Learnings 2: The Island of Koh Phangan and the "misfortunes" of life.

I didn’t want to leave this paradise. Sometimes it happens while traveling. When we feel comfortable, it’s hard to move on. “Comfort” in Asia isn’t something you come across every day, and while traveling you start to truly value the small things.

In this case, I was in Koh Phangan, Thailand. A little hippie island where everyone comes to “heal,” practice yoga, and connect with themselves. I had found a wooden hut with a small balcony that opened to nature. It had a kitchen where I could cook for myself. Traveling in Asia, that’s pure gold. I also had a scooter to get around wherever I wanted, and the freedom to write while watching the sea or a sunset through palm trees.

I became part of a community of beautiful women—BEAUTIFUL!—who taught me every day, every moment, with their words, actions, silences, hugs, and presence.

I had a few “plans” in my head, but deep down I was comfortable. I didn’t want to leave.

Who would want to leave when you find all of that? And then, as it often happens, the structures that no longer exist stretched a little. The good thing is, after so much traveling, we already know this, and we can allow it with more kindness.

My body didn’t want to move, and I allowed myself to listen to it, as I always try. That’s when I thought about staying longer—even longer (I had already been on the island for two months). But in that indecision, that very morning I had decided to open my Akashic Records for the first time, and I asked my guides for a sign. I had forgotten how quickly and clearly they tended to respond.

When I came home at 11 p.m. and walked into the kitchen, a huge coconut had fallen from the top of a neighboring palm tree, pierced through the tin and plaster ceiling, and smashed half of what was below. Luckily, I wasn’t there—so it didn’t smash my head, only some plates and glasses. It was such a strange situation, such an out-of-place danger for my “city mind,” that for a split second I thought, “something must have fallen from the upstairs neighbor’s apartment.”

—“What upstairs apartment?! You’re living in a bungalow!” (LOL)—I answered myself. That’s how shocking it was. The bungalow’s owner and I laughed out loud so we wouldn’t cry. Me, for my physical integrity; him, for the hole in his roof.

Up to that point I hadn’t seen anything in particular—I just thought it was one of those unlucky accidents of jungle life and that obviously I had to be more careful with palm trees. Sometimes we need a series of events in a row to be able to give them true meaning. What I didn’t know was that it would come soon.

Because of the “coconut accident” and the possible fall of more coconuts of considerable size—which, if they hit you from above, simply kill you—I moved into the next hut. That’s when I was standing on the balcony talking with my friend, telling her about the coconut situation. Suddenly, one of the wooden planks of the floor broke beneath my right foot, and half of my leg plunged straight into that empty hole. My leg sank into the void until my knee seemed to catch on something, but the hole was so narrow that my whole calf had to squeeze into ten centimeters of space.

The result was a terrible scrape and two giant bruises on both sides of my leg that looked frightening. It resembled the famous Koh Phangan “souvenir tattoo” many people carry after falling off their scooters.

My friend, who was watching the whole situation from below the balcony, had to hold back her laughter because she could see it was serious. Even so, the universe was “gentle”—I still prefer this kind of domestic accident over a scooter crash.

In a split second my body fell one meter down, and that’s when I understood everything: the guidance I had asked for had arrived. Not with a smile, kind words, or an invitation to leave—because I probably wouldn’t have moved if it had come that way. It came harshly… it always comes like that. My guides don’t know much about subtleties, but there they were, giving me an answer that was less of an answer and more of an exit. “I was thrown out of my own little dream house”—LITERALLY.

—“I have to get out of here now!”—I told my friend automatically, sitting with my butt on the floor with one leg hanging through the hole.

Sometimes we delay, we drift a little, sometimes even just slightly. We cling to comfort, to the warmth of relationships, to the deeply valued feeling of home. To rest, to enjoyment, to kindness. There’s nothing wrong with that—only that in those moments we’re in rest mode—and once again, nothing to object there, it’s a beautiful moment. But I feel that life, from time to time, likes us to keep learning. Maybe it’s its way of showing us that “this”—not yet—is not our place, not our final destination. At least not for now.

With more or less intensity or precision, sometimes it insists, depending on the moment, on the person, and on whether or not life “likes” you. And what I’ve learned over time—and through experience—is that being liked by life doesn’t mean the absence of conflicts, but quite the opposite. Sometimes it gives us such an important place, has such high expectations of us, trusts so deeply in our value and potential, that it enjoys testing us, giving us better lessons, so we can go even further beyond our limits. It gives us a learning—forced, yes. And with it, a blessing in disguise. If we’re lucky, life places us on a pedestal as “its best disciples,” and the cheeky thing has such imagination and eloquence that it could surpass the best movie scenes.

The Evil Hole

Life, so stubborn, teaches us all the time—like an infallible teacher. She never tires. She gives you just the right breaths—the exact ones you need—and shows you that even when you thought yourself very happy and finally “settled,” even there she can surprise you with something better, unexpected, always disguised in that dreaded feeling of change we resist… because of course, it disturbs our plans and our beloved present. She teaches even there, where we don’t want it. And then, there, she teaches us twice as much.

Fortunately, she has trained me in this several times already, so her mechanisms no longer surprise me that much. At the level where I am now, they move me into a state of deep wonder.

I see the magic in my eyes—the kind that camouflages itself as normality but carries a profound message on its back.

I hear her laugh, like a mother teaching, with love but also with the strictness necessary to make sure you pay attention. And in the middle of it all, I laugh too, and look at the sky:

—You did it again, I tell her. What are you preparing for me now? This one hurt—so I hope what’s waiting ahead is good! And so, we have these inner conversations, as if we’ve known each other forever. And instead of getting angry, I open my arms to whatever is coming, because I know something good is on its way.

I TRUST. Each time, I cling less to complaint, and I can more quickly see the intention behind each unexpected event, each unforeseen change, each obstacle or misfortune. I know, in some way I don’t fully understand, that everything is orchestrated. And in that way, I am less afraid.

—You were quite direct… I suppose that’s what I needed this time. Thank you for listening to my request, and thank you because the “warning” was mild—I know it could always have been worse. Thank you for keeping me among your favorites, for showing me the way, for teaching me to trust, even when I thought I already knew enough.

And as you can imagine, after disinfecting my leg and sorting out the practical matters of the wound, that very afternoon I took the ferry to leave the island. I don’t know why, but it seems I had to keep moving. Life was showing me that I shouldn’t cling—not to my sisters, not to my little hut, not to anything.

The night of the coconut incident, one of my sisters had dared to break her own limits and sing out loud at a Thai karaoke bar. She had taken a step toward her dream, and she did it so well it was as if she had been born for it. She shone with such a unique brilliance, and she moved us so deeply, that we all embraced each other with such pure love that for a moment I thought of staying a few more days on the island. That same night, and within the span of just fifteen hours, the misfortunes occurred. “Coincidences” or messages.

I interpret it this way: even though everything had been so magical, I couldn’t attach myself to it, because they also had to follow their own paths, because we were all going to meet many more sisters, and we were going to have many more little huts, but we had to keep going in order to keep learning.T he magic of encounters also lies in knowing how to give thanks for what has been lived, and letting it go with love. And maybe not everyone fully understands why we must leave the places we love the most—more than travelers do, or seekers.

Sometimes we don’t see it so clearly in the moment: we are human beings, and sometimes we suffer from limited vision. That’s what life is for. To re-channel us, readjust us, remind us, return us to the path, or simply give us that little push—or that big shove—we needed. Because she sees from higher up, or from deep within… I don’t know exactly from where she pulls the strings. I like to look upward when I speak to her, so I imagine she hides behind some storm cloud, while planning her next strategy to wake us up.

Life maa.

Thank you.

P.S.: The ferry’s destination was Koh Tao, the neighboring island, where everyone speaks Spanish.There are Latin parties almost every night with a live Argentine band, playing argentinian music cumbia and cuarteto classics, along with songs I didn’t even know. The place was crowded, prices were noticeably higher, and accommodation was pretty hard to find. I rode around the island on a scooter, looking for a place to stay, but couldn’t find anything reasonable. Everything felt overly touristy—right when I arrived I already wanted to leave, but I resisted and decided to give it a chance.

On the very first night, a girl I didn’t know—but who had seen me in Koh Phangan—recognized me on the street and told me that her friend was on vacation and renting out his "bungalow". The bungalow turned out to be a little house with a balcony in the middle of the palm trees. Suddenly, I was in the middle of the jungle, in a Thai neighborhood, surrounded by mountains, the sounds of the forest, and roosters waking me up in the morning. It was me, the little house, and the mountain—exactly what I had been missing in Koh Phangan: more peace, disconnection, and nature. Now I was sitting there, more focused than ever in my new little bunker, writing non-stop at a bamboo table while gazing at the horizon. Since the island feels chaotic to me and my leg is still healing, I’ve barely left my house in a whole week—I haven’t even stepped onto the beach. And yes, on the first day I hated the island and wanted to run away immediately, but later I embraced it, ready to receive whatever it had to give me. I don’t quite know what that is yet, but I know it will reveal itself… it already is.

—No Wi-Fi. —Perfect!

Thank you, life, once again.

The bunker

August 11, 2025 — A few days before all the chaos.

It’s been two months since I’ve been living in Thailand, and not just in Thailand, but on a tiny island within Thailand. A bubble inside another bubble.

Can one really go that far to the other side of the world?

And then, to go even deeper, to an island in a country on the other side of the world?

That was the very first sensation when one argentinian person —me—arrived in Koh Phangan two years ago. And then I came back, because we always return to the places where we once loved life.

What is Koh Phangan for me?

Expansion, movement, expressiveness, emotions, laughter, sunsets. Seeing and allowing yourself to be seen. This time, as a bonus, it was also a community of sisters—pure learning, a training ground filled with the right kind of energy to work with others, in daily life, on the real stage of life. Sometimes joyful, sometimes not so much, but always, always with learning. That’s what I love most about here, and I don’t know how it works, but it does. Maybe that’s why it draws so many “seekers” who come here to find themselves. And it seems many do, because they always come back.

This time I did a Tantra volunteer program for a month—something I had left pending. An experience that taught me so much, things I didn’t expect to learn. It caught me by surprise. It showed me how to feel—more. It taught me to express myself more freely, even when I thought I already knew how. It instructed me to look at others and at myself from new perspectives, straight into the eyes (literally) for many minutes every day, holding that gaze with calm, admiration, and steadiness, listening to my own limits and learning from them.

It taught me how to touch. It reminded me that I could dance like a little girl again—and more than that, that I should. To run around like an airplane, and to bounce on a trampoline with my feet and even with my butt, the way I used to. I hadn’t jumped like that in over 20 years.

It also helped me remember that I must be more patient with myself, and invited me to see my patterns—right there, in the field, on the stage of life itself. To notice how they show up, to step back from them, to recognize them, to learn, and then to choose to do something else.

It taught me that sometimes it’s okay to be and to feel too much.

—“Is it not too much?” I asked many times. —“What is too much?” they answered back manu times.

And so, I discovered that I can choose to shine and show myself without fear. That I can embrace my feminine side, my capacity to receive and allow myself to be cared for. That society doesn’t train us in this at all, and as a result, it’s one of the areas where we need to put the most emphasis.That I can—and I want to—embrace my place as a woman. And when I speak of that place, I don’t mean the one we’re conquering by force, but the vulnerable, the sensitive, the receptive, the intuitive one. The place of surrender, of flow, of transformation. Which, in case you don’t know, is also magically beautiful and the very source of the greatest creative force of movement and life. That very same place we’ve lost so much of—both women and men—by living in a society that pushes us to the extreme, to resist without pause. Maybe that’s why many of us seek refuge in bubbles like these. Not only because we want to, but because we need to.

I also relearned how to connect with my sensuality and my body if I choose to. That I love it, and that it empowers me. That I can dance bachata if I feel like it and enjoy it, and that I can also set my boundaries with love and firmness when I need to. That I can show myself to the world as I truly am, without putting up my own mental barriers. That I can expand even more, embracing ALL that makes me who I am, with more love and more naturalness. And I swear I don’t come across as someone who hides, but even so, deep inside, we’re always fighting our own battles.

Life is the perfect ground for learning. And this island has something—aside from so many tourists—and that is a kind and fertile ground to learn with others, because we’re all in the same boat, even those who aren’t. Being on the path of learning makes everything easier—not less difficult, mind you, just easier, because you’re prepared for it. And although this island hits you from all sides until you learn, you always leave with love and lessons—practical ones, almost always. And that’s the curious thing. I don’t know how it works, but it does. And I say this because I lived it, but also because I’ve seen it in so many others.

Today I’m leaving the island for a while—I know very well I’ll be back. I leave almost knocked out by a giant coconut, with a leg swollen to double its normal size, and a scrape that is almost a work of art. My “Koh Phangan tattoo”—as a friend would say—so that even if you leave, you’ll always remember that ALWAYS, we keep learning. That’s where the magic of life lies.

Thank you, KP ♡

The Infinite Women .