My name is Lilith. I've been living in Thailand for several years now, and I still can't get used to the fact that the morning here doesn't start with an alarm clock, but with the sounds of the street — mopeds, the voices of fruit sellers, the smell of fried rice and sweet mango, which seems to stick to the air. I wake up early because I like to train when the city hasn't overheated yet. For me, sport is not about the perfect body, but about the feeling of movement. When you run along the embankment and the sun just rises from behind the water, it seems as if the day begins with you. Dancing appeared in my life by chance. One day, I just went into the small studio above the cafe to hide from the downpour. Music was playing there, and people were dancing without mirrors, without a stage, without a score.

I don't make big plans. It used to scare me, but now it feels right. People here know how to live for today, and I'm gradually learning this from them. Sometimes the day passes unnoticed: training, dancing, talking, casual walks, an evening market where the light of lanterns is reflected in the wet asphalt. I like that no one here knows what I was like before. I can be anything—strong, tired, funny, silent. Sometimes I think that moving to Thailand was not an escape, but an opportunity to reassemble myself from simple things: movement, sun, sweat, music and people who appear in life unexpectedly and just as easily stay.

I have a habit of buying coconut water from an elderly woman on the corner after training. She never asks me my name, but she always smiles as if we've known each other all our lives. She once said that I move "like the wind before the rain." I still think about it—it's a strange compliment, but it's the most genuine one I've ever heard. A few months ago, I started training with local guys who practice Muay Thai. At first I was scared — I looked too soft next to them. But it turned out that the force is not always loud. Sometimes she's stubborn enough to come back, even if everything didn't work out yesterday. After training, we sit on the steps of the gym, silently eat spicy soup and laugh for no reason. I almost don't understand their fast Thai, but I don't need to translate the laughter.

I'm still looking for myself, but now it doesn't look like a problem. It's more like a long road that feels good to walk on. And as long as my body is moving—running, dancing, or punching a punching bag—I feel like I'm exactly where I need to be.