To the corners we have yet to explore.

 

There are spaces in my life that are currently evolving.

Spaces I’m stepping into—

not for the first time,

a space filled with fog.

I can’t quite see what’s around me,

only feel the shape of change brushing against my skin.

 

But every day,

when I talk to someone new

or read a line that lingers

or watch a video that jolts something loose,

I learn a little more about this space.

A step closer

to the clearing out of the woods  

 

One of these evolving spaces is travel—

and I want to save that for another day.

Because today,

I want to talk about the shifting space of my career.

 

I left Michelin about two weeks ago.

It was bittersweet.

Sadness, yes.

But also a wild pulse of excitement—

the kind that dances behind your ribs when you’re about to leap.

A sense of freedom I hadn’t felt in a long time.

 

I didn’t really have a solid plan.

Just a loose sketch of doing a bit of content creation,

teaching fitness classes on the side,

with the ultimate dream of becoming a personal trainer on a cruise ship.

And now that I’ve tasted that freedom—

really tasted it—

I’ve realized something painful but clarifying:

I’m not cut out to be an entrepreneur.

 

I had a hunch before I left.

Because I’d tried it ten years ago,

as a personal trainer, a sole trader,

and I knew even then

that it wasn’t in my blood

to be that lone wolf chasing his own brand.

 

But I figured—hell, maybe a decade has changed me.

Maybe I’ve grown enough,

sharpened my tools enough

to carry that weight now.

But these past two weeks have done nothing but confirm

what I already knew in my gut—

 

I work better as a co-pilot.

A collaborator.

A gear in something greater than myself.

 

I also realized that Michelin was more than just a job.

It was an anchor.

A sanctuary.

A goddamn playground.

 

It was where I moved my body,

lost myself in music and podcasts,

laughed with coworkers,

mucked around,

and somehow got paid to be present.

 

And most days, it didn’t even feel like work—

it felt like play.

Right up until the very end.

 

It was also a place I went to

to unravel my thoughts,

dissect them,

and stitch them back together

before the end of each shift.

A ritual I didn’t even know I had until it was gone.

 

And now,

without that anchor,

I feel adrift.

 

I sleep in.

I waste time.

I spend half the day doing absolutely nothing,

then try to cram some productivity into a fleeting two or three hours.

And I feel—truly—

a part of my soul

shrinking in this air

where others seem to thrive.

 

But to me,

this much freedom isn’t a gift.

It’s suffocating.

 

And so, I’ve realized something else—

something I wish more people would say out loud:

 

I work really well

under time restraint.

 

One of the best things about Michelin

was that it took away eight hours of my day.

Another eight went to sleep.

Which left just eight hours

to live—

to create,

to connect,

to dream.

 

And that restraint?

It fueled me.

It gave me urgency.

It made me move.

 

But when you hand me twenty-four hours of freedom,

I unravel.

 

Because I’m too efficient when I need to be.

I know I don’t need the whole day to make something great—

I only need two or three hours.

Which means the rest gets wasted.

I get wasted.

Time gets heavy when it isn’t held.

 

Which is why, next week,

I’ve decided to walk back in.

To that factory.

To that space.

To drop anchor

not as a step backward,

but as a strategy.

 

Ironically,

I need something stable

to set my sails free.

To move forward

into this ocean of freedom

with something steady beneath my feet.