True Transformation Doesn’t Trend

Trek to Destiny

Twinkles and I trekked through the Citadel at Machu Picchu, fellow tourists froze mid-step, eyes wide, as a tiny dog scaled the irregular stone terraces with the determination of a mountain goat. Phones lifted; whispers rippled through the crowd.

Her name is Twinkles, a four-pound teacup Chihuahua mix who once trembled at the sound of a closing door. For years she shrank from strangers and hid in corners, written off as just another “yappy lapdog.” Now, against every expectation, she was confidently striding across a Wonder of the Modern World.

I never shared the photo of Twinkles and me at the iconic overlook of Machu Picchu. Yes, it was the same shot every travel company uses to advertise the site. Striking, undeniably attention-getting. But it would have eclipsed the real spectacle: her story.

The picture alone wasn’t enough. Posted online, it might have become just another viral novelty—like the “Titanic Chihuahua,” a clip of a tiny dog throwing a melodramatic tantrum after being told it couldn’t follow its owner to an exhibit. It racked up millions of views before fading into the internet’s endless scroll.

Our culture loves spectacle, especially when it’s quirky and quick to consume. But what made Twinkles’ journey remarkable wasn’t the photo op. It was the years of transformation that came before—the long, invisible work that turned a fearful rescue into a dog capable of defying expectations.

Why Spectacle Outshines Substance

We live in a world that prizes instant celebrity. Videos go viral, headlines trend, and complex lives are flattened into a few seconds of drama. Quiet triumphs, the kind that unfold over years, rarely command attention.

That preference shapes more than what fills our screens. It influences how we measure progress in politics, in schools, even in our personal lives. We reward the dramatic reveal or the sudden collapse, while the patient, unseen work that makes those moments possible goes unnoticed.

A protest goes viral; years of organizing rarely get a headline. An athlete’s winning goal is replayed endlessly; the training that led there barely registers. A commencement speech trends for a day; the late nights of study that made it possible remain invisible. The big moment becomes the story, when in truth it is only the tip of a much longer arc.

Twinkles’ climb was a reminder that real growth is rarely instant, and never glamorous while it’s happening.

Why the Real Arc Matters

When I first brought Twinkles home, she was gripped by fear—trembling at sudden noises, shrinking from strangers, retreating into corners. The world didn’t make it easier, dismissing her as a disposable prop. Yet those very fears and judgments became the ground from which her transformation began.

Her progress wasn’t a single breakthrough but thousands of small victories: trusting a gentle hand, daring to enter a new room, staying calm when the door slammed. Over time, each invisible step stitched together a larger arc—fear → growth → proof → defiance → belonging.

Strictly speaking, dogs aren’t permitted at Machu Picchu today. But the irony is that they once belonged there. In the Incan world, dogs were companions woven into daily life, ritual, and myth. In a sense, Twinkles wasn’t sneaking in; she was returning to where her kind had always belonged.

At the heart of that day, a ranger noticed her delighting fellow travelers. He paused, considered, and moved on, silently validating what her behavior already proved: she belonged.

Step by step, she showed that belonging isn’t about permission. It’s about presence, proof, and the courage to climb.

Twinkles defied every expectation of a tiny dog, moving with the same quiet grace as Keanu Reeves offering his subway seat—unassuming, humble, disarming. Her proof was in action: walking into places dogs “weren’t supposed” to go, doing what others insisted she couldn’t.

Belonging isn’t claimed in titles, words, ‘one-trick pony’ videos. It’s earned in steps, shown again and again until others can’t help but recognize it.

"Everyone has a Twinkles—someone or something overlooked that’s waiting to become extraordinary. The only question is: will you step up and nurture that growth, or let it fade?"