A little over two years ago, on New Year’s Day 2023, I stood at the edge of a pandemic-shaped world and made two promises to myself.
The first promise was to write every single day, no matter how much or how little, for 180 days. I wanted to develop a writing habit, and this seemed like the best way to do it. At the time, I didn’t have a clear plan for exactly how or why I wanted to write—I just knew that I did. Some days I wrote a full personal essay, while other days I only managed a haiku. But through diligence and discipline, I succeeded and published something on my website every day for 180 days.
The second promise was to spend an extended period in Europe. Back then, I had a remote job, and I sensed that remote work might not last forever. Having spent much of the pandemic lockdown attempting to learn Italian, I felt compelled to take advantage of the opportunity. My previous short visits to Europe had filled me with such awe and excitement that staying for only a week or two never felt like enough. I wanted to immerse myself fully in the cultural norms of a different place. So, with a bit of luck and a good chunk of my savings, I made it happen: from April through June of 2023, I lived in Europe while continuing to work remotely.
This Friday, I’m flying to Europe again for the first time since that three-month stay two years ago. I'll be going to Berlin first, then Amsterdam—two cities I've never visited before.
Now that two years have passed since achieving those initial goals, and having had time to see how they've shaped me, I wanted to pause and reflect on what that experience meant. I'm incredibly grateful that I actually had the chance to make it happen. Even then, I knew it was probably a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. It’s surprisingly easy to overlook the good (or really, the GREAT) things that have happened over these past few years.
So—I started digging through old blog posts from that time and came across one from June 29th, 2023, titled “To The People I Will Never See Again.”
It's a poem of sorts—though, to be honest, I have no business writing poetry. But I vividly remember that when I wrote it, I was trying to capture exactly how I felt about my time in Europe.
Upon revisiting it, I was struck by how simple it was—no flowery language, no complex structure, no pretension. It lacked the polish and nuance I’ve grown to appreciate in other people’s writing—and occasionally in my own. Yet, there’s an authenticity to this so-called poem—a genuine sense of gratitude and care—that reminded me that “good” writing doesn't always need to be technically advanced or effortlessly fluid. Sometimes, it just needs to come from the heart.
And so, I want to share this poem again here, with all of you, as both a reminder of how far my writing has come, and as an appreciation for where it started. I often say that writing is simply thinking—and to me, that’s precisely what makes it so rewarding. It’s a profound gift to revisit and reflect upon your past self.
Here is the poem:
My travels away from home
Will soon come to an end
And there will be many
Whom I never see again
To the friendly girls who asked me to take their picture
As they high fived on Pont Alexandre III
With the sun setting in the background
And the Eiffel Tower filling the frame behind them
To the Italian waiter who messed with the tourists
At the table next to us
But treated my family exceptionally well
Because my dad could speak his language
To the Chinese girl who invited me to a party
When I was feeling alone in Zürich
Because chocolate and fondue
Aren’t as good as a good conversation
To the Venezuelan man who stood next to me
Under my umbrella as the rain poured heavily
And we spoke in broken Spanish and English
Killing time in line at the Louvre Museum
To the French Airbnb host who made me an Aperol Spritz
And then, since the conversation was going so well,
Made me another
And told me all about the red light district in Geneva
To the other Airbnb host who poured me wine
And brought me olives
And helped me find the right channel on the television
So that I could watch the Champions League final
To the French couple who helped me
Purchase a ticket at the kiosk machine
Because it wasn’t in English
And I was frantic and lost and helpless
These were but a few
Of the people I will never see again
But to you all
Who showed me kindness and friendship
No matter how brief or fleeting
Thank you
Because when people try to tell me
That no good exists in this world
I will tell them
About you
A little over two years ago, on New Year’s Day 2023, I stood at the edge of a pandemic-shaped world and made two promises to myself.
The first promise was to write every single day, no matter how much or how little, for 180 days. I wanted to develop a writing habit, and this seemed like the best way to do it. At the time, I didn’t have a clear plan for exactly how or why I wanted to write—I just knew that I did. Some days I wrote a full personal essay, while other days I only managed a haiku. But through diligence and discipline, I succeeded and published something on my website every day for 180 days.
The second promise was to spend an extended period in Europe. Back then, I had a remote job, and I sensed that remote work might not last forever. Having spent much of the pandemic lockdown attempting to learn Italian, I felt compelled to take advantage of the opportunity. My previous short visits to Europe had filled me with such awe and excitement that staying for only a week or two never felt like enough. I wanted to immerse myself fully in the cultural norms of a different place. So, with a bit of luck and a good chunk of my savings, I made it happen: from April through June of 2023, I lived in Europe while continuing to work remotely.
This Friday, I’m flying to Europe again for the first time since that three-month stay two years ago. I'll be going to Berlin first, then Amsterdam—two cities I've never visited before.
Now that two years have passed since achieving those initial goals, and having had time to see how they've shaped me, I wanted to pause and reflect on what that experience meant. I'm incredibly grateful that I actually had the chance to make it happen. Even then, I knew it was probably a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. It’s surprisingly easy to overlook the good (or really, the GREAT) things that have happened over these past few years.
So—I started digging through old blog posts from that time and came across one from June 29th, 2023, titled “To The People I Will Never See Again.”
It's a poem of sorts—though, to be honest, I have no business writing poetry. But I vividly remember that when I wrote it, I was trying to capture exactly how I felt about my time in Europe.
Upon revisiting it, I was struck by how simple it was—no flowery language, no complex structure, no pretension. It lacked the polish and nuance I’ve grown to appreciate in other people’s writing—and occasionally in my own. Yet, there’s an authenticity to this so-called poem—a genuine sense of gratitude and care—that reminded me that “good” writing doesn't always need to be technically advanced or effortlessly fluid. Sometimes, it just needs to come from the heart.
And so, I want to share this poem again here, with all of you, as both a reminder of how far my writing has come, and as an appreciation for where it started. I often say that writing is simply thinking—and to me, that’s precisely what makes it so rewarding. It’s a profound gift to revisit and reflect upon your past self.
Here is the poem:
My travels away from home
Will soon come to an end
And there will be many
Whom I never see again
To the friendly girls who asked me to take their picture
As they high fived on Pont Alexandre III
With the sun setting in the background
And the Eiffel Tower filling the frame behind them
To the Italian waiter who messed with the tourists
At the table next to us
But treated my family exceptionally well
Because my dad could speak his language
To the Chinese girl who invited me to a party
When I was feeling alone in Zürich
Because chocolate and fondue
Aren’t as good as a good conversation
To the Venezuelan man who stood next to me
Under my umbrella as the rain poured heavily
And we spoke in broken Spanish and English
Killing time in line at the Louvre Museum
To the French Airbnb host who made me an Aperol Spritz
And then, since the conversation was going so well,
Made me another
And told me all about the red light district in Geneva
To the other Airbnb host who poured me wine
And brought me olives
And helped me find the right channel on the television
So that I could watch the Champions League final
To the French couple who helped me
Purchase a ticket at the kiosk machine
Because it wasn’t in English
And I was frantic and lost and helpless
These were but a few
Of the people I will never see again
But to you all
Who showed me kindness and friendship
No matter how brief or fleeting
Thank you
Because when people try to tell me
That no good exists in this world
I will tell them
About you
