Sanctuary
In the remote highlands of Nepal, where ancient peaks pierce the sky and spiritual traditions flow like mountain streams through generations, photographer Joey L encountered a woman whose very existence challenges our understanding of devotion, sacrifice, and the search for transcendence. Sabrida Shing, one of the few women in the world to embrace the path of a sādhvī—literally meaning “good woman”—has chosen a life that stands in stark contrast to the interconnected world most of us inhabit. To become a sādhvī is to choose separation—not from love or compassion, but from the material world and its endless distractions. It represents one of Hinduism’s most profound spiritual commitments, a deliberate turning away from society’s conventional expectations to pursue a direct relationship with the divine. While male sādhus (holy men) are more commonly known and encountered throughout the Indian subcontinent, women who choose this path remain extraordinarily rare, making Sabrida Shing’s journey all the more remarkable. Traditional Hindu texts rarely mention female renunciates, and when they do, it’s often in the context of widowhood—women who had already fulfilled their expected social roles and were no longer bound by familial obligations. Sabrida Shing’s choice to become a sādhvī constitutes not just personal renunciation but cultural rebellion. She has rejected the fundamental assumption that women’s spiritual development must be mediated through relationships with men and family. By taking sannyāsa, she claims the same right to pursue liberation that has traditionally been reserved for men, asserting that spiritual realization is not dependent on gender but on the depth of one’s commitment to transcendence. For Sabrida Shing to choose celibacy, homelessness, and social invisibility over the security and respect that come with fulfilling conventional female roles represents extraordinary courage and conviction. The practical implications of her choice are profound. Unlike male sādhus who may receive more readily accepted support from society due to long-established traditions of male renunciation, female sādhvīs often face suspicion, harassment, or outright rejection. They must navigate a world that is not structured to accommodate independent women, particularly those who have abandoned normal social categories and protections. The physical dangers alone—traveling alone, sleeping rough, depending on charity from strangers—are magnified for women in ways that male ascetics rarely experience. Furthermore, the psychological challenges of renunciation may be particularly complex for women who have been socialized from birth to define themselves through relationships and care for others. The dissolution of identity that sannyāsa requires means abandoning not just personal preferences and attachments but the entire framework of selfhood that society has taught them to embrace. For women especially, this can mean undoing deeply ingrained patterns of self-sacrifice that served others rather than the divine, learning to distinguish between ego-driven service and genuine spiritual surrender.
Western culture often views social withdrawal as problematic, associating isolation with loneliness or mental health issues. However, the sādhvī tradition offers a different perspective—one that sees deliberate solitude as a pathway to deeper understanding and connection with the divine. By stepping away from social distractions, personal relationships, and material concerns, the sādhvī creates space for profound inner work and spiritual development. Her example challenges our contemporary obsession with productivity and optimization. In a world where we measure worth through output—social media posts, career advancement, relationship milestones, travel experiences—she embodies the possibility that true value might lie in what we choose not to do. The sādhvī’s day is not scheduled with meetings, appointments, and obligations but structured around the rhythms of inner work: meditation, contemplation, and the patient cultivation of awareness. This deliberate simplification creates what we might call “cognitive sanctuary”—mental space freed from the constant decision-making that characterizes modern life. While most of us navigate hundreds of daily choices about what to wear, eat, buy, watch, or engage with online, the sādhvī’s reduced circumstances eliminate most of these decisions, creating bandwidth for deeper inquiry into questions that truly matter: Who am I beyond my roles and achievements? What remains when all external supports are removed? What is the nature of consciousness itself? The practice of withdrawal also offers insights into the nature of authentic relationships. In our networked world, we often mistake connection for intimacy, confusing the ability to reach many people with the capacity for genuine encounter. The sādhvī’s solitude demonstrates that meaningful relationships—whether with the divine, with nature, or even with other human beings—require the depth that only comes through sustained attention and presence. By choosing to know fewer people more deeply (including herself), Sabrida Shing models an alternative to the broad but shallow connections that characterize much contemporary social interaction.
Neuroscience research confirms what contemplative traditions have long understood: the mind requires rest to process experience, integrate learning, and access deeper levels of awareness. The endless stream of information, entertainment, and social interaction that fills modern life may actually inhibit the very insights and wisdom we seek. The sādhvī’s practice of sensory restraint—limiting input through simple food, minimal possessions, and reduced social contact—creates conditions where subtle inner experiences can emerge. While few people choose the extreme renunciation of a sādhvī, Sabrida Shing’s example offers valuable insights for anyone seeking greater spiritual depth in modern life. In our hyperconnected age, where constant stimulation and social media create endless distractions from inner reflection, the sādhvī‘s practice of deliberate withdrawal offers a compelling counterexample. It suggests that some of life’s most important discoveries require not more input but more space—not greater interaction but deeper solitude. In practical terms, her example suggests that spiritual development might require what we could call “strategic renunciation”—consciously choosing to limit certain activities, relationships, or stimuli to create space for inner growth. This doesn’t mean abandoning worldly responsibilities, but it might mean saying no to optional commitments that don’t align with deeper values, creating regular periods of silence and solitude, or choosing depth of engagement over breadth of experience. Her path also challenges contemporary assumptions about gender and fulfillment. In a culture that encourages women to “have it all”—career success, fulfilling relationships, personal achievement, social engagement—she represents the possibility that true fulfillment might come through choosing one thing completely. Her renunciation suggests that the pressure to optimize multiple life domains simultaneously might actually prevent the kind of focused dedication that leads to genuine mastery or realization. Joey L’s portrait of Sabrida Shing succeeds because it captures both the human and the transcendent aspects of her remarkable journey. We see her as an individual woman who has made extraordinary choices, but we also glimpse something beyond the personal—a representation of humanity’s eternal search for meaning and connection with the sacred. The photograph becomes a bridge between worlds, allowing viewers to encounter a way of life that exists far outside their personal experience.
What do you think of this photograph?
Artwork: Joey L.
I’m intrigued by the way this commentary took me through a rather disparate set of impressions. Based on the the first paragraph’s introduction of the term denoting ‘good woman’, my immediate reactions differed from how I was to perceive of the pictured woman by second paragraph. I guess ‘good woman’ to me, based on my socio-contextual understanding, entails the various boundaries that limit women’s experiences, if not make us succumb to them. Subsequently, how the next paragraph follows up with (for me, unprecedented) an explanation of her renouncing materialism and transforming towards divergence from society, accorded me a personal satisfaction: at the sheer liberation that implies for her.
All of this reminds me of the way I used to think of monks in Asia (when living there had only external impressions to judge by), versus how I began to perceive them & their lifestyle since taking an East Asian history/Lit. course. Once the course lent me insight into their psychological approach to life, I was pleasantly surprised by how similar their outlook is to my own, which verges on existentialism. They lead such different lives from my own, and yet I now find myself attaching much kinship to their customs.
Not begging to differ from your last point on human differences, but I would also note that traveling and encountering new people (and their ways of life) can also offer us reminders of how alike we humans actually are at our core— despite the fascinating amount of diversity. Such realizations indeed, comprise one of the highlights of my travels.