CLOSING — LATE LETTERS

31. Some Notes to Myself From the Past

"I want adventure — but not as avoidance."

I'm writing this from a coffee shop in Chiba Prefecture, Japan, near the end of a year-end solo trip — or rather, I was. The pages that follow are scribbled across a stack of old post-it notes I made there, and that I recently dug back out of a drawer. I'm not going to teach you anything in this letter, kids. I'm just trusting you to read what I once wrote to myself.

—

I'm sitting in a coffee shop, and I find myself wondering whether one day I'll simply disappear into a small town somewhere — a nondescript place in the middle of nowhere — and open a tiny café. Nothing fancy. Just a little spot where I can sell fresh fruit, blend some smoothies, wipe the counter clean, and do something simple and relaxing.

A place where no one knows who I am or what I've done. A place meant for tired travelers, wanderers, and people who just need to rest. Maybe even a place with no smartphones allowed, where the pace slows down enough for people to actually talk to one another. Maybe customers would leave notes for the next person — tiny fragments of humanity passed forward. Maybe it would sit near the beach, or along the water, somewhere where the environment itself nudges people toward reflection.

Maybe it would even reward kindness — a discount for giving someone a genuine compliment. A little ecosystem of warmth.

But as I write this, I know that dream sits beside another truth:

next year will not be small.

Next year, I want to push boundaries — not externally, but internally. I want to see what's possible if I stop limiting myself with invisible rules I didn't even realize I had adopted. Some of these expectations come from others, but many I put on myself.

At the same time, I've also realized that I do need some structure. Not the suffocating kind I grew up rebelling against, but the kind that focuses and sharpens me. I like having goals to optimize for. I like the feeling of bending rules in service of a larger purpose, not just for rebellion. I want the flexibility to move freely, but also the discipline to aim that freedom toward something meaningful.

Still — underneath all of that — my quiet wish is simple:

I want to meet someone, fall in love, and build something healthy and real.

A relationship that is not rushed or chaotic, but steady and supportive. One where I become a better version of myself — nicer, more patient, more open. One where travel, adventure, curiosity, and softness coexist.

This next chapter will be a shift away from the old version of me in Southeast Asia, into something new. A symbolic transition.

My broader wish for the year ahead is renewal. I want the power to live fully on the move — not as escapism, but as experience. I've asked myself why I travel so much, and I've realized it's not for the stories or the photos. Even if no one ever knew, I'd still go. It's the unknown that pulls me — the sense of possibility, the randomness, the escape from monotony and what others expect of me. New people. New energy. Letting the world surprise me.

Part of this comes from childhood — the feeling of being trapped by structure at home, the sense that rules were rigid and that life had to fit inside them. That background left me with a deep love of impermanence, motion, and freedom. But I'm also starting to see how that affects my relationships: sometimes I make short-term decisions because permanence feels foreign, or even threatening. I love the sense of drifting, of not being beholden to anyone. But I also know that drifting forever isn't growth.

I struggle with the formality of relationships — the honesty, the boundaries, the awkwardness of naming what something is. It feels heavy sometimes. But I also know connection matters to me deeply. Being in Vietnam taught me how hard it is to be in a place without that sense of connection. I need depth. I need closeness. I need people.

And maybe that's the real theme of all of this: a desire for freedom that doesn't isolate me, and a desire for love that doesn't trap me.

This year, I want both.

I want adventure — but not as avoidance.

I want ambition — but not as self-punishment.

I want love — but not as confinement.

I want structure — but not as a cage.

I want to grow in a way that lets me remain soft.

To push myself without breaking myself.

To let life surprise me.

To let people in.

To let the next chapter be bigger, braver, and more intentional than the one before.

And maybe someday — far down the line — when all of this has run its course, I'll finally open that little café by the water. The one where strangers rest, travelers talk, and someone leaves a note for the next person, hoping they'll be better for having read it.

But not yet.

This year, I'm not retiring.

This year, I'm beginning.

—