Chapter One: Leaving Without Arriving

3 days ago
5 min read

I thought I had it all figured out, and at the time it felt like a great idea to escape the cold, wet winters back home.

With a kind of bold confidence, I boarded an iron bird bound for Asia. Getting to that moment meant overcoming a liver disease, facing my mental health head-on, and accepting one truth I resisted for far too long: I am in no position to change you. Change is powerful, yes but only when it begins with oneself. My focus had to shift from you to me.

I wish I could have taken my counterpart with me, my mom, but you all know that isn’t possible. So I left her there, continuing her own quiet footprint in the sand. As the years move on since what I still call her accident, it’s been strange to watch how differently people, near and far, respond to her stroke. Her mind remains clear, her eyes exactly the same, holding stories both new and old. But her lips move without sound, and the right side of her body refuses to follow the left. Leaving her never gets easier.

Every time I cross an ocean searching for financial stability, it’s with the hope of giving her everything she needs. And so, with brave wings, he flies... still searching for the next chapter, always carrying the love of his mother.

Back in my neighbourhood on Sathorn Soi 12, I looked at the streets I’ve walked for over two years. The whiff of sewage, the local food stalls selling chicken feet and deep-fried scorpions, all of it made the moment feel surreal, knowing the time had finally come to pack up my home. Along for the ride, my steady support proved unbelievably helpful with the boxes. Months ago we joked that I would offer free accommodation and my best tour-guide skills in exchange for help packing my life into IKEA boxes.

Somehow, she actually agreed. And so, together, we wandered through Bangkok and Koh Samed, turning the chaos of packing into its own little adventure.

Once the last box was sealed, the apartment felt empty in a way I wasn’t prepared for. It was like packing away a whole life. And then came the question I couldn’t ignore: what now? Asia had given me space to heal, to grow, and to fight my way forward. But a new chapter was calling from somewhere beyond the glowing signs and warm, sticky nights. So I took a deep breath, grabbed my passport, and got ready for whatever came next.

Next stop: Koh Samui. So, not yet time for that passport. I met up with my Albatross and dove into a 12-day detox, weight-loss, and wellness program. If you think juicing, smoothies, and soups are easy, think again. There were no cafes or restaurants on site to distract us, but temptation always lingered just beyond the walls. Along the way, I met remarkable people and tackled some long-bad habits.

Morning apple cider vinegar shots, colonic rituals, one-hour massages, and even snoring through sound healing sessions. By the end, one thing was clear: we can’t change anyone else. Acceptance is the only path forward, and it’s up to each of us how long and where we choose to carry someone along for the ride.

By the time the 12 days were up, I felt lighter, not just in body, but in mind. Old habits had been challenged, new routines planted, and the fog that had lingered over my thoughts seemed to lift, if only a little. Leaving the retreat was bittersweet: the people I met, the lessons I learned, and the quiet discipline of those days would stay with me, even as the tropical beaches and humming birds faded behind me.

Now, with my bags repacked and a renewed sense of purpose, it was time to face the next chapter. Back to Bangkok? Or onward to somewhere new, unknown, and waiting?

The goodbye to Albatros didn’t feel like an ending. Not really. Some people don’t leave your life, they just step out of your immediate view, like a boat drifting past the horison, still there, just further away. We both knew our paths would cross again. That kind of connection doesn’t disappear.

But I wasn’t done yet. Not with Thailand. Not with myself.

So instead of going back, I chose to go deeper.

I found myself on a ferry to Koh Phangan, chasing something I couldn’t quite name, maybe clarity, maybe peace, maybe just a few more answers. I checked into a quiet vegan retreat, tucked away from the noise, where the days were slower and the nights felt honest. It was one of the best decisions I made.

There were moments that tested me. Long walks uphill in tropical rainstorms, clothes soaked through, mosquitoes relentless and unforgiving. Still, I kept going. Step by step, following a path that felt bigger than the map in my hand.

And then I reached the top.

Sitting there, overlooking the raw beauty of Koh Phangan, something shifted. Not dramatically, not all at once, but enough. Enough to realise that I wasn’t finished with this part of the world. Thailand still had more for me, and maybe… I still had more for myself.

So I returned to Koh Samui.

This time, it felt different. Less like escape, more like intention. I found a small, newly built bungalow on a quiet track I used to walk every day. Familiar, but new, like me in some strange way.

And then, somehow, life placed something unexpected on my doorstep.

A mother cat and her four kittens.

I didn’t go looking for them, and they certainly didn’t ask permission to arrive. But they stayed. And in their quiet way, they became part of my routine, my responsibility, my comfort. A small, living reminder that even when you feel alone, something or someone, can still find you.

In between feeding kittens and watching the days pass, I focused on interviews. One after another. Some promising, some ending without explanation. Each “no” echoed louder than it should have, chipping away at the confidence I had worked so hard to rebuild.

And in those quieter moments, the absence of support from family felt heavier than ever. Not dramatic. Not loud. Just… there. Like a silence that lingers longer than it should.

I’ve spent much of my life learning how to stand alone. Choosing which memories to hold onto, which moments to let define me. From the outside, it might look idyllic. Beaches, sunsets, freedom.

But the truth is, I’m still learning how to connect. How to love life fully. How to let people in. How to believe that someone might walk beside me, not behind, not ahead - but with me.

After everything - after Covid, after the wrong turns, after the lessons I had to learn the hard way. I’ve started to accept something difficult but necessary:

I am still becoming.

And maybe that’s okay.

Because now, another opportunity sits in front of me. A job I’m not entirely sure I want, but one that leads me somewhere familiar.

A place that once felt like a second home. A place I loved deeply, in a way that felt easy and natural.

Maybe it’s time to go back.

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