but Raj and I blissfully passed it by. Walking beside a local was like moving in a bubble of immunity, with attention diverted elsewhere.
I was in Jodhpur for two days, and Raj suggested we should grab dinner or a beer at a local spot to continue our exchanges. I agreed without hesitation, and shared my WhatsApp number.
As we were about to head our separate ways, a passing car drifted and its wing mirror battered Raj’s elbow. He winced, then laughed. It turned out even a local wasn’t entirely immune to the mayhem of India’s streets. We smiled, shook hands, and disappeared into the noise of Jodhpur.
The following day, I hadn’t heard from Raj. I kept replaying our conversation, wondering if I’d missed a cultural cue and he’d only meant to be polite. But when my phone finally buzzed, only one person could have delivered the sarcastic message I received:
“How is Jodhpur treating you, Imperial guest?”
I passed on the nickname, but quickly took up the offer of a beer at Raj’s favourite local spot. Unsurprisingly, the conversation slid easily back into its familiar rhythm.
Over the course of the evening, we naturally ventured beyond the immediate topics, and I opened up about my career break, the disillusionment with my professional journey, and the creative itch I’d never managed to scratch. I talked about the book again – how fulfilling it must be to produce something so rich and engaging – and how I wished I could write with that kind of depth and confidence.
Raj paused for a moment, and given how energetic our conversations had been so far, the silence hung for longer than it should have. Eventually, he asked me a simple question:
“What is a writer?”
I felt like he was trying to be a little unnecessarily profound, but I entertained the question.
“Well, it’s someone who writes down what they think…”, I said, raising an eyebrow at my own reductive definition.
He continued with his jovially provocative questions: “So, can you think?” I laughed into my beer – a reluctant yes. He pressed on “Then you can write. Writing is just thinking on paper. A writer is a thinker with a pen.”
Raj revealed that he is actually a writer – though he published under a pseudonym to protect his professional identity. In a country where expressing the wrong idea can come with real consequences, this anonymity was a necessity, not a preference.
His honesty cracked open a new layer of conversation – about India’s media landscape, the pressure on dissenting voices, and the structural suppression of creativity. Just moments earlier, I was expressing frustrations because I feared I wouldn’t be good enough – or worse, that people might judge me. Yet, I was sitting across from someone who was writing in a place where simply expressing an opinion could be dangerous.
The contrast didn’t pass me by.
We ended the evening with a hot cup of Doodh – sweet, warm milk ladled out by a street vendor near Raj’s old university. Some final reflective conversations preceded a surprisingly emotional farewell, and I drifted back into Jodhpur’s old town with renewed inspiration.
I left Jodhpur feeling humbled by Raj’s kindness and hospitality. A chance encounter on a crowded train had unfolded into life-changing conversations and unforgettable advice. I may never see Raj again, but his wisdom will remain.
It may not sound like a dramatic revelation, but something in Raj’s story gave me the quiet permission I hadn’t realised I was waiting for. A small injection of confidence, a quiet motivation to start. It stuck with me through the rest of my trip.
For the first time, I imagined that I might actually be able to tell stories of my own. There was only one problem: I still didn’t know which story to tell.
Catalan Confidence (June, 2025)
The idea of publishing the Everest Diaries first emerged while sinking into the comfiest sofa I’ve ever known, in the sunlit living room of my friend Aitana’s apartment in the suburbs of Barcelona. Earlier that day, Aitana, Noelia and I had enjoyed a long-overdue heart-to-heart over tapas in La Plaza del Sol, at the heart of Gràcia – the city’s lively, fashionable district. I was ashamed to be killing its vibe.
We’d been apart for nearly two years. Our final moments together had been a blur of chaos: bundling Noelia into a taxi bound for the airport, just days after flipping a tuk-tuk and circumnavigating the entire island with an undiagnosed broken foot, a souvenir from Kandy’s National Hospital.
We reminisced about the madness we’d survived in Sri Lanka, and tried to compress two years of life into a fleeting afternoon. We eagerly bounced between conversations as we baked in the glory of the midsummer Catalan sun. With reunions like these, there is never enough time.
Unsurprisingly, Everest Base Camp came up. I could sense their delight that I’d finally chased a dream I’d been carrying for so long. The conversation pivoted to my travels, the long-awaited career break, and all the exhausting details that came with it.
You might find this hard to believe – especially now that I’ve started a blog to tell stories – but I hate talking about myself. I’ve always been shocked by the way some people can be so self-indulgent yet so blissfully unaware that I almost overcompensate. I shy away from long, winding monologues, and instead prefer to offer quick, enthusiastic summaries before steering the conversation elsewhere.
I get quite self-conscious about rambling, so much so that I end up avoiding the exciting details altogether. This time, though, Aitana was having none of it. She demanded every detail, every photo, every video, every memory I had tucked away.
And so the stage was set. With a beer in hand and the sunburn setting in, I began. I shared photos, recounted stories, and unravelled the chaos of the trek. I remember feeling animated as I described the misadventures and absurdities, my passion seeping through and bringing genuine curiosity from my friends.
That was the first time I had told the story in its entirety, and watching their second-hand enthusiasm manifest was the moment I realised that these stories were more than just personal memories.
When we drifted back to Aitana’s apartment later that evening, her housemates joined us – people I was meeting for the first time. The polite introductions had barely formed before Aitana announced that I was visiting after just coming back to Europe from Nepal. Her housemates, both outdoor enthusiasts, lit up immediately, peppering me with questions before I’d even discovered the comfort of the sofa.
This time, Aitana had connected my phone to the TV screen. I was no longer just a guest; I had become a makeshift lecturer, standing in their living room presenting a full-blown Everest slideshow. Just like in Gràcia earlier that day, the room filled with excitement and overlapping stories – theirs, mine, ours.
It was the perfect icebreaker. Just moments after meeting, we were talking like old friends. It wasn’t even about my story, it was about what telling a story – and sharing those intimate details – can bring out of those around you.
This one interaction left me buzzing. I left Barcelona with another confidence boost – maybe I could write about my trek. Maybe the story was worth telling. Aitana and Noelia’s enthusiasm and unfiltered excitement had given me that confidence.
The Catalan queens played an enormous role in shaping this creative ambition in such a simple way – they believed that I had something worth sharing.
Cornish Conversion (September, 2025)
I returned to the UK in June 2025 and spent the next few months readjusting – easing myself back into British life, catching up with friends and family, and trying to understand what direction I was heading in. I capitalised on this newfound flexibility and began revisiting the audio and handwritten journals from my travels, slowly beginning the intimidating process of turning my experience into a story.
At first, it felt impossible. I drafted and redrafted every chapter endlessly until the lines blurred, convinced that perfection was achievable. Each time I thought I was happy with it, a clumsy sentence or rogue comma would pull me back.
It didn’t take long to realise it was unsustainable, and I grew frustrated with my procrastination. The exciting part was that I was enjoying the writing, I just feared the publishing.
I forced my own hand: I switched off my phone, shut myself in the office, and wrote without stopping. I unloaded everything I felt about my journey so far into a document, unfiltered and unedited. After a heavy lunch that undid much of the hyperbole, I finished editing what would be the final draft of my first post.
But the idea of publishing it terrified me. Sharing it with friends and family – even people who hadn’t heard from me in years – meant exposing a side of myself that I’d long suppressed. I’d curated an image of an adventurous traveller, an ambitious professional, and someone who had things all figured out. Undoing that would be uncomfortable, so I needed a moment where it felt right, a safe environment to support the leap. That moment arrived in Cornwall.
I travelled to Cornwall in September for a Run Weekends team retreat – three days of planning, working, and reconnecting ahead of a huge year. I knew the energy of the group would steady me so I made a plan: publish the post, share it, and then run away from it until I feel ready to face the response.
And that’s exactly what I did. It went better than I could have imagined. By the time I picked up the phone again, the fear had softened. The Run Weekends crew had been so supportive and reassuring, sharing kind words and encouraging me to do more, all the while providing a wonderful distraction through exciting conversations and wholesome company.
Messages trickled in from friends and family, including people I hadn’t heard from in years, all of them sharing kind words and reflections of their own. I’m so grateful to everyone who supported that initial leap; it reminded me that I had truly begun.
Slow & Steady
My journey into writing actually started a long time ago – it just took me a while to get here. It took nearly six months to move from believing I might be able to do it, to finally sitting down and putting words on a page. It also took years to realise I was even interested. Yet today marks twelve consecutive weeks of writing, publishing, and sharing.
You can never really trace personal change back to one single turning point. It has been shaped by countless people and moments that have nudged me forward without really noticing. I couldn’t name everyone who helped me, but I wanted to highlight a few of them.
To anyone who asked me about my travels, encouraged me to write, checked in on how I was doing, didn’t ignore my posts, or took a moment to share their thoughts – thank you. You’ve helped convert an ambition into a passion.
So, what comes next? I have plenty of exciting ideas – some small, some probably too big – but for now I am keeping it simple. Regular posts that bring my stories to life and share my thoughts on the things that matter.
In the past, I would have been impatient. I would have tried to force it to grow quickly and judged its success by how serious it looked from the outside. But the slow process that brought me here has taught me that as long as I enjoy it and keep doing it, then it’s already enough.
Keep reading, I hope there’s much more to come.
