The butterfly effect is real. One fleeting moment can change the entire trajectory of your life - sometimes in ways you would never choose, and yet would never undo.
In September 2024, I landed in London for what felt like the turning point of my life. A dream fellowship. A new chapter. A fresh start in a city I adored from afar. I arrived with two suitcases, a head buzzing with ideas, and the quiet belief that everything was finally falling into place.
Twenty-four hours later, everything shattered.
I was assaulted on a London street - an experience so sudden, violent, and destabilizing that I remember the blur more than the details. The city I had dreamt about for years no longer felt like a beginning. It felt like a trap. I flew back to India within days, my body safe but my spirit fractured.
I returned home broken, lost, ashamed of breaking down so quickly. I had no framework to explain what happened, no words for the shock crawling under my skin, no roadmap for how to move forward. The life I had planned disappeared overnight.
But here’s the thing about collapse: it creates space. Pain clears the ground for possibilities that would never grow otherwise.
What followed was an unexpected chain reaction - the kind of butterfly effect no one warns you about. I moved to farms across Chennai, Bangalore, and even Montana. Far from the noise of a city, I found myself surrounded by the quiet wisdom of earth, animals, and people who lived life slowly and intentionally. My body softened. My mind opened. My wounds found sunlight.
I wrote - obsessively, urgently, honestly. Over 100,000 words poured out of me. Words that turned into stories, frameworks, ideas. Words that became the foundation of my podcast, my newsletter, my course.
And then something wild happened:
I built the largest immigrant summit in America.
None of this was on the original plan. In fact, nothing went to plan at all.
But everything went on purpose.
That assault - the moment I thought ended everything - actually began everything. It stripped away the false sense of certainty I held onto. It forced me to rebuild my identity from scratch. It pushed me into places I would have never chosen, yet now cannot imagine my life without.
Sometimes life collapses to rebuild you better.
Not kinder. Not easier.
But truer.
I used to think success was about designing a perfect roadmap and executing it flawlessly. Now I know success is often born from the moments you don’t choose, the breaks you don’t anticipate, the storms you don’t see coming.
When life falls apart, pay attention.
The collapse may be the beginning.
The ashes might be the blueprint.
Nothing went to plan - but in hindsight, everything was on purpose.