I went to Singapore somewhat begrudgingly.

I felt like it was not my place. I do not love living in big cities for too long. I do not love humidity. I love mountains and I love the ocean. Wide spaces. Fresh air. Somewhere, my body can exhale.

And yet, something in me knew I had to go.

Life had been rough for a while and I felt like I was drowning a little. Something needed to change. And I know myself well enough to know that a new landscape is often the push I need to shift gears and come back to myself.

It took me a few weeks, but eventually I found a rhythm. And then, unexpectedly, I fell in love with it.

Almost as soon as I arrived, I googled ceremonial cacao. The first thing that came up was a company called The Hummingbird Life. It resonated instantly. Without overthinking it, I booked the first ceremony I could.

Two weeks later, I had a particularly hard Monday. Things with my ex were at an all time low, and that day he had been especially difficult. It was also the day of the cacao ceremony, being held in a local park. It was the last thing I felt like doing.

I got back to my apartment and started undressing to get into the shower when something inside me spoke very clearly.

Natasha, get those shoes back on and get yourself to that park.

I have learned not to ignore that voice.

I ordered a Grab car and set off across the city. As we drove further away from work and my apartment, I felt my nervous system begin to soften. Piano music played in my ears as the city passed by through the taxi window. There may even have been a light drizzle.

When we arrived at Fort Canning Park, my eyes lit up. Huge trees. Thick bushes. Nature everywhere. That alone would have been enough.

Following the map pin Laura had sent, I found a beautiful grassy clearing surrounded by trees. The sun was beginning to set and the insects were singing their evening song. I laid my yoga mat down and took a breath.

Laura’s smile made my whole body relax. I knew instantly she was one of my people.

She opened the circle beautifully. I was listening, but also not. Part of me was simply soaking in the comfort of being surrounded by women. Their softness. Their tenderness. Their kindness. I could feel that each one of them was open and genuinely there to connect.

The ceremony was unforgettable. It marked the beginning of meaningful connections in my new home.

My connection with Laura grew too, and when she later invited me to a sunrise dance she was hosting for her husband Steve’s birthday, something in me knew this mattered.

To understand why, I need to share some history.

When I was seven years old, I experienced a traumatic event involving a shooting at St James Church. I was not in the main church where the devastation occurred, but in the adjacent children’s church. Even so, it left a deep imprint on my nervous system.

Even before that day, sound sensitivity was part of who I was. My mum tells me she could not even vacuum around me. I hated the sound of a flushing toilet. However, after the incident, that sensitivity became fear.

For more than thirty years, storms were never just storms. Dark clouds, a shift in the air, the possibility of thunder could send my body into fight or flight. Sweaty hands. An ache in the back of my head. My eyes scanning for exits. Needing to know exactly where I could run if things escalated.

The moment that forced me to truly face this happened years later in Thailand.

We had taken kayaks out in Koh Tao when my body began signaling before the sky changed. The familiar sensations arrived, and then the storm hit while we were in the middle of the ocean.

I panicked completely. We scrambled to a tiny rock formation where I could crawl underneath while the storm passed. My partner at the time had never seen me like that. I was deeply humiliated.

After that, I knew I could not keep living this way.

I began a long healing journey through TRE (trauma release exercises), breathwork, childhood regression, and talk therapy. There were small victories along the way. Once, on a hike in Russia, a storm rolled in, and I managed to stay calm until we found shelter. Those moments kept me going.

Then came this most recent breakup, which cracked me open in ways I never expected. It showed me how much I had been looking for safety outside of myself.

Slowly, something began to change. I started learning how to regulate my own nervous system. How to stay with myself. How to create safety from the inside out.

And then came the sunrise dance.

We met early on the beach. The sky was just beginning to lighten as the music started and we began to move. I noticed heavy clouds forming on the horizon, rolling in from the west. I saw flashes of lightning. I felt the storm building. I felt the usual signs starting in my body. A dull ache formed at the back of my head.

Normally, that would have been my cue to run. Find shelter.

But, instead, something inside me felt safe. Truly safe.

With the music in my ears, unable to hear the thunder, I stayed present. I stayed inside my body. I kept dancing. When the rain began pouring from the sky, I did not bolt. I smiled. We danced harder. I felt love for the people around me. We threw all caution to the storm and we danced in the rain, the puddles became our playground, the rain became our glitter. Everything felt magical. My body was smiling from the inside out.

I felt deep gratitude for the long, messy, beautiful journey that had brought me here.

I danced in a storm, free from fear.

Let me say that again.

I danced in a storm.

Me.

Most people may never fully understand what this moment meant to me. Perhaps only my mother truly would. But for me, it was absolute freedom. Tears rolled down my cheeks and were washed away by the rain. This moment for me was huge.

A moment where my body learned that now is different. That I am safe. That I can stay. That I can be the safety I have always looked for from everyone else.

And for that, I am deeply grateful.