Enlightenment isn’t something you chase. It’s something you realize. It hits you when you’re standing under a streetlamp at 4 a.m., eating a perfect slice of pepperoni pizza, feeling alive—your heart pulsing love, love, love. A few shots of tequila before don’t hurt. The city hums around you, neon lights flicker, and in that moment, you know: you’re exactly where you need to be. No upgrades. No changes. Just you, with your pizza, and the whole world buzzing around you.
The first time I tried to get ''enlightened'' wasn’t at a silent retreat or a yoga studio in Bali. It was 2008 in New York City, where yoga mats were as ubiquitous as skyscrapers and the constant rush of the subway. I wasn’t doing yoga because I was spiritually evolved; I was following a trend. Yoga, like Facebook, was just one of those things everyone did—like drinking green juice, pretending to care about chakras, or posting statuses about how “tagged” we were or how we got “poked.”
So, there I was, trying to find cosmic clarity in the chaos. The only yoga class open at 8 p.m. was Pregnancy Yoga on 85th and Lexington. The instructor assured me I’d be fine. “It’s all about the energy,” she said. But hey, this is New York—nothing makes sense, and everything makes sense at the same time. I unrolled my mat, wedged between glowing pregnant women, soon to become a 100% bio mother, stretching my body in ways it had no business being stretched. I half expected to give birth from sheer energy. Instead, I just got a serious backache.
As I bent and twisted, something clicked: it wasn’t the yoga that was going to save me. Enlightenment wasn’t about becoming a “better” version of myself. It wasn’t about finding peace on a yoga mat or in a crystal shop. It was about realizing I didn’t need to be anything more than I already was. I wasn’t broken. I didn’t need fixing. I was already me—imperfect, messy, and a little wild, just trying to have fun in the city on a Friday night. And that, oddly, was enough. Of course, New York wasn’t done with me yet.
The yoga class ended, and I headed home. No shower—just a quick spritz of Gaultier perfume, what I like to call a Gypsy Shower. With that, I was ready to hit the city, already feeling the pulse of the night.
At the club, Rihanna's "Don’t Stop the Music" blasted through the speakers. The beat was infectious, vibrating through the walls, and the crowd was alive. The moment felt electric, like the music wasn’t just sound—it was a command to live in the now. The lights were blinding, the music deafening, and there I was, pretending I was searching for answers in a club full of people who had stopped searching. They were dancing in the moment—right here, right now.
Maybe that’s it—maybe enlightenment isn’t found in silence or stillness. Maybe it’s found in the noise, the movement, the chaos. Being calmness in the storm and storm in the calmness. Once you’re in rhythm, once you’re moving with the beat, you don’t care when the music will end. Time disappears. The moment becomes effortless, and for that brief instant, it feels like a little miracle. The music is all that matters. All you have to do is let go. There are no worries about what’s coming next—just the freedom of now. Maybe everyone was just looking for a laid-back hookup, including me. But for that moment, we were all dancing like there was nothing else.
Somewhere between the dance moves and the last shot of tequila, I stepped out of the club. No hookup. No late-night romance. No fairytale endings. The night hadn’t unfolded like it usually did. It was different this time. The usual energy I was chasing, the validation from strangers, none of that mattered anymore.
I found myself under a streetlamp, pizza slice in hand. The chaos of the club was gone, replaced by this strange, quiet moment where it was just me, alone with my thoughts. No hookup, no drama. No one to impress. And for the first time in a long while, I didn’t feel the usual need to be "more" or find something outside of myself to make me feel whole.
It was just me, the city around me, and a simple understanding that maybe this was enough. That self-love, or whatever you want to call it, wasn’t about anyone else. It was just being okay with where I was, right then, right there—no upgrades needed.
The grease on my lips—and the fact that I wasn’t pregnant but had attended Pregnancy Yoga—reminded me that I am not perfect. And you know what? I started loving it. The beauty of not being perfect—that’s the thing. The thing that makes me, me. This is life, not heaven. You don’t need to be perfect. You don’t need to be “fixed.” Want to be enlightened? Find a streetlamp somewhere in New York, stand under it for a while. Maybe a couple of years. Maybe more. Just breathe. And buy a slice of pizza.
Looking back, I still love that boy under the streetlamp—the one with condoms and The Four Agreements by Don Miguel Ruiz on his nightstand, pages highlighted. Much has changed, yet nothing has.
There is no spiritual journey, no better or evolved self—just love in the ordinary, a reminder of who we are. No new or old version of you. You’re not an iPhone; no upgrades needed. You are the origin. If there’s a journey, it’s backward, not forward—to your first, truest self. If you love and are loved, you’re enough. You always have been.
