Resilience in Small Steps

Facing simple hardships one at a time is, I have come to believe, the most ordinary and yet the most profound way to build resilience. The more we cocoon ourselves in creature comforts, the softer our edges become. The body weakens first, and then the mind follows. It is a subtle erosion, almost polite in its pace, until one day, it becomes impossible to ignore.

Living here in the mountains has made this truth as clear as the winter sky. There is no end to comfort if one goes seeking it. And the more I allowed myself to indulge, the more fragile I became. It began innocently enough with a small room heater. At first, I used it on winter evenings when the air grew sharp. Then, without noticing, I reached a point where I could not work anywhere away from its warm circle. Every evening demanded fire or heat. It was pleasure, yes, but also a slow drifting into a padded cocoon.

One day, it struck me how much I had been pampering my body and how that softness had begun to seep into my thoughts and routines. That moment of clarity nudged me back towards simplicity. Two winters ago, I spent my first season without using heaters extensively for myself. I kept them only for family, friends, and guests. Now and then, I still switch on the infrared heater, but mostly to soothe my back rather than shield myself from the cold. I still tuck a hot-water bottle against my feet at night, but that feels more like an old-fashioned comfort than a dependency.

Even bathing has become a small practice of resilience. Some days, I use cold water. On others, I end the bath with a short, bracing splash. A friend jokingly calls it self-flagellation, though I am miles away from anything ascetic. This is not what Hindu monks do in the snow-laden Himalayas, nor what Wim Hof teaches, nor what our soldiers endure on the highest borders. This is simply me, taking small, deliberate steps to strengthen myself.

A small challenge that still lingers is typing in winter. My fingers turn ice-cold, slightly stiff and slower on the keyboard. It does not trouble me much, but if someone walks in, especially while I am sitting outdoors and typing, and expects a handshake, it can feel a little embarrassing. Since the Covid years, though, I have shifted almost entirely to a simple Namaste with folded hands instead of shaking hands. It feels warmer somehow, despite the cold.

The results revealed themselves in the most unexpected moment. Last summer in Delhi, the infamous hot loo winds were sweeping through the city. Heatwaves were sending people indoors. Yet I found myself walking under the harsh noon sun with nothing but a hat for shade and a steady rhythm in my stride, with no signs of exhaustion. No air-conditioned car, no icy drinks, no special cooling gadgets. Just my usual worn-out clothes, a calm mind, and a body that no longer panicked at discomfort. The heat was there, of course, but it did not trouble me. Even the rains have become more welcome; instead of hurrying for shelter, I now often stay outdoors and let the drizzle do what it does. I guess that my shaved head also saves me from a little bit of trouble that I used to face as teenager with a comb in my back-pocket.

Weather is only one teacher. Life offers thousands of small lessons, each disguised as a tiny inconvenience. For years, I carried a small foldable chair in my car because sitting on rocks felt uncomfortable. Later, I carried a towel to place between me and the cold stone. Now, I simply sit on rock, grass, or earth, without any second thoughts. Even the ground feels firmer and welcome when one stops fussing over it.

Recently, I considered buying a power bank for my phone. Then it occurred to me: walking a few steps to a charging point and waiting while the battery fills is hardly a hardship. Must I solve every small inconvenience with yet another device?

Even food has become a teacher. When someone cooks for me and the meal is not quite what I expected, I remind myself that nourishment is a blessing. Expectations are optional, gratitude is not. A small change in the way I think that turned my irritation to happiness.

The orchard, too, has its own curriculum of small hardships. In summer, the walks around in the orchard to check the water channels and how my plants are coping up feels tedious, especially when the sun is bright and the orchard floor dry underfoot. Earlier, I would postpone it or ask someone to go instead. Now, I see it as part of my own conditioning. Walking up and down with garden tools in a shoulder bag, feeling the heart pump and the breath deepen, is its own quiet training.

There are days when some weeds need removing (especially dodder when it starts to strangulate young plants) or some suckers/watersprouts need to be cut. The task is not always pleasant, and the work is slow, but it teaches patience. The earth does not hurry, and neither should I. Picking fallen branches after a storm, hauling vermicompost from the one spot to another, clearing weeds by hand instead of relying on chemicals, each task pulls me gently out of my comfort zone and reminds me how capable the body still is.

Even watering the saplings in biting cold, when fingers ache and breath fogs the air, has become a kind of meditation. The young trees depend on these small acts, and in some strange way, I depend on them too. Caring for something that cannot speak back strengthens a part of me that comfort tends to dull.

Walking has become another deliberate choice. Neighbours who visit me often drive short distances, even those that can be walked easily. Watching them made me pause. If I can comfortably walk the distance, why drive at all? Now, whenever I go to meet people nearby, I prefer to walk. The pace may be slow, the roads uneven, and the air thin at times. Yet something inside me feels steadier with every step. During late evenings, I still take the car for fear of wild animals, though in daylight hours, my feet feel enough.

Piecing all this together, I realise that resilience does not grow in heroic leaps. It arrives in quiet increments – cold water, a skipped comfort, a long walk, a rough stone seat, a bundle of branches lifted by hand. The mountains teach this gently: that we do not need to conquer nature, only to accompany it with a little more courage each day. I am now trying to find ways to inculcate this way of living into my kids and make them more resilient both physically and emotionally.

In embracing small hardships, I find that life becomes broader, not narrower. My mind steadies. My body remembers its strength. And somewhere between the winter pruning activities, the cold winds, and the uneven mountain paths, I rediscover a simpler, sturdier version of myself.

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