The Lost Boy in Jibhi

A journey into the remote Himachal village that taught me how to be with myself.

Jibhi was never just a location on a map — it became something deeper. It wasn’t merely a getaway; it became a turning point. Solo travel, I realized, isn’t about how many places you visit. It’s a process of turning inward. It's about peeling back layers of fear and slowly becoming more comfortable with the unfamiliar. It’s where solitude turns into strength and silence begins to speak truths you didn’t know you were ready to hear.

Up in the mountains, everything slows down. Smiles last a little longer. Conversations are softer. And even in silence, something speaks to you. Jibhi helped me see something simple yet profound: loneliness is a feeling, not a fact. The real challenges weren’t in navigating new roads or languages — they were always in my own mind. But this village, with its winding trails, wooden homes, rivers that hummed lullabies, cozy cafés, and strangers who felt oddly familiar, made space for something within me to soften. For the first time, I wasn’t trying to escape loneliness — I was learning how to be with myself.

The Decision

A friend once told me about a quiet little place called Jibhi — just in passing, years ago. But for some reason, the name stuck. It lingered in my mind like a bookmark I didn’t know I’d come back to. When the time finally came, I had no plan—just that name and a pull I couldn’t ignore. I had no real plan. I didn’t speak Hindi, and I had no itinerary.

Just a heart full of questions and a head full of “what ifs.” The fear was loud at first—louder than the thrill. But something shifted when I stopped pushing away my thoughts and started hearing them.

Solo travel holds up a mirror. You’re no longer performing for anyone. There’s no need to put on a face. And strangely, the people you meet — no matter how different — reflect something back at you. That’s where change begins. Your awareness sharpens. Your depth deepens. You begin to see through a different lens.

I realized that “later” is often just a way to avoid discomfort. So instead of delaying, I chose “now.”

Moments That Mattered

I stayed in a shared dorm for six days, and every day I met someone new, each with a different background and a different story. It made each day feel fresh, unpredictable, and full of possibility. 

I spent entire afternoons by the river, just reading, thinking, or doing absolutely nothing. I had countless cups of coffee, sitting quietly with the river behind me and the mountains ahead. I wandered the village for hours, listening to music that only I could hear. And yes, there was a moment of panic — when everyone else was checking out of the homestay, and I was the only one checking in. That’s when I learned about the cyclone alert. It explained the eerie emptiness of the town that day.

Even the bus ride to Jibhi was an experience — long, bumpy, uncomfortable. But I made it. And in the process, it changed me.

I explored places I had never seen — asking locals for directions, getting gently lost again. I rode to Jalori Pass and hiked to Raghupur Fort, said to be one of the highest in Asia. Doing it all on my own made it feel even more meaningful — not just travel, but a quiet triumph.

Jibhi's Charm  and the people

There’s something about the way the roads curve around the hills. There’s barely any traffic — just locals going about their day and the occasional traveler chasing peace. Silence often accompanies you like a companion.

The houses here are built with stone and wood, blending so naturally into the environment that they feel like part of the hills themselves. The river is always nearby — steady, flowing, and calming.

I met a fellow solo traveler on one of the trails — we clicked instantly. We lost the trail at one point, but in doing so, found conversations that wandered further than our feet did. Swapping travel stories made me realize how people evolve — how experiences shape our tastes, habits, and even our silences.

Then there was this Mallu guy whose story stayed with me. He and his wife had been exploring Himachal for the past 60 days — living, working remotely, and embracing the freedom of a nomadic life. For them, this chaos was bliss — a deliberate surrender to the unknown.Cafés in Jibhi aren’t just about coffee. They’re about the people you meet, the thoughts you finally have time to process, and the comfort of just being. Jibhi doesn’t try to impress. It simply welcomes you.

The people of Jibhi live simply, and that’s what makes them so magnetic. They haven’t lost themselves in trying to accommodate the outside world — instead, they’ve created space for others without compromising who they are.

There’s a warmth here that’s hard to describe — it’s unfiltered, unforced. In all places, kindness can often feel transactional. In Jibhi, it feels effortless. Human. 

The Change

I arrived in Jibhi hoping to run away from everything I was carrying. But instead of escaping, I found a version of myself I hadn’t met before. The place didn’t just calm my nerves—it rewired how I see fear.

It made me realize that not everything needs to be figured out. Some things are meant to unfold slowly. You don’t need to fix every feeling, or hold on to every person, or even have answers all the time. Sometimes, letting things be is its own kind of freedom.

In that stillness and that slowness, I found clarity.

The Realizations

Over time, I’ve started noticing how valuable the smallest things are. The most memorable parts of this journey aren’t in the photos I took. They live in quiet smiles, spontaneous conversations over coffee, and early mornings wake ups in an unknown place.

This journey reminded me that some of the farthest travels bring you closer to your core. Solo travel doesn’t just start when you leave your home — it starts when you return with new eyes.

I learned how to be honest with myself. To admit when I was scared. To believe that I am enough, even when I feel unsure. To replace self-judgment with curiosity and acceptance.

More than anything, I realized the mind is its own battlefield. But now, I know how to fight smarter — and kinder. 

The Essence

I didn’t come to Jibhi looking for strength or healing. I was looking for something real — something that didn’t feel filtered or forced. And in this small village, I found it. There, I found a version of myself I hadn’t seen in years.

Every hesitation, every moment of self-doubt, slowed me down. But the more I moved forward — even without certainty — the more alive I felt. That’s where growth happens: in motion, not perfection.

“What if” is just a thought — not a reality. And wisdom doesn’t always come from having the answers, but from learning to ask better questions.

Jibhi gave me that — the room to reflect, the courage to listen, and the stillness to heal. This is what choosing yourself looks like. This is what moving forward feels like.

Somewhere out there — beyond the noise, the screens, and the roles we’re expected to play — I remembered what it’s like to feel completely alive.

And in the End...

Over half a month in the journey - This trip wasn’t just a memory—it became a reference point. A quiet reminder that life often guides you in ways you don’t expect.

One thing I’ve come to believe: the more you ignore your inner voice, the louder it echoes. Sooner or later, you have to face yourself — not to fight your thoughts, but to understand them. Somewhere between fear and freedom, I found who I really was.

This wasn’t just travel. It was a reset. A quiet revolution in how I feel, think, and exist in the world.

Fate doesn’t always speak in grand signs. Sometimes, it whispers through discomfort, silence, and stillness. In Jibhi, I stopped waiting and started choosing.

Not the version shaped by others' expectations, but the one that had been waiting underneath the noise.

You begin reclaiming the pieces of yourself you once gave away for love, for acceptance, for the illusion of belonging. You realize your worth isn’t measured by who stays, but by how truly you show up for yourself.

In the stillness of Jibhi, I heard the version of me I had long forgotten.

--Praveenkumar Dhanushkotti