I was digging through my notes and found a few scribbled across a collection of old post-its I wrote at the end of a year-end solo trip in Chiba Prefecture, Japan.
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I'm sitting in a coffee shop, wondering whether one day I'll simply disappear into a small town somewhere — an indescript place in the middle of nowhere — and open a tiny café. Nothing fancy. Just a little spot where I can sell fresh fruit, blend 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 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 talk to each other. Maybe customers would leave notes for the next person — tiny fragments of humanity passed forward. Maybe it would sit near the water, somewhere where the environment itself nudges people toward reflection. Maybe it would reward kindness — a discount for a genuine compliment to a stranger. 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 came from others. Most I put on myself.
At the same time, I've realized I do need some structure. Not the suffocating kind I grew up rebelling against, but the kind that focuses and sharpens. 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, and the discipline to aim that freedom somewhere meaningful.
Still — underneath all of it — my quiet wish is simple:
I want to meet someone, fall in love, and build something healthy and real. A relationship that isn't rushed or chaotic, but steady and supportive. One where I become a nicer, more patient, more open version of myself. One where travel, adventure, curiosity, and softness all 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. 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 from 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 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 it affects my relationships: sometimes I make short-term decisions because permanence feels foreign, even threatening. I love drifting. I love not being beholden to anyone. But 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 live in a place without that sense of connection. I need depth. I need closeness. I need people.
And maybe that's the real theme: a desire for freedom that doesn't isolate me, and a desire for love that doesn't trap me. 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.
To grow without breaking. To push without becoming hard. To let people in. To let the world surprise me.
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.