Over the past few days, I have been weighed down by a flood of emotions—shock, heartbreak, disappointment, and anxiety. Yet despite everything, there remains a fragile sense of hope.

It reminds me of 2008, when Nepalis filled the streets demanding freedom, a movement that eventually brought the Maoists into mainstream politics. Back then, there was so much hope—hope that was later shattered by the ego of one man, who chose self-interest over the greater good of the nation.

And here I am in 2025, older, maybe a little more cautious, but still holding onto hope. I can’t wrap my head around how someone who has been in power since before I was even born still manages to cling to leadership. When I saw those videos of them being dragged to safety from angry mobs, I couldn’t stop wondering: did they feel even an ounce of regret for what they’d done to Nepal and Nepalis?

The real tragedy, however, is not the fate of politicians, but the lives of ordinary Nepalis. I think of the families who have lost their children—their dreams, their aspirations, their futures reduced to ashes.

As I write this, I am overwhelmed—by helplessness, by hope, by uncertainty. Also, relieved, in some ways, that the army has stepped in, but also worried—because armies, too, may have their own interests. And if those interests come at the cost of Nepal’s future. The question looms large: will Nepal ever see a leader who governs not for ego, but for the people and the generations to come? History reminds us that even good leaders can be blinded by power, but the hope for better leadership remains.

As I reflect, I’m thinking of everyone back home. My friends, my family, but most of all my little nieces and nephews—the next generation. I’m praying that what comes next will be for them, and for all of Nepal.