Sometimes I think I’ve spent a lot of my life chasing “meaning” like it’s a destination. Like if I just get to the right city, the right job, the right person, the right version of myself, I’ll finally arrive at this neat little truth: Here. This is it.

And I’m here, in Bangkok, moving through it, feeling existential and tender and strange, like my soul is trying to learn a new language.

Because once you start seeing the remarkable in the seemingly unremarkable, you can’t unsee it.

The streets become paragraphs.

The train platforms become chapters.

The strangers become mirrors.

Every city becomes a kind of moving meditation, even when it’s messy and loud and you’re sweating through your clothes.

And you realize you’re not searching for meaning.

You’re practicing it.

January 2026