For the past three years, as I cross borders, I’ve been proving my identity with a card that calls me a digital nomad. I never really know what I think — about what’s happening around me, or inside me — until I write it down. So I decided this might be the format.

These letters will be written from rooms that don’t belong to me. Reflections from a life of constant movement and no fixed home, thoughts shaped by unfamiliar kitchens in unfamiliar countries, by the search for something steady after the old foundations stopped holding.

I’ll write about rethinking what matters, about trying to find myself outside of corporate noise and endless calls, about slowly, lovingly, imagining a life somewhere in the countryside — growing potatoes, maybe.

My tastes are strange, my thoughts often absurd, I don’t stick to any genre, and I swear more than I should.

Hi. I’m really glad you’re here.