Winter in the Midst of the Tropics: Finding Peace in Radical Acceptance (Part 1) Nha Trang, Vietnam

It’s been a year and a half since I landed in the Eastern part of Asia. I often say I’m "in Asia," forgetting that I’m Asian too—just from the central steppes, where the winds once felt like a constant invitation to freedom.

This journey began with a bold decision: to abandon everything that no longer fit. I was never one for a traditional 9-to-5, always working freelance or in roles with flexible schedules. My soul, as free as the winds sweeping across the Kazakhstani steppes, demanded that I leave.

Why was this bold? I gave up my education (a $600+ investment), had no plan, no stable income, and only a one-way ticket to Sri Lanka. I had to see what would happen next.

Since then, my life has been a whirlwind of interesting moments and challenging situations—stories I share throughout my blog. But today, I want to talk about the deeper rhythm beneath it all: a challenging, necessary period I call my...

Inner Winter

We are, inherently, part of nature, and having an "inner season" is entirely natural. But for years, I didn't know how to choose my seasons. My "winters" were always forced upon me by ill health. I desperately chased an endless inner summer, fearing the melancholic quiet of autumn or the stillness of winter. But life happens, right? Even after running for five or six summers in a row, the inevitable years of winter still found me.

This time, the shift felt forced again, but I approached it differently. This time, I chose humility and surrender, deciding to go with the flow.

Of my 18 months of travel, I spent 10 in Sri Lanka. I met my partner, and we started to "nest"—but always in a traveler’s mode. At 32, it’s hard to silence that annoying adult voice: “It’s illogical to date and build something with a jungle 'Mowgli' on an island!” But I did it. I’m happy, proud, and still surprised by that chaotic, beautiful twist in my life. What a life, right? Do you ever have those moments where you think: “Wait, how did I get here? I never could have imagined this version of my life.” That was me.

After a health collapse, a long recovery, and a visa expiration, I had to leave Sri Lanka. Six months vanished in a blink, and I landed in Nha Trang, Vietnam, with a new set of big, bold, ego-driven plans: to travel the entire country, south to north, and visit friends in Hong Kong. Oh, my poor body, suffering under the weight of my ambitious ego. On top of the travel, I was finally ready to address a chronic TMJ issue I had postponed for four years due to costs and serious prognosis warnings from dentists in Kazakhstan and Georgia. I never realized how deeply my jaw pain, PTSD, and my entire life were intertwined.

My "perfect plan" was to finish my teeth treatment in Nha Trang, then spend three months traveling—Da Lat, Ho Chi Minh, Da Nang, Hoi An, Hanoi, maybe even Sa Pa—with long stays of a week or two, avoiding the overstimulation of the big cities.

Nha Trang started perfectly. I loved the calm sea, good weather, and developed infrastructure. I even found Russian and Kazakh restaurants—a small piece of home I desperately missed after so long in East Asia. It was heaven for a coffee, matcha, and soup lover! After six months of struggle, I felt so happy. I lived 10 minutes from everything, and the prices felt like a welcome relief compared to the tourist zones of Sri Lanka. I was buzzing with anticipation.

blooming lotus in Khan Hoa province

Then, two weeks in, the virus hit. Nothing major—just crushing fatigue and headaches. I figured I needed a break, so I postponed Da Lat. But a deeper realization was dawning: I didn't actually want to go anywhere. I was exhausted—tired of decision-making, counting every penny, and planning logistics. Changing four countries in four months—different cities, islands, currencies, languages, trains, and hostels—had been too much for a Highly Sensitive Person (HSP) like me.

I decided to wait until my birthday. It felt romantic to celebrate my 32nd birthday in the rainy, melancholic atmosphere of Da Lat. I arranged everything, bought tickets, and found a beautiful place to stay. Just as I was finally feeling better, I got the message: my mother and two aunts were flying to Nha Trang to see me!

You can imagine my face. I was overwhelmed. I desperately needed my family; I missed them fiercely after my struggles in Sri Lanka. The fact that they were making the seven-hour trip, and that my mother—who is disabled and had never flown before—was coming, burst through my veins. Happiness, anticipation, and worry all hit at once.

They arrived early on my birthday, October 15th. I waited for hours in the hotel lobby, drawing to calm my racing nerves. When I saw them, I rushed to hug them, almost in tears. Seeing your family in a foreign land, especially when you least expected it, is a joy unlike any other.

Of course, I postponed Da Lat again to spend the week showing them everything—the sea, the food, the culture. But by the fifth day of their trip, I felt unwell again. I woke up with a more severe virus. It was a sign so clear it felt like the Universe was shouting: "You have to stay put." I canceled all my non-refundable bookings and stayed in Nha Trang.

This second virus hit me hard. I was bedridden, losing weight, and pale. My immune system, still recovering from severe food poisoning six months earlier, was demanding a halt. But I was still scrolling Airbnb, fantasizing about my Vietnam travels.

Then, a new sign arrived: a series of severe typhoons, rainfalls, and devastating floods hit Central Vietnam—exactly where I was planning to go.

I finally gave up.

I stopped planning and started recovering. I changed my diet, rested more, and embraced a simple, basic routine. I was finally feeling stronger when huge rainfalls hit Nha Trang itself. At this point, I was ready for anything. I felt neither happy nor unhappy; I was in radical acceptance.

The floods were devastating. People lost homes, belongings, and lives. The beach was unrecognizable, choked with garbage and broken trees. Participating in the cleanup, seeing the endless, overwhelming mess, taught me something profound: life isn't trying to harm you. Life just is.

You can’t blame the sea for bringing back the trash people threw into it. You can't curse the sky for making rain. Only an unaware person would do that. Nature acts according to its own nature. Our only choice is to accept the reality we are in. We humans love our delusions, preferring to create stories we want to believe rather than looking reality in the eye.

This was a vital lesson in my exploration of Buddhism—a path I took to dive deeper into Vipassana practice and melt into the concept of impermanence. The Buddhist concept is easy to grasp intellectually, but experiencing it is another matter. I am far from perfect, but since I began this practice, I found the piece that created peace.

My inner winter had begun, supported and signed by the Universe. I stopped chasing and fighting it. Rain comes and goes, seasons pass, and while life, in a human perception, is flying, we are observing it in our own internal stillness.

This deep rest also led to deep discovery. For four months, I found comfort, warmth, and healing in the small rituals of Nha Trang. I learned which local spots offered the best quiet corners and the most soothing brews. Ready for the practical side of the journey?

Click here for Part 2: Nha Trang Unfiltered: Your Guide to Healing Brews, Cozy Cafes, and Local Eats!