Where The Fire Began

A Letter to Me

I’ve been thinking about the girl who was brave enough to book that flight eight years ago and how proud I am of everything her courage made possible.

That one decision to say yes to a solo trip changed everything.

She didn’t know it yet, but she was starting a fire.

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To the Girl Who Got on That Plane,

You didn’t really know what you were doing. You were just following that pull in your chest, that strange ache that whispered: there’s more than this.

A one-week solo trip to New York City.

That’s all it was meant to be. Just a taste of something bigger. Something new.

But it cracked something open in you.

Or maybe it revealed what had been waiting all along.

You went home different. Restless.

Lit up.

I know that feeling now, the hum of something stirring. The quiet nudge that says: it’s time.

Sometimes it arrives like a leap.

Sometimes it’s just a step.

But either way, it’s life trying to move you.

When that feeling comes, I think of you. How brave you were, how much you trusted the unknown. And I try to be that version of me again.

The one who doesn’t fear restlessness, but listens to it.

Who runs with it.

Because look what it gave us.

Look what it made possible.

Within two weeks, you’d quit your job and packed your bags.

No map. No safety net.

Just instincts.

Just fire.

You weren’t chasing success or certainty.

You were chasing aliveness. Curiosity.

That feeling in your chest like you might burst from the wonder of it all.

You walked into that city and let it change you. Let it shake you. Let it show you how massive the world was and how little you knew.

But instead of shrinking, you expanded.

You met yourself there in the hum of subway tunnels, in laughter on fire escapes, in midnight streets that felt like movie scenes.

The city cracked you open. Not all at once, but in glimmers:

The first time you got lost and didn’t panic.

The first conversation with a stranger who really saw you.

The moment you realized no one was watching and that you could be anyone.

You were living in yūgen — that quiet awe in the presence of something vast and unknowable.

You didn’t have the word yet, but you felt it.

You stopped choosing comfort.

You let wonder in.

You said yes to parties that became half-remembered legends, to dates with people who rewrote your “type,” to food that once terrified your picky palate.

You let the world choose for you.

And even when it scared you, you leaned in.

Because something in you knew — this was it. This was the fire.

You took odd bartending gigs to get by. Said yes to everything. Trusted that the next step would appear when it needed to.

And it did.

Because life kept showing up for you because you showed up for it.

No tight grip. No perfect plan.

Just a wild belief in the magic of motion.

And God, were you free.

That freedom, that surrender built the life I live now.

You’ve lived all over the world.

You’ve met strangers who became soulmates.

You’ve made mistakes that taught you more than playing it safe ever could.

You’ve known heartbreak. Confusion. Loss.

But you’ve also known fierce love.

Wild joy.

Deep beauty.

You’ve felt the thrill of beginnings.

The ache of endings.

The steady flame of resilience.

Through it all, you never stopped seeking.

Never stopped dreaming.

You didn’t know your twenties would break you open in so many ways.

Didn’t know you’d carry pain so sharp it nearly took your breath away.

But you also didn’t know how strong you’d become.

How much grace would come from everything you thought might ruin you.

Even now in this chapter of pause, of rebuilding I think of you.

Full of light.

Hungry for life.

Unafraid to leap.

And I remember who I am.

Thank you for her.

Thank you for the fire.

Thank you for dreaming without needing guarantees.

You didn’t just change your life —

You set it in motion.

And that motion?

I’m still in it.

With love,

Me

Where the fire began. NYC 2017 — I’ve never been the same since.