To become a Buddhist nun—or monk—is to step into a life that unravels everything familiar.
It is not a change of clothes but a vow that shapes every detail of existence. Before I was ordained, I sought the guidance of several masters. Two questions followed me everywhere: Where are you going to live? and How are you going to support yourself? These were not small, practical details; they carried the weight of survival itself. To enter monastic life in the West, or even as a Westerner in the East, is to step forward without the nets that have held others for centuries.
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In the Himalayan valleys, monasteries rise like timeless guardians of the Dharma, and tradition still stands strong. Yet as Westerners, we are seldom held inside those institutions. We may be welcomed, but not cared for in the same way as those born into the monastic culture. Even there, in the very heart of Buddhist life, I—like many other Western nuns and monks—had to find my own way. It was a continual patching together of circumstance and creating a fragile but living container for the vows I had taken.
The Western Nun’s Challenges
The masters knew. They saw us Western monastics struggling to carve out a path where no structures had been prepared for us. They understood our difficulties, and yet there was no easy solution. We lived among the ordained, yes, but without the same safety net. The patriarchal hierarchy was heavy, and it shaped how doors opened—or stayed closed. Even within supportive communities, the weight of that hierarchy pressed down, making it clear where we stood.
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Resources came and went. Sometimes a donation arrived, sometimes a little support was given, but it was rarely steady, rarely enough to lean on. A bag of rice, an envelope with a few bills, a place to sleep for a while—these small kindnesses were lifelines, but seldom reliable or structured. And so we learned to live inside uncertainty, carrying our vows without practical shelter of tradition. Devotion had to stand in for stability.
Walking the Path No Matter What
I was able, by blessings and persistence, to remain on this path for nearly a decade and a half. Step by step, year by year, the path unfolded. There were times of luminous clarity, when the Dharma felt as close as my own breath, and the teachings seemed to flow through me as naturally as water. There were also times of raw struggle, when even the question of how to eat or where to stay became part of my practice. In those moments, survival itself was the teaching.
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Still, devotion was the thread that carried me through. It was never about comfort or ease, never about waiting for circumstances to align. It was about saying yes to the path, again and again, even when every outer sign might have suggested giving up. To keep walking, robe wrapped around me, was to live that yes in body and spirit. The difficulties were real, but so was the unshakable sense that this was the life I was meant to live.
One of the Lessons That Remains
Hardship, in the end, is not something to be avoided—it becomes part of the path itself. That is one of the lessons my years in robes gave me. We do not get to choose the shape of the obstacles, only how we meet them. In the Himalayas, it might be the weight of hierarchy and cold nights; in the West, it might be the loneliness of practicing without structures to hold you. Obstacles will come, no matter where you are.
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Some days bring beauty, others bring struggle. Devotion is not about escaping this, but about staying with it. It is about holding steady in the midst of uncertainty and letting those very conditions shape you into something truer than you were before. What once felt like unbearable hardship can, over time, become the ground of deeper resilience. That is not a romantic idea, but a lived truth.
Tending the Flame of Devotion
If there is something I want to leave with you, it is this: the path may not give back what you thought you would receive. The fantasies and ideals we carry at the beginning will not all be met. But the path does give something. Sometimes it gives only a small flame in the darkness, but that flame is real. And if you tend it, protect it, breathe with it, it can carry you further than you ever imagined you could go.
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That flame may not be bright enough to banish all darkness, but it is enough to see the next step, and then the next. It is enough to remind you that the practice, and the devotion are alive within you, no matter the outer circumstances.
With warmth & strength on the path,
Lama Chimey
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Lama Chimey 