Moon River

Sometimes a book doesn’t change your life.

It simply reminds you of the life you were always meant to live.

When I picked up The Alchemist, I wasn’t really expecting anything. It was a quiet evening, the kind where the world feels like it’s holding its breath. I read the first few pages, and something in me slowed down. There’s a calm in Coelho’s writing, a clarity. As if every sentence knows where it’s going, even if you don’t. And maybe that’s what struck me the most: the comfort of being lost, yet still trusting the path.

Santiago, the shepherd boy, sets out in search of treasure. But of course, it’s never just about treasure. It’s about leaving behind what’s familiar. It’s about learning to listen; to the wind, the desert, the soul. To silence. And that’s what resonated with me most.

My own journey has been filled with maps that don’t match the terrain. Plans that made sense in theory but unraveled the moment I stepped into the unknown. I’ve changed countries, changed paths, changed versions of myself more times than I can count. And yet, for all the uncertainty, there’s been a strange kind of guidance underneath it all. Like Santiago, I’ve come to believe that the universe really does whisper; softly, subtly, and only when you’re ready to listen.

One of the lines that stayed with me was this: “You will never be able to escape from your heart. So it’s better to listen to what it has to say.” That line lingered. Because there have been seasons where I tried to quiet my instincts, to play it safe, to stay in one place, to follow paths already carved by others. But the heart is persistent. It keeps nudging. It knows what it wants long before the mind is willing to catch up. So, whatever it is, trust your heart!

I’ve always been drawn to signs. To moments that feel too aligned to be coincidence. Coelho calls these “omens,” and I love that word. It feels ancient. Sacred. And in a way, reading The Alchemist reminded me of how I’ve always tried to make sense of my life through patterns, meaning, and wonder. Not everything has to be logical. Sometimes, a dream is enough.

There’s also this quiet encouragement throughout the book to keep going, even when nothing makes sense. Even when the desert feels endless and everything inside you wants to turn back. And honestly, that’s where I am now. Not at the beginning, but not yet at the treasure. Somewhere in the middle. Somewhere in the stillness between departure and arrival.

And it’s okay.

This book didn’t give me answers. But it gave me language for the questions I’ve been carrying:

What does it mean to live fully?

To trust without proof?

To risk being misunderstood in order to be real?

I still don’t know.

But I think I’m closer than I was before.

Santiago’s story reminded me that the journey is the treasure. That who we become along the way is more valuable than anything we might find at the end. That paying attention to our dreams, to our restlessness, to the rhythm of the world is the bravest thing we can do.

So I’ll keep walking.

I’ll keep listening.

And I’ll keep trusting that the path, however winding, it’s still mine.