When I first set out to build something in Konkan, it wasn’t a calculated career move. It was a calling, subtle at first, then all-consuming. I didn’t have a master plan, just a deep yearning to create something that felt real, raw, and meaningful.

Over time, that calling became Konkan Travel Club– a sociopreneurial venture rooted in offbeat travel, local collaboration, and sustainable tourism. It became more than a brand. It became a way of life.

But behind the scenic beauty, soulful connections, and meaningful work, there’s another side of the story. A story of risk, slow burn, personal trade-offs, and tough lessons that rarely make it to Instagram.

The Good

1. Rooted Connections

The absolute highlight of this journey has been the people I get to know. The villagers, travelers, artists,  students, fellow explorers. Some you meet for a moment. Others stay becoming collaborators, companions, chosen family.

What binds them is something deeper than transactions. It’s shared meals, shared mistakes, shared wonder. It’s the kind of connection that makes work feel less like work, and more like a series of meaningful conversations strung together across time and terrain.
Working at the grassroots humbles you. You stop seeing people through titles or designations. You begin to notice how someone makes fire, how they greet you with silence instead of words, how their routines speak louder than their resumes. You witness the dignity in manual labor. The patience in old farmers. The spark in rural youth. The unspoken intelligence of communities that have survived without the noise of modern systems.

2. Pace & Patience

In the beginning, you want things to move fast. You come with plans, deadlines, and structure. But the land  and its people move differently. They’re not lazy. They’re just in tune with something bigger: seasons, moods, cycles, intuition.

You learn to move slow, not because you’ve lost drive, but because you’ve learned to listen.

That slowness becomes your power. It teaches you to observe before acting. To wait before deciding. To build trust before expecting outcomes.

And slowly, that trust compounds. One good experience opens the door to five more. What seemed like scattered dots start connecting into a coherent picture, not by force, but by presence.

You begin to see how things really work: the pace of rural life, the nuances of tradition, the dreams behind quiet eyes, the complexity of local systems.

You learn to work slow, not out of inefficiency but out of respect for rhythm. That slowness has, unknowingly, built a strong and rooted foundation. Every relationship, every experience, every location scouted and every trail walked is a slow investment, but it grows like a tree. Quietly. Steadily.

3. Grit

There’s something deeply fulfilling about building from the ground up, not just metaphorically, but literally. You’ve stood under tarps in the rain, hiked through wild trails to scout a campsite, stayed up to design posters, answered calls at midnight.

No investor. No safety net. Just belief, effort, and small wins.

You see your fingerprints on every part of it, the systems you set up, the culture you created, the team you nurtured. It’s messy, yes. But it’s yours.

That kind of ownership teaches you more than any textbook or course ever could. You understand how systems work. How teams need space and trust. How things fall apart when communication breaks down and how they fall back together with a little effort and honesty.
Creating something from scratch, watching it evolve with the seasons, knowing that no matter where it goes, you built this with your own two hands.

4. Moments That Anchor You

And then there are the moments. The ones that don’t make it to Instagram but stay with you for years.

A traveler who tells you this trip changed their perspective. A village elder who quietly begins to trust your intentions. A morning cup of tea with a host who now feels like family.

They remind you why you started. Why you keep going. Even when it’s slow. Even when it’s uncertain. Even when it’s not “scalable” by conventional metrics.

Because sometimes, the best measure of success is a peaceful sunset after a long day knowing you did something honest, something kind, something that added a little more meaning to the world.

The Bad

1. Managing Perceptions

Ironically, the biggest challenge has also been the people. Not all, but enough to leave a mark. Managing perception of people is a full-time job in itself.

You’re not just doing your work; you’re constantly being watched, questioned, judged, and sometimes misunderstood. People often don’t see the hours you put in or the intention behind your work — they see what fits their existing narrative. Some assume you’re doing this just for profit- even when I have much easier avenues of earning profit where I don’t even need to build teams.  And some simply can’t place what you’re doing because it doesn’t fit into their known boxes.

And when the work is slow, experimental, or long-term in nature (as it often is in socio-enterprise), it doesn’t always make sense to people. Especially if there’s no immediate benefit for them.

At some point, you realize that managing perception isn’t about changing everyone’s mind, it’s about staying rooted in your own clarity. Still, that takes a toll. It requires emotional energy, self-awareness, and sometimes the strength to walk away when your values are being diluted.

2. Being Used vs Being Built With

In some cases, the equation turns transactional and if you’re not constantly vigilant, you get reduced to just a resource. A free hand. A dependable worker. Someone who’ll quietly do the groundwork, solve the problems without asking for recognition, compensation, or visibility.

People won’t say it outright, but you feel it in the way decisions are made. You’re involved when there’s groundwork to be done, the heavy lifting, the behind-the-scenes hustle. But the moment there’s recognition to be shared or a real opportunity on the table, you’re suddenly just an option. If convenient, you’ll be called. If not, you’re invisible.

What hurts most is when this comes from people in positions of power or influence, the ones you look up to, expecting some form of mentorship, guidance, or even just mutual respect. Instead, you realize their support is conditional. It flows only when it benefits them.

You start seeing patterns: You’re celebrated when you’re useful. Forgotten when you’re not. And in that process, your worth gets quietly undermined. not by strangers, but often by the very people you once trusted to help you grow.

And when you finally step back or assert boundaries, you’re made to feel difficult, emotional, or ungrateful. As if asking for dignity and reciprocity is unreasonable.

You learn to navigate that. To say no. To be firmer with boundaries. But these are hard-earned lessons. And they cost time, energy, and sometimes faith.

3. Professionalism in the Wild

Another subtle but constant challenge is professionalism or rather, the lack of a shared standard for it.

In grassroots work, things are often fluid. Roles are undefined. Informality is the norm. While this gives flexibility, it also creates friction especially when you’re trying to operate with consistency and structure.

Commitments get broken. Timelines get stretched. Communication is patchy. And you’re expected to be patient because “this is how things work here.”
But professionalism isn’t just about systems — it’s about respect. It’s about valuing people’s time, being accountable, and showing up with sincerity. And when that’s missing, it can be deeply frustrating.

You end up being the bridge, between what is and what could be. Between the chaotic present and a more reliable future.

And while that role is meaningful, it’s also exhausting. Because you’re not just building an organization, you’re often trying to build a work culture from scratch.

4. Put down

Some of the hardest hits come from those operating in the same space especially the louder, more visible ones. The ones with a following, a brand, a voice that echoes far wider than yours.

There was a time when a popular entity tried to bully me into staying small. It was a direct put-down. Remarks like “You should stick to working in your local area”  meant to box you in. To clip your wings before you even take flight.

You start to see it clearly: they’re uncomfortable not because your work is flawed, but because it’s original. Unapologetically different. And most of all because you’re not playing by their script.

Then comes the other side, the quiet theft. Your words, your photographs, your formats lifted without credit. Posted as their own. 

At first, it feels like a gut-punch. Then it becomes a slow erosion of trust. You start sharing less. Guarding more. You hesitate to express ideas freely, because you’ve seen what happens when people with bigger mics take your voice and make it theirs.

But you learn. You develop quiet strength. You realize your work wasn’t built to impress; it was built to impact. And the roots you’ve put down in communities, in relationships, in lived experience are stronger than any viral post or public opinion.

You keep going. Not to prove a point. But because the work deserves to exist with or without applause.

The Trade-off

Dedicating years to building KTC came at the cost of momentum in my original field: software development.

While peers built stable careers, jumped roles & countries, leveled up technically, and grew financially I was coordinating treks, handling operations, managing community dynamics, and building things that don’t show up on a resume.

And even though I’ve gained depth, perspective, and leadership from this path, the risk is real: stepping off the beaten path in your late 20s or 30s isn’t romantic – it’s risky.

There are days I wonder: What if I had just focused on my tech career?
But then there are moments that are real, grounding, human moments that remind me why I chose this. And why I continue.

A Reality Check

Being a sociopreneur can be fulfilling, but it isn’t glamorous.
It takes longer. It pays less. It drains more.
You operate in grey zones, between profit and purpose, between structure and chaos.

But if you’re okay with the unpredictability, and if you believe in building long-term, there’s something magical about it- Given that you have an alternate source of steady income.

It teaches you to see value in people, not titles.
It teaches you to hold vision when others can’t.
It teaches you to build patiently, and with integrity.

Final Thoughts

This isn’t a success story. It’s a becoming story.

Konkan isn’t just the backdrop of my journey – it’s the teacher, the mirror, the test, and the reward.

And while I don’t know exactly where this path leads, I do know this:
What we’re building slowly, ethically, with heart is going to matter.
Maybe not today. Maybe not next month. But eventually.