It was Loy Krathong Day in Thailand. I had just arrived a few months prior and had no idea what the festival was about or how people celebrated it. I remember just being happy because classes were suspended in celebration of the event. All I heard around me were words like “water,” “river,” “light,” and “float flowers.”

As someone who came from a tribe with a rich culture, I understood how crucial these kinds of festivals are to the heart of a community. I could feel that Loy Krathong meant more than just a day off. It carried weight, tradition, and meaning.

I originally planned to stay in my apartment, but I was intrigued by the mystery behind this event. I live near Chatuchak Park, and I figured people might gather there since there’s a large pond. Sure enough, at the entrance of the park, I saw many vendors selling small vessels made of banana stems and leaves, decorated with flowers, candles, and joss sticks.

I walked inside and saw people gathered at the edge of the pond-families, couples, individuals- all holding the Krathongs, beautiful lotus-shaped floats. I sat down quietly and watched. One by one, people lit the candles, placed their floats in the water, and bowed their heads in prayer. Everyone participated- young and old, men and women, couples and singles, Thai locals and foreigners.
What struck me most was the couple right in front of me. They were foreigners, and the woman was preparing their Krathong with care, while the man- whom I assumed to be her husband- took photos of her with a smile.

It was in that moment that I realized I was witnessing something far deeper than a local tradition- I was witnessing connection. A connection between people and nature, between the past and the present, and even between cultures. It didn’t matter that I was new, or that I didn’t know all the customs. For that brief, glowing moment, under the warm lights and gentle ripples of the pond, I felt like I belonged.

As I watched the krathongs float away, carrying people’s wishes, apologies, and hopes, I felt a stillness settle inside me. It reminded me of home- of the rituals we had in my own tribe, the way we honored spirits, nature, and life’s transitions. Though different in form, the essence was the same: gratitude, reflection, and renewal.

What started as curiosity turned into clarity. The festival wasn’t just about beautiful floats or suspended classes. It was about letting go- of grudges, regrets, old versions of ourselves- and allowing the current to carry them away. It was about light in the darkness, and hope taking form, even if just for a moment.

I went home that night without a krathong of my own, but with a heart that felt a little lighter. That simple decision to step outside my comfort zone taught me something valuable: when we open ourselves to new experiences, especially those rooted in culture and community, we don’t just learn about others- we rediscover parts of ourselves.

So now, whenever I see light dancing on water, I remember that night. And I remind myself to keep floating forward, letting go of what weighs me down, and making space for wonder- even in unfamiliar places.