In Iceland, the world is tall and wide and lush. The winds are strong, the people broad like the Dutch, and the sheep as fat as can be. If you listen closely, rarely will you hear a bird sing. I saw some, and those who fly seem to know: their song is as beautiful as the space in which they reside.

I went for the eclipse, following the path of hundreds of thousands. It was the most tourists Iceland ever had in one go. I expected noise. I expected gridlock and traffic jams, people marring the fabled views. Thankfully, I had underestimated the country’s prowess, and I had misunderstood why I had come. I planned the trip to feast my senses on Mother Nature. I left the country surprised, hopeful by what I had rediscovered within.

By 6am on eclipse day, we had left Reykjavik to make our way north to the West Fjords. I had two-wheel drive. The car would go far, but how far, I’d only know once we were there.

It was gray and rainy, and six hours of road stretched out before me. I tried playing a podcast on the history of the country, but quickly grew bored. Music marred the silence, disrupting the words of exclamation Nathan and I made over the awe-inspiring views. We drove like that for a while, softly moving through Mars-like landscapes and black mountains that stretched high on either side of us.

The speed limit was ninety*. I vacillated between sixty and one-twenty, distracted. Iceland was my thirty-fourth country, but I could stop counting after a few minutes on the road. Lava fields hardened into rock were littered with juicy spreads of grass and moss. Glacier water trickled down, highlighting crevices that sparkled in the rare rays of sun.

We kept looking at the sky, hoping it would clear by the time we reached north, while knowing it didn’t matter. The eclipse was a pretext. It put us on a journey to see what pictures and words simply cannot communicate. So we chased the eclipse, relishing the adventure it put us on.

Near the top of the country, a policewoman stopped us. “There are no bathrooms, gas, or food down the road,” she said, “and there’s no driving back until evening.” Something awoke in me, the lack of connection throwing me off. This is what I came here for though. The farther from amenities I got, the better I’d understand the place. And myself, as I’d later come to understand.

We wound down a gravel mountain path at ten kilometers an hour, reaching the bottom of the fjord. The Atlantic Ocean spread out ahead of us. We took some snacks and jackets, and got out. A few people wandered the path nearby, each turning and going their own way. We walked some time until we saw no one but ourselves, and settled in to wait. It would be hours before the eclipse started.

We sat there staring at the sky, hearing the ocean’s power, watching a lone bird circle the enormous expanse. We sat there as the world got bigger, and we shrank to the size of the sand on the shore.

I began to sing. It was a distraction from the eternal nothingness that seemed to envelop me. I was scared, alone, with the love of my life next to me. The feeling was reminiscent of a great big space in my heart. I started singing songs I had sung when I was seven years old. Songs in Russian, Ukrainian and Hebrew. I sang silently and I sang out loud. I was singing because the last time I felt this alone was around seven years old.

I’ve been to so many places, distracting myself with people, scrolling my phone, reading, watching, writing, working, working out and even playing violin. I spent so much time out there doing and doing that I rarely spent time being. I haven’t shared a meaningful stretch of time with myself, still and silent, feeling small, in so, so long.

The eclipse began, and in time the world became dark. Sheep grazing near us went to sleep, their jaws finally stopped chewing. I tried, but could not hold on to the stillness. Two minutes stretched into mere seconds. The darkness moved like a curtain on fast-forward. The eclipse hit totality and then light came rushing back. The sheep started eating again.

When we arrived in the fjord, I searched for the blessing we say on seeing this natural wonder. Lo and behold, I learned that most rabbis consider the eclipse a sign of God’s anger. We don’t bless it; we pray for forgiveness. I couldn’t repent though. Despite not keeping most of the Jewish laws, I know I haven’t done anything wrong. This thought bothered me as I watched the light leave and come back. Who was God to tell me to be sorry?

In retrospect, as I write this, I am beginning to realize what I can repent for: my years of disconnection from myself. Sitting and facing the Atlantic Ocean, feeling like nothing but a grain of sand, I realized that’s exactly what I am. A piece of the universe, barely nothing at all. I spend my time distracted, hyping myself up into someone, when the truth is that I am no one. I’m alone, disconnected, only as large as the nothingness I can be in this great universe. That vast space in my heart I’ve forgotten with all my running around is my home. The silent embrace of the eclipse taught me that I can only repent to myself.

Sitting here now, back in Brussels, struggling to conjure the humbling feeling that being surrounded by grandness brings, I remind myself: that feeling of being alone in a beautiful world is right here. It’s in my heart. If I listen closely, I don’t hear birds. I hear a seven-year-old singing songs, alone.

*For my American friends: Ninety kilometers per hour

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At the Air Serbia lounge at Charles de Gaulle, a woman scanned my ticket to let me in. She had sharp red lipstick on that brought out her eyes.

Wouldn’t it be nice to borrow a bit of her Parisian glamour?

I had a short flight to Belgrade. It was early. There wasn’t much to do besides thinking and trying to eat something before I flew out.

The woman with the red lipstick kept popping into mind as I browsed the soggy dinner buffet options. I found some cold rice and piled my plate with it. Something my grandma used to say popped into mind. She always told me soft colors look better on me. Light pinks, natural tones, even bare lips over red ones. She hasn’t told me that in a couple of years, though, because she passed away a while back.

I went through a mental list of items in my little handbag: passport, charger, credit card, and underwear. I was going for two days, and three outfits somehow managed to fit inside. I made a mental note to pick up some face cream. Mine was out, and I like buying local things in new places. I touched my cheek; too dry. Maybe one too many recent flights were starting to ruin my skin.

The lounge quickly got boring. I passed customs and boarded the plane first, something I rarely do. Two and a half hours later and about halfway through a very good book, I was in Belgrade.

There are a few things in life that make me feel most like Yehudis. Some of those include hot yoga, dancing, and soft massages that turn off my thoughts. High up on my to-do list at the St. Regis hotel was a luxurious, oily, head-to-toe massage. Perhaps to recuperate some of that moisture being on the plane brought.

The next morning, I called the front desk. They had no massage slots left for Sunday.

Oh well, I’ll go to the Hammam (steam room) instead, I decided. The wet heat is close enough to human touch. Both make me feel hugged.

Standing in the spa, robe on, swimsuit tied, I asked the woman to let me know if she had a cancellation. Then, grabbing a towel, I lay in the Hammam breathing in the humid air. Not five minutes later, the same woman found me. “Miss. Yehudis, do you still want a massage?”

She had me choose an oil, and I quietly laughed to myself. Of course I got the massage. I’m good at getting whatever I want.

This treatment was a bit different than what I’m used to. Towards the end, the masseuse moved up to touch my face, rubbing the area above my cheeks and by my third eye. It was that moment I realized how energetically porous my face is. Anyone who has touched my face, I’ve instantly loved. It’s so intimate; I feel that I can sense someone’s soul through my skin.

This woman’s energy was gently compassionate. Without words, this masseuse gave me a taste of what was inside her. And it was beautiful; I was grateful. It was at that moment I realized why I love people. It’s why I travel so much, why I talk to everyone. I realized that I’m on this constant discovery for everyone’s energy. I want to get to know people and their stories because that’s how their souls shine through.

After the massage, I sat musing on all the thoughts that came to me. My masseuse came up to me again. “Your face is dry…do you want some cream?” She had me test a light serum that felt like what my skin was looking for. It didn’t clog my pores or make me feel shiny. It sat on my face and moisturized it in harmony with the dryness I had. I laughed again; of course I found the skincare I needed, I’m good at getting whatever I want.

I went to the front desk to check out, and the receptionist pulled out what I thought were samples. “We have a gift for you,” she said warmly. “You can choose lipstick or any of these mascaras.”

The lipstick was bright red. I pointed to it and she complimented my choice. “It’s the last one we have, and it’ll look good on you.”

I’m good at getting whatever I want.

Back in my room, I tried the lipstick on, picturing the lady at the Air Serbia lounge. I glanced in the mirror, channeling my Parisian self. I looked again. The lipstick applied to my lips as a soft red, not sharp like the lady at the Air Serbia lounge. I’m sure my grandma would have approved.

Perhaps I’m not good at getting whatever I want.

I’m good at getting whatever I need.

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I was in Scotland last week. The first thing that hit me high in the plane was all the greenery around. Big rolling hills and juicy verdure reflected freshness through the windows. I wasn’t sure what the city would be like, but I knew it’d be beautiful.

I didn’t rent a car for this trip. Left side driving spooks me; I wasn’t ready for the stress of feeling every car bump into me. Uber would do.

I had forgotten that taking Ubers 2 to 4 times a day can be a joy. It’s city dependent, though. For example, New York Uber drivers tend to be harried, rushed, and uninterested in conversation. Even there, I’ve had some impactful rides.

Here in this beautiful country, the drivers turned out to be wonderful. Most of them were immigrants, and to each one I posed the same question: what do you love about Scotland? Many came from India, Greece, and other warm countries. I couldn’t imagine trading sunshine for intense wind and rain, even if those conditions brought along the green. Every single one of my drivers said the same thing. The people are friendly here.

The drivers shared stories of their home countries with me. One of them kept us in the car for an extra ten minutes, parked in front of the hotel, enthralled in his adventures with his prostituting, drug-selling, Albania-mafia connected girlfriend from Colombia. Another spoke of his wife; she died many years ago, and he didn’t want to find another woman. I love her, he said. We sat in silence after that.

After every ride, I carried the drivers’ perspective with me. People are friendly here. It made me open and appreciative of the laughter Scottish people shared. I looked at the interactions with this lens of friendliness, and I think it made people act even nicer to me. On a whisky1 tour at Johnny Walker, I chatted with our theatrical tour guide and found out his wife was from my home state Wisconsin. At the end of the tour, he slipped a tiny bottle of a rare and smokey whisky. They don’t like it too much when I do this, he whispered, looking around, but I like treating nice people I meet on my tours.

The author Paul Graham writes about messages cities share2. Boston screams “be smart”, while New York is all about power. If Paul wrote a similar list for countries, I know what mood Scotland would ooze. The intense winds seem to encourage people to supply endless friendly gestures and kind words. Upon arrival at our hotel, we got a room upgrade for no reason other than you’re staying here for six days, you should have a better view. At the Caledonia restaurant, the waitress apologized for a seemingly excessive wait (not more than 20 minutes!) and gave us 2 glasses of juicy champagne to end off our meal.

This type of sharing joy continued all the way to the airport on our way out. The airline agent checked our pool cue stick for free, though it’s considered oversized. You shouldn’t pay 80 pounds for something that’s less than a kilo, she said in a nearly incomprehensible Scottish accent.

I’ve been to many places; Scotland was country 31. Joy and friendliness appeared in every single interaction. From the very first moment in the air to the last on land, someone was taking the time to connect on such a welcoming level. Maybe the immigrants from warm countries lose their sun, but in Scotland they find something even warmer. Plenty of human friendliness to go around.

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My favorite author overdosed a few years ago. His usual dealer was in jail, so he bought drugs from someone new. Whatever he took was laced with Fentanyl.

A few days later, John was found in the shower, dead.

After his cremation, I spoke with a woman John had mentored. She was Irish and around the same age as I. She told me that he used to get addicted on purpose. John loved the feeling he got from stopping cold turkey. Every few months, he’d do this cycle for a few months, just to prove that he was in control.

It’s been a number of years since I thought back to that conversation. I felt I could never do the same. Why would I hurt myself again and again for the sake of discipline? Life is hard enough.

Yesterday, John’s behavior came to mind. I was looking at the patterns I’m trying to fix. I keep creating the same problems to fix.

My adult life has gone like this:

Create a good balance of work and life →

Coast on this balance for a few months →

Get bored of that balance and commit to new things →

Get overwhelmed by the lack of balance and drop everything →

And repeat.

Every time I restructure my life, I feel good. I got it, I think, I’m making progress. I’ve fixed things. Today, for example, I woke up on time, took a walk, played violin, sat down to write, and later I’ll get some hours of (paid) work done.

I feel in control. That guilt for unintentionally dropping hobbies and work is fading. I’m using my calendar, I’m saying no to new projects. But underneath the satisfaction, unease lingers. This will last a few months, and then I’ll pile my life up with too much again. I know, I’ve done it so many times. Why wouldn’t I do it again?

Solomon said1, “fall seven times, and get up eight”. I’ve fallen and fallen and fallen enough. I’ve gotten addicted to being busy and then wanted my peace again, over and over again. I’m tired of it. I don’t want to keep repeating the same cycle anymore.

Solomon didn’t end the quote with “and fall again”. Does this mean the loop can be closed?

I don’t know. I have a love for fixing problems. I’ve fixed them all my life. They’re my comfort zone. I thought I could never do what John did, but look at me. I keep hurting myself because fixing the overwhelm feels good. This makes it difficult to look in the mirror and ask myself:

But how many problems have you made, dear?

I wish I could talk to John and find out if the high of going sober was worth the pain. If given the chance, would he have stopped at the seventh, twelfth, or twentieth time? His answer might tell me mine. When do I finally “get up eight?”

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Written with the help of ’s great insights and ’s really cool essay architecture editing too.

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I’m on the plane to Tenerife. I’ve never been here before. The sun is already streaming through the windows. I might’ve complained about the heat if that wasn’t the reason I was flying right now.

For months, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about the beach. I want to feel the sun overhead, fall asleep to nature’s sound machine in my ears. I kept dreaming about it until finally, on Saturday, I snapped. I can do whatever I want, so I bought a flight to the sunniest place in Europe I could find.

It’ll be a short trip. 48 hours in all. Ten of those will be spent on the plane. I pulled out my computer to write about where I’m going and noticed the last tab open on my screen: an essay by Day called The Beautiful Life Manual. Reading it reminded me that a few hours on a plane and a few hundred dollars are nothing compared to fulfilling a micro-dream.

I’ve loved the water since I was a kid, whatever form it came in. Even after I nearly drowned when I was four, I still love lakes, oceans, and seas. They did and do what they’re meant to do. They exist. Like vast landscapes, but only vaster, they remind me of perspective, of what’s real and what matters. Sadness becomes poetic. Pain becomes just a feeling. Peace becomes the primary emotion. You can’t overthink when the waves are louder than your own thoughts. You can only be.

It’s in that chaotic stillness that I’m hoping to come closer to some of the answers I’m looking for. What is the perfect balance in life? Is it what I have now? The ability to book a last-minute flight anywhere I want, but still have to work when I get there? If I wasn’t working so hard, would I even be craving to get away?

I keep thinking I need more; more money, a bigger client, better conditions. Does the desire for more ever stop? And if it does, does the desire for the reward that “more” gives ever calm down?

I’m overthinking again.

What if I could embody the water I crave to be around and just be? Fill every crevice that’s granted to me, ride with nature’s storms, and take from the beach anything that’s left around. I am water after all; a Cancer born in July. It’s in my astrological chart to flow based on the needs around me.

Maybe that’s the answer right there. Be an ocean while I must be the ocean. If I flow into a lake, into a river, or even a puddle, act as the body of water I am. For now, life seems to want me to be an ocean, to be turbulent for a while. So I’ll be an ocean.

That’s my version of a beautiful life.

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I drove from Amsterdam to Brussels this afternoon, on one of the more beautiful sunny days we’ve had this year. Heat and light poured through the windshield; my eyelids rested halfway closed. I thought about pulling over, napping till the fatigue faded. I wasn’t tired, though. I was content.

A few hours earlier, I was at a concert at the beautiful Concertgebouw. My seat faced the conductor. She was a vivacious middle-aged Chinese woman. She was a conduit for the music. If I stuck my fingers in my ears real tight, I’d still hear the music flowing through her fingertips. She was an instrument herself, and at the same time, a musician too.

I closed my eyes as the orchestra played Dvořák’s Symphony No. 9, “From the New World.” I could hear the patterns spread across various instruments. First the strings, then the winds, then the brass, and finally all together. Not long ago, I wouldn’t have been able to pick up on that. I used to not understand music at all.

I remember my first time on the dance floor, listening to the rhythm of bachata as my dance partner tapped my shoulder with the beat. I could not understand what he meant by “1, 2, 3, 4.” He kept tapping; we were “dancing” for three hours at least. I couldn’t hear what he heard.

A few years ago, I came across a Reddit thread that discussed aphantasia. There are two kinds: one where you don’t see images in your head, and one where you don’t hear sounds. I tried to imagine my mother saying “good morning” to me, and couldn’t hear it. I pictured a group of people singing Happy Birthday and nothing resonated in my mind. After a few more tests like this, I self-diagnosed with auditory aphantasia. I thought it’d be impossible to ever learn music.

That didn’t sit well with me. I’ve always been jealous of musicians, but I thought the jealousy would push me to play. I couldn’t accept never achieving what I dearly admired. So, I dove into the other aspects of music. The vibrations, the shape my throat makes when trying to sing a “la.” I’d walk down the street with my tuner open, trying to recreate a note I could only remember the physical sensation of. It didn’t work. But then, one day, it did. Slowly, slowly, and I’m still far from truly hearing sound, I started to understand.

It’s been about 9 or 10 years since that night on the dance floor. I never imagined I could learn something that seemed as elusive as music. Many things have helped tremendously along the way. I’ve had a musician boyfriend who taught me the foundations. I’m learning violin now with a teacher who embodies joy. Friends have made playlists for me1 helping expand my musical landscape. I have at least six apps on my phone that teach sound and music theory. Someone promised me if I’d stop using fluoride toothpaste, I’d acquire perfect pitch. That one didn’t work. In retrospect, that same guy also denied the Holocaust and believes there’s a train to Earth’s core. Still, I kept trying. Opening my ear became a near-daily exercise. Though I’m far from living music as the Chinese conductor does, I’ve begun to hear something. In the back of my mind, I think I can hear my mother shouting my name. I can hear the patterns. Sometimes, I feel a “la” vibrating in my ear.

I’ve still got a ways to go. If you ask me to sing Happy Birthday to you, I’ll probably go off-tune. But notice the word probably. Sometimes, I do get it right. The training works and the work pays off. Moments like the one at the Concertgebouw keep me committed. The intense jealousy I used to feel towards musicians has begun to fade.

As I drove back home to Brussels, I kept hearing the rhythm from the symphony: “bam, bam, bam, bam.” The sun hit the car hard, turning the car into a greenhouse as I relived the morning over and over in my head.

Music is life. Hearing it is my new world.

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Thank you, , for the invite to hear you play :D

I’m eating biryani with a guy from Pakistan. He’s talking to me, but I’m a bit spaced out. Every other sentence, Asad says “mashallah, mashallah,” and occasionally takes a bite of chicken. I think about the name of the restaurant we’re in, “Indian Royal Fast Food.” Is this the food of kings?

I used to live in the building next door. In three years, I never once ate inside. The dark seating area didn’t call to me, and the diners looked nothing like me. I’m here because the Pakistani guy suggested it. He’s one of the 184 people I’m planning to meet in Brussels this year.

There’s a lull in our conversation. I pile the well-spiced but not spicy rice onto my plate. Do you have family here? I ask.

“No, but my wife is coming soon, inshallah. We got married on Zoom in July.”

He shares that her parents are in a different caste; they didn’t want him. They finally agreed once he had moved to Brussels. It was too expensive to go back for the ceremony. Asad pulls out his phone to show me pictures of the wedding. His family and his wife’s family celebrated in one village, his bride in another, and Asad here in Brussels. They needed papers. This was the most efficient way.

I’m dying to ask if they’ve had sex before. Were they lovers, or did they abide by the level of religiosity Asad exudes when he talks about God? I’m embarrassed to pry. When Asad walked in, he refused the traditional Belgian bise, holding his hands out to keep me at a distance. I know that reaction. I used to have it too, when I was religious and wouldn’t touch a man. I’ve never experienced that with a Muslim, though. Is it because he’s married? We have an hour to eat, and other questions take precedence. I save this one for research later.

Asad tells me about scholars in Islam. He says he studies as much as he can, but he’ll never be one. His accent is hard to follow. He’s talking about the benefits of Islam now. I let the conversation go where it goes. I wonder if the other diners think we’re odd. Asad and I probably would not be sharing a meal if not for the project I’m working on. This is how I hope my year will be: getting to know people under the guise of getting to know their thoughts on the second most cosmopolitan city in the world.

The definitely-not-Indian-or-Pakistani-but-maybe-Romanian-or-Hungarian waitress brings us a cup of mint tea. We’ve both finished about half of our plates. I think it was delicious. Asad shakes his head in a culturally imperceptible way. “It’s better than I can cook, mashallah, but it tastes nothing like home.”

Is it a compliment to the chef? Or a quiet diss to the restaurant? Are Indian and Pakistani foods similar enough to judge this way? I’ll have to ask the man from Delhi I’m meeting next week. Will he speak about God this much too?

We walk to the counter, and I pull out my wallet. Asad insists on treating me. “Here, you are my guest,” he says, already handing over his card.

Indian Royal Fast Food. The name is a dichotomy, and the food is apparently a knockoff as well. Still, I got a taste of what royalty feels like with Asad’s touch of hospitality. Mashallah.

In a city of 1.3 million people, 184 different nationalities are represented in Brussels. I’m meeting one from each country in 2026. Subscribe to follow along.

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Tears were streaming into my ears. I was lying on my back in meditation class, listening to the guiding words of my teacher. There were thirty of us in the room. I hoped no one noticed the state I was in.

It was the first time in a long time that I had slowed down. My heart rate was low; you could’ve assumed I was asleep. The more I breathed out, the more I felt release. Those feelings began manifesting physically, and I couldn’t stop. I could taste the salt on my lips as I imagined giving myself the hug I suddenly needed.

A few months earlier, I had met a beautiful person. A musician, someone who had touched the hearts of an untold number of people before me. He had a different way of living life: in tune, in the moment, and with so much love and joy. Around him, I started to notice small things, like the sounds of birds on a busy road or the beer on people’s breath at his concerts. He radiated innocence. I wondered how much of his purity came from growing up blind and how much was simply from his soul. I will never know.

The first time I met him, I wrote him a letter of thanks. I wrote about the Jewish song “Dayenu.” We sing it on Passover, telling God that if He had performed only one of the miracles in the song’s long list, it would have been enough. Dayenu. We repeat it fifteen times or more, as if each repetition convinces us that it could be true. I told this musician that meeting him once was enough. We could say goodbye forever, and his impact would stay with me. Dayenu, I was grateful to meet him.

Quickly, I began to realize how wrong I was. Every time we saw each other, I needed more of him. I would tell the universe, or God, or whoever was listening that it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t Dayenu. That winter, we began to love each other deeply. We took long walks, had long talks, and shared books and music between us. We spoke about everything and nothing usual. Looking back, that bit of time was an entire life. I could feel his arm in the crook of mine as I guided him wherever we were going next. I could see myself watching him, wondering if he felt my eyes. I could smell my sweat from the anxiety I felt when I wanted to know if he felt as deeply about me.

We weren’t sure what all of this meant. We shared a different kind of love. One that didn’t fit anywhere. Our feelings didn’t cross into romance; I had a boyfriend, and he had a wife. In his fifty-some years and my twenty-eight, we had never experienced this kind of thing. We didn’t know what to do. I would hold my breath around him, willing us to make sense of these dangerous emotions. We weren’t going to be with each other. We knew that. But could we love without confusion? Was it possible to deeply appreciate one another without sacrificing the people we were with?

My mind wandered. I heard the teacher telling us to connect with our bodies. To feel our shoulder blades against the mat. I sighed and felt the questions beginning to bury me. I thought I was hurting my boyfriend. We were getting too close, too often; it felt like falling in love. Would it lead to something else? Everyone told us it would. Society did too. You’re probably thinking about it as you read. We were terrified that it might explode the fragile stability we had in our respective lives.

I remembered a movie I once watched. I was eighteen years old and high on marijuana. The movie was about a girl who blinded herself to be with her blind lover. I remember the horror that rippled through my body as I walked out of the theater. Back then, I was sure: there was no love worthy of such extremity.

Tears came again as I argued with my own heart. It would be better, less confusing, if we let go. Why was I grasping on so strongly? Pain washed over me, and guilt followed in its wake. What did I really want? Was I lying to myself that we could love each other without anything else? So many answerless questions, one after the other. I only wanted to hold on to our love.

The class ended. I wiped my tears on the small pillow I had borrowed. Thanking the teacher, I left the room. Some tension had left me. However, I was still, if not more, confused.

I didn’t get the chance to decide what to do on my own. Soon after my meditation class, he took the leap. We wouldn’t talk anymore.

I didn’t know how much it would hurt. Perhaps I didn’t believe it would end this way. The longer the silence lasts, the more pain seems to build. In some ways, I feel that he died. I have the same frustration I feel about others who have gone, knowing we won’t talk again. The present seems to stretch on and on. It doesn’t seem like it will ever change.

There is one thing that still connects us, though. I read books, essays, and other pieces of writing to him. I record myself and add them to a folder online. I don’t really know how much he listens. I’ll probably record this piece and add it as well. I try not to say much else besides the words on the page. It helps keep the distance we both asked for.

He does something for me, too. Every few days, and sometimes several times in one day, he uploads music for me to listen to. It could be his music or music he loves. I get to hear from him like that. Sometimes, I read into the titles, wondering if he’s trying to say more. I remember a conversation with him where he told me it’s more poetic when things are left to be guessed. If I ask him to assure me that he still loves me like that, it would take away the poetry, wouldn’t it?

These days, it hurts more than it did before. I’ve been living slower, spending time writing and walking. Thoughts of him constantly bubble to mind. I try to breathe through it, cry if I need a release. I repeat Dayenu, Dayenu, sometimes more than fifteen times, and try to convince myself of its truth. Our acceptance to disconnect makes sense. But I just want one more meeting, one more day to feel his soul. In my heart, I know: he is too numinous to ever be enough.

Thank you so much for reading <3. This is a piece close to my heart, and writing it helped me understand myself and him better. I hope it helps you in some way, too.

A quick note: Substack shows my posts to more people based on the number of subscriptions (not the total amount earned). That means tiny subscriptions make a big difference.

If you’d like to support my writing, you can sign up for $1/month here:
https://yehudismilchtein.substack.com/onedollar

(The price will never go up for you, and you can cancel anytime.)

If you prefer to be a founding member, you can subscribe here, and I’ll write a portrait of you or someone you choose. You’ll also get access to my (uncensored) written and recorded drafts.

Thank you, , , and for your thoughtful comments on this piece. I’m excited to be (back?) in Essay Club!

Hi everyone,

Can you help me hack the Substack algorithm?

I recently learned that Substack shows posts to more people based on the number of subscriptions, not the total amount earned. That means tiny subscriptions make a big difference.

So here’s the idea:

Sign up for $1/month here:
https://yehudismilchtein.substack.com/onedollar

(The price will never go up for you, and you can cancel anytime.)

This helps my writing reach more people, which helps it grow.

Oh!! And a two new things you may have noticed:

1. My Substack now has a name. It’s called Strangers with Benefits. The working subheader is Notes on noticing life’s moments. New design and logo incoming!
   

2. I’ve also just launched a new writing project. This year, I’m meeting one person from each of the 184 nationalities represented in Brussels. That’s about 3–5 lunches a week. At the end, I’ll create an alternative guidebook to Brussels, shaped by the stories of the people who call it home.
   
   If you live in Brussels and want to take part, reply with the country you’re from, and we might share a lunch together.

Life has been unusually serendipitous lately, and I can’t wait to pass on more of those marvelous happenings and feelings to you.

Thank you for being a reader, a supporter, and a friend.

With love and much joy,
Yehudis

P.S My quiet goal is that 2026 will be my last year working. By December, I want to have written enough and well enough to write full-time. Your support will make that happen.

If you prefer to be a founding member, you can subscribe here, and I’ll write a portrait of you or someone you choose.

I wake up to Nathan’s tight chest pressing against me; his arms wrapped around me, holding on as if he needs me to know. My eyes open and then close. I feel the night beckoning me. I give in, but it won’t take me back. My mind wanders, then settles, and wanders again. I lose myself in thought.

Nathan and I broke up 9 months ago. We had been together for 6 years. He was the love of my life, the person who understood my flightful heart and soul. He had watched me go from girl to woman, from lost backpacker to business owner. He had watched me become.

We lived a life that felt good on most occasions. Nathan and I met in Paris on a dating app. He had a joint in his profile photo. I wanted to smoke weed. I was on a grand world tour, and Paris was my first stop. I had 4 pairs of leggings with me, a pair of jeans, and a few t-shirts. We had a good first date (and didn’t smoke weed). When Nathan proposed that I meet his band the next day, I had no reason to say no.

The band met at a kebab shop before practice. I had no clue what to order, how to hold a conversation with musicians (back then, and they still are, a different kind of human to me), or where to sit between them. I tried to seem normal, imitating their mannerisms, but that’s harder than you think when it’s your first few days in a new country with a different language than yours.

That night, I fell in love with the exoticism. As the band babbled away in French, I watched in fascination as the only girl there climbed on one of the guys’ laps. Were they sleeping together? Did anyone know? My mind was titillated with the indecency of it all. Is this how they did it in Paris?

I was 22 years old. I had not seen the world.

Later outside, when everyone was smoking rolled cigarettes that I mistook for weed, I learned that the pink-haired girl was the drummer’s girlfriend of 5 years.

A few days later, I left Paris, telling Nathan it was good to have met him. I told him that our time would be better preserved as a memory than continued as a story. I must have been scared to fall in love.

I left to eat pizza in Rome. When my couchsurfing host ended up on top of me in the middle of the night, I left. I went to Florence, beautiful Florence, and promised myself I’d get engaged on one of the beautiful bridges there. I dyed my hair red, went to Belgium for waffles, and ended up at my sister’s house in the Netherlands. One night, she was sleeping, and I was high on the couch, thinking.

I knew I was lost. Who travelled the world with a backpack and wasn’t? Nathan and I had been talking for 2 months then. What was I doing anyway? Where was I going? Back to him, I decided. To see what would be.

I desperately needed love. Of everyone I met on the road, I craved one thing: just give me love. I was running dry from the bits I picked up as a kid. I would do anything to get more love. This time, I decided, as I lay in that fading haze of Dutch weed, I was going back to see what could happen with Nathan.

Nathan was good to me. He was patient as I cried about my dad, about my mother, and my many hurt siblings. He understood when I missed them desperately, forgave everyone separately, and got angry all over again. He taught me French, showed me how to eat with a knife and fork, and how to choose the best wine for dinner. Nathan introduced me to music, to Michael Jackson and Ours Samplus and Louis Armstrong and Jamiroquai. He taught me why dinosaurs were real and why the earth had to revolve around the sun. He did so much for me that almost immediately, I became terribly afraid to lose him. So I did everything I knew to hold on.

I made Nathan food almost every day, scratched his back when I wanted to sleep, and had sex even when my stomach ached from all that delicious French cheese. I was so eager to please. I tried to make life as easy as possible for him, while taking more and more away from myself. I told him he could stop working, that I’d support him while he made music. I swore over and over that no matter what, I’d stay with him forever. So I stayed.

Before Nathan’s mother died, she repeated many, many times: “You say I love you too much.” I brushed her comments away, sure that her older generation was the driver again. There weren’t enough “I love yous” to express how I felt about Nathan. Why would I stop? Why was she telling me to stop?

I didn’t think anyone could love me as much as he did. I didn’t believe I could love anyone else like that. We were stuck together, and that’s what my love was: being stuck. I constantly needed Nathan to validate that feeling of “stuckness”. I needed him to answer my texts quickly, to give me attention every possible moment. I needed him to corroborate that we were never leaving each other. I needed him to make our love worth it.

We had so many good moments. I loved managing his rock band for a couple of years, and we all lived together at some point. We moved to Belgium, hosted meaningful Shabbat dinners, travelled a bit, and visited my crazy family in America multiple times. We shared tenderness and loving words, and promises we kept and sometimes didn’t. We laughed a ton and spoke in Franglish for hours every day. As I write, I know there was as much love as there was desperation. The more love I got, the more I needed his love. Fate would dictate there could be no choice but to let go.

As I held on to every drop of love Nathan gave me, any lack of it drove me out of my mind. Every time things went wrong between us - and they did, of course, they sometimes did - I felt like dying. I was stuck in what I thought was the greatest love of my life. The only love of my life. If I was stuck with all the love, then I was stuck with all the bad. Do you know how bad that makes the bad seem?

I couldn’t balance things out. My mind would constantly scream THIS IS YOUR LOT FOR LIFE. But I needed the love, so what could I do? What could I do?

I was terrified of breaking up. I tried lightly a few times and ended up holding on stronger and tighter than ever before. In retrospect, I realize I spent the majority of my relationship trying to leave. The more I convinced myself that love didn’t have a way out, the stronger my desire to leave was, and the tighter I held on. I started thinking the only way out would be if Nathan died. The fact that I couldn’t leave terrified me as much as it convinced me we were meant to be together.

I finally blurted out the words one Sunday morning. We hadn’t even drunk our coffee yet. Nathan got dressed and left the house. I thought he was going to kill himself. It’s how I saw people react to bad news when I was a kid. I had to hold myself from panicking. Somehow, I survived the day. I survived the breakup.

Many things pushed me over the edge. Some were good. Let me tell you about the good. I started to feel love. It may have been God, the universe, or I did it to myself, but I started to feel love. Not just from Nathan, but from the entire world. I met some loving, unconditionally loving people. I made a few decisions that seemed minor, but made me believe more in myself. I started going to the Hammam1 several times a week. That gave me a space to feel my emotions, to think without overthinking as the humid heat embraced me. These things and many bits and pieces told me over and over again, “you are loved.”

I began to understand Nathan’s mom. I think she wanted to tell me, “Don’t hold on so tight. Don’t be desperate.” Deep love is beautiful. Too much love is cloying. It’s sticky and buries you. It buried who I was. I forgot that I could be loved by the entire world. Really, what happened is that I forgot I could love myself.

I stayed away for a while. Sort of retraced my footprints. I went to the US. Went to the Netherlands. I went to Paris and Italy again. I thought a lot and did some art therapy. I celebrated the fact that I broke up. I did it. I was supposed to stay with Nathan forever. I was afraid I’d have to stay with him forever. It’s difficult to describe the feeling of freedom I felt. I had made the choice, and I was out!

Plane rides are incubators for contemplation. I took many plane rides while I was away. I realized things. I was no longer waiting for Nathan to text me. No longer upset if I didn’t hear from him for a day. I missed him, but I wasn’t dying to be back with him again. I felt okay. It scared me for a moment. I thought 6 years of a relationship meant nothing all of a sudden. I was supposed to be more devastated.

On one of those long plane rides, I think it was from California to New York, I realized something. My reaction is what I wished I had in my relationship. For 6 years, I was terrified of losing love. I overthought everything. I needed so much that I had no boundaries. I would do anything for Nathan and I needed him to do everything for me. Being away taught me that desperation is the only thing that love is not.

A few months into this freedom of spirit, I decided to come back. I could have tried to build a life alone, or I could have tried something new with someone else. Why would I do that if I already had someone waiting for me, doing everything he could to fix us and to grow himself? Is there anything that’s better than coming back to the one you love? I was cautious - I still am - of his actions, and of mine. I wanted to expel every flutter of desperation between us. I wanted to fill my heart with good, healthy, invigorating love. Could we do it? It’s working now, and time will tell.

Nathan stirs and nuzzles his face in my neck. I feel the residual heat of sleep wafting off of him. I wonder for the 100th time why I came back. I know he’s made changes. We worked through things. We talked things out. We locked ourselves in a little house near Switzerland for 4 days and spoke nonstop. The cliches, really. All the right ones. I settle on one answer, though, the only one that makes sense to me.

I came back because I didn’t have to.

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We leisurely inched through Manhattan, grateful for the midnight traffic. We were probably causing it ourselves, driving at the pace we were driving. I was slowing down seconds before the lights turned yellow, and surprisingly, the cars behind me didn’t seem to mind. Maybe they went around, or maybe they were used to the tedious pace around here.

I was in a rented jeep, top closed, my friend in the passenger seat. We were staring at the sights outside. “What are you listening to these days?” he finally asked. I selected a playlist I got for my 28th birthday. “Grateful Yehudis Was Born”. Rock or Hip Hop sounds started bouncing around the car. I can’t remember now if the windows were rolled down. It certainly felt like they were.

We passed through Times Square too fast for our liking, so we went again. My friend has lived in NY his whole life; I was there for college plus countless visits in recent years. I’ve been to Times Square as a tourist, driven by just for fun, and I think I once had a date there. (Since I can’t remember, it must’ve not been that great of a date.) I’ve messed around on the steps after dancing my Friday nights away. I’ve watched the ball drop on TV, reminisced over photos on Facebook and in guidebooks. I’ve felt the flashing lights permeate me, but I can’t remember a single product advertised there.

We drove in circles around 45th and 46th. Some very fine whiskey still lingered on our breath. (I had tried the best whiskey I had ever tried earlier that night, and I understood I had never really tried whiskey before.) Everyone was snapping photos, posing, adjusting their flash. Why use flash in Times Square? I was hardly looking at the road. The people began to blend together. A faceless mush of the same kind. “None of these people are from NY”, my friend mused. “All tourists”. What if there were tourists like us, tourists watching the tourists? I wouldn’t hold it past New York to have a few locals in the mix.

We kept going around the lights, looking at ads that came without ad block. We looped around once or twice more. We fiddled with the hard plastic latches to take the top off the jeep, not trying too hard. I don’t think my friend wanted to be seen. Englishman in New York felt appropriate as we drove onwards, allowing the night to distill into a memory. What a wonderful, slow-pour summer night in New York.

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I know this feeling. I haven't had it in a very long time. It's the desire to jump ahead, to know things that I can't yet know. To feel things I don’t yet feel. I walk the streets of Milan, looking. I don't fit in. I'm different. Everyone here is the same. I catch myself thinking of all the times I’ve felt this way before. I remember those moments when I found out how human everyone else was.

I am human too. I am the same, I repeat inside.

I clutch my Kindle. It’s my company for tonight. Some book about Vincent van Gogh. I downloaded it before I left Brussels today. His sunflowers remind me to turn towards the light. It’s too dark for that tonight.

Everyone’s happy and drunk. They’re laughing with friends. They’re dressed nicely. I’m wearing my plane clothes, a red velvet jogging suit with ‘Juicy Couture’ splayed across my butt. No one even glances at me. Or that’s how I feel. Twenty-somethings spill off the terraces and onto the sidewalks. I weave around them.

I’m going to a ramen place. Ramen in Italy. I don't know what got into my head. On the way, I think, okay, I'll find pasta instead. It’s close to midnight. The kitchens are closed. After asking at four or five places, I sit down. The only open place I find is a panini shop.

I chuckle. I know what the word means. My second Italian lesson was all about paninis. The instructor kept saying, ‘They’re just sandwiches’. This is an artisanal panini shop with horse meat. At least that’s what Google Translate says.

I choose a panini. Brisket, not horse meat; I’ll save adventure for when I’m not hungry. The waiter says they’re out. “Get an eggplant one,” he suggests. I think okay, whatever. Vegetarian. But it's Italy. It should be good, right? I ask for a glass of white wine.

I read as I wait. I watch the table in front of me. I keep reading and watching the big group of Italian friends. There are so many Italians here. More than there are Belgians in Brussels.

I catch the eye of someone and try to look away. I don’t want to talk to that someone. He keeps looking. I keep reading. I start drinking my Pinot Grigio. I’m eating my eggplant sandwich, trying to enjoy every bite. I keep thinking I can’t wait to feel the feelings I’ll feel.

I want to flash forward. Know the people, so I know I’m like them. I want to feel at home. I want this place to be my home. Why? I like Italian. It sounds like a song. Imagine singing with your friends every evening. Eating paninis that have to be good because it’s Italy.

Why not, really.

I finish my wine. I'm a little tipsy like the rest of the town.

Now, do I fit in?

The waiter brings me the check. He wishes me happy reading and a good night. I gather my stuff. I notice the people as I head back. The sidewalks are pulsing with crowds. I don’t go around them. I walk right through them.

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Thank you, , for your consistently thoughtful, helpful, and supportive feedback! And the great title :))

As usual, the station was buzzing. Bystanders, commuters, station staff, and pickpockets—separate, and together—waiting, overwhelmed, impatient, or uncaring. Some were lost in the maze of Rogier; others were experts, pushing through, determined to catch their inevitably delayed trains.

A little kid bumped into me. Instinctively, I grasped my backpack. In the top pocket, just beneath a mesh zippered flap, were 1,356 euros tucked inside.

The number 4 rumbled up to the platform. I got on without thinking. It’s a short trip to the gym; just three stops to Arts Loi. Usually, I walk. Today, I was distraught and took too long to get ready. Scanning the other passengers, I placed my backpack on my lap.

A woman looked over.

“Can I have a euro?”

She had an extra-thick bottom lip. Her mouth was distorted, as if someone had punched her repeatedly and the swelling never healed. Her short, fine brown hair suggested a fresh cut.

“I’m sorry, I don’t have cash,” I mumbled.

She moved to sit across from me. Bare toes invaded the space between us, inviting a glance. She placed her shoes on the seat beside her.

“Can I have your coffee?”

I gave her my first iced drink of the season: a flat white with oat milk. I’d gotten it out of habit, for comfort. Something familiar. I needed it that morning.

I watched her. For a brief moment, I wondered if she wasn’t wearing shoes because she didn’t have socks. I considered offering my extra pair; I’d packed them for after the gym. I would have to open my backpack, though. Leaning forward, I tried to see inside her shoes. Maybe she had socks balled up inside.

I was feeling guilty. Usually, I don’t lie.

She stared, so I opened a side pocket. Make it seem like I was searching for cash. I found a 1€ coin and handed it to her. She had already finished my coffee and was crunching on the ice. Taking the coin, she smiled at me.

I felt better.

An automated voice announced: “Ribaucourt.”

The lady got up. Barefoot, she pulled open the doors. She turned left.

I stepped off too, looking around for the pedestrian bridge. I needed to switch platforms. I was going to be late.

I had taken the right train the wrong way.

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I wrote this while standing at the wrong station. The woman lifted me from a sad headspace. It was worth more than a euro and coffee. If you have a moment today to connect with others, to connect with the world, do so. I hope it brings you as much peace or more than it did to me.

Thank you, , for your thoughtful and always on the mark suggestions for this piece.

It’s been sunny in Brussels for a while now. The rain is becoming a distant memory. On so many mornings, I’m hit by warm rays as I walk my dog to the park nearby. I pass the prostitutes wearing camel-toed leggings, holding little backpacks as they reach down to pet Fripouille. They’re a sweet crew of 40- to 65-year-old Asian women. I don’t know much more. We haven’t found a common language yet. Fripouille barks, angrily. I coax him along and wonder what’s in their childlike bags. I could probably guess if I imagined how they spent their days.

My coffee shop is a block behind them. Damn Good Cafe, it’s called. It’s a nice place. I order the same thing every day. And every day, they ask me what I’d like to have. It’s out of habit, I hope. Because I’m there nearly every day.

Fripouille licks pastry crumbs from the floor. He’s impatient to walk; so am I. I wander around the three-square-meter space, looking at my phone, then putting it away. The pretty barista calls out, “Flat white with oat milk,” and I’m outside again—juggling the leash, coffee, and my phone.

Just past another batch of prostitutes, the ones I don’t know at all, is a long arc made of twigs and dried leaves. I linger a bit. I’ve been listening to some nightingale recordings recently, and it sounds almost the same here. Not the song, but the intensity. A constant chirp, chirp, chirp that makes for a pleasurable, auditory treat.

Have a good day, they seem to sing.

I found a new park a few months ago. It has fewer trees and less grass than the one just across from my home. It’s sunny, though. And Fripouille doesn’t fight as much with the dogs here. I walk slowly—as slowly as he will allow—taking in the same late morning as I do every day.

I trip on a pebble. Coffee spills over my fingertips. It smells nice, so I don’t mind.

My phone rings; it’s a new friend I made in January. He’s introduced me to many new things here. Mostly musicians and music. He tells me he’s coming to Brussels again; can I stay in your home? I have room, so of course there’s room for him. We chat a bit. I sit down to focus on what he says. The bench is warm; even Fripouille stays put as we enjoy the sunny day in Brussels today.

Someone says hello to me. I don’t like his vibe. I should get up, I think. Then, I remember why. A lady once told me as I waited for an Uber in this neighborhood: if you stand here, someone will think you’re a prostitute. It bothered me. I thought she was commenting on my dress. I didn’t register what she meant.

Only later, walking through the neighborhood again, did I understand. The only difference between me and the women selling was that I walk, and they stand.

When I stop moving, I am one of them.

It’s late anyway. I want to make it to the gym in time. I go home and feed my dog. My dog. It’s still funny rolling off my lips. Often catches me by surprise. My therapist pointed it out to me during our last session. She said I used to always say the dog. I don’t mind him as much anymore. I like our walks on sunny days. I like the friends we’re slowly making in the streets.

The gym is a 30-minute walk away. I put on headphones and turn on some Hungarian jazz. My friend — the one who called about staying at my house — sent me something new to listen to. A bright violin mutes the sirens outside. As I leave my neighborhood, I’m swept into a rush. Businessmen, politicians, and important people I don’t recognize walking to and from work. Some are taking an early lunch break. I notice the street corners. There are no women standing around.

I get to the gym. It’s warm inside. The large foyer is covered in glass. Slowing down, I embrace the sensation of concentrated sunshine. I open my overstuffed, too-small backpack packed with my tools of work and workout clothes, and dig through three pairs of leggings to find my gym card. As I pull my headphones off, the receptionist looks at me and says, “Good morning, Yehudis.”

She even got the pronunciation right again.

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and thanks for your edits/feedback/ideas on this!!

“I’m the gratitude merchant,” he proclaimed. “I deal in thank yous, thank yous, and thank yous! Which would you like to have?”

I looked at him—puffy hat, straight pants, big jolly smile spread across his cheeks—and I said, “Can I get a hundred thank yous, please?”

He nodded. “Sure,” he said, reaching deep into his bag.

“How much do I owe you?”

He cut me off mid-sentence with that buggingly happy voice of his.

“I do not sell; I only exchange. Tell me thank you 100 times, and I will give you 100 thank yous back.”

I blinked, straightened my clothes, and decided; it’s a good deal.

I took off my hat and said, “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” 100 times. As each phrase rolled off my tongue, I thought of how thankful I was for this merchant, my lunch, and the lush trees lining the street. I thought of my friends, my mom and my dad, all of whom I could say many thank yous about.

I said thank you 100 times, and he said thank you 100 times too. Then I went on my way.

I got home wondering: What does the thank you man do all day? Where does he buy his wares? Is he ever bored? Is he ever tired? Does he come home to his wife at the end of the day smelling like thank yous? Where can I study to become a thank you man? Do other thank you merchants exist?

I kept thinking of all these questions and couldn’t figure any of them out.

What industry would I put if I made him a LinkedIn page? Does he work 9 to 5 or 8 to 3? Or perhaps he does the night shift and comes home for breakfast with his kids in the morning. With a belly like his, he must be a family man; someone must be keeping it full!

Unless…he’s filling himself to the brim with all these thank yous.

I thought it would be a good idea to visit him again; to ask all my questions, to maybe be his friend.

I left my house and walked back up the streets lined with trees.

I heard him from afar.

“Thank yous, thank yous, get your brand-new thank yous here!”

People were coming up to him. I heard the jingling of coins as they tried to pay him too. I listened as I walked, the sound growing louder and louder.

I walked closer, and suddenly, he wasn’t there.

I blinked at an ornate mirror that stood in his place.

What is this big, beautiful mirror doing in the middle of the street?

I looked around. People were walking up and down, the trees were still green and rustling in the wind. Where had the thank you man gone?

I took a closer look. The mirror was familiar with its gilded facade and bronze carvings. I touched the edges and peeked inside. In the reflection, I found the gratitude merchant. I found the man who gave me a hundred thank yous.

I lifted my hand, and so did he. I took off my hat, and so did he. That’s when I saw—

The thank you man was me.

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Thank you, , for inspiring the delightful image of a ‘thank you merchant” in my head.

My little sister called me last week. We don’t talk often, and to be honest, sometimes it’s difficult for us to get along. She’s loud, unfocused, and has a short fuse. She’s so easy to make fun of (in a loving but maybe somewhat obnoxious way). My little sister is also sweet, kind and the most giving soul. I’ve been trying to talk to her more often and focus on those aspects. She makes me laugh a lot too.

My sister has a lot of friends; few real ones. She’s often misunderstood. She’ll give her soul to someone who is kind to her (and often to people who aren’t so kind either). She’d get out of bed in the middle of the night for anyone who’d call her. Not so many people would do the same for her.

I think talking with her makes me a little sad. She works so hard to grow. Yet, you could feel the Milchtein life that left a grip on her. She wants to own a restaurant one day. My sister works in a kitchen where most people don’t appreciate her. It’s probably because of her rough exterior. Also, I know kitchens aren’t the easiest places to work too.

We started chatting about her boss. She told me he’s socially awkward. Without telling anyone, she studied for months and passed a certification, allowing her to become a manager1. She wanted to talk to him about a raise. He yelled at her for texting him on a Sunday. She said she fumbled her words and couldn’t make her point. She’ll try to have another conversation with him soon.

My sister perked up in the middle of our conversation.

“Gudia, Gudia! I made a friend!”

I pulled the phone away from my ear (did I mention she’s LOUD?).

“I made like a REAL friend.”

She went on to tell me how similar they were: they both have ADHD and dyslexia and work in a restaurant. She told me how this friend has been introducing her to all the cool places in town.

“We were hanging out yesterday, and I told her about the great shoes I have. I can stand in the kitchen for hours, and my feet don't hurt.”

My sister kept going, her excitement bubbling through. She found someone she felt connected with.

Then, she shouted again, “GUDIA, CAN YOU BELIEVE THAT MY FRIEND BOUGHT THE EXACT SAME SHOES AS ME?!”

I put my phone on the counter and kept listening.

“CAN YOU BELIEVE I JUST TOLD HER ABOUT SOMETHING I LIKE, AND SHE TRUSTED ME SO MUCH THAT SHE BOUGHT THE EXACT SAME SHOES?”

I don’t know what it was, but in that moment, she broke my heart and healed it a little at the same time.

My sweet, sweet sister. All she wants is for someone to care about her opinion. What a small thing it is. What a painful thought. Some people don’t have others who trust them. That my sister, who has been working her butt off her whole life to connect, care, and give to others, just wants someone to listen to her. Someone to validate that she and everything she represents is valid.

I must talk to my sister more often. I must also pay attention to others more. What power we have in our hands: to show love, all we need to do is acknowledge and listen.

Excuse me, but I need to go wipe my eyes. Thinking about this makes me cry again.

Printed with permission.

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I’ve been dying to go traveling. Ethiopia is calling my name, but so is Egypt, Hawaii, Iceland, Zimbabwe, and 43 other countries I could list off the top of my head. I want to meet the people. I want to try their food. I want to experience something new every single time my new gets old. I want to go places I haven’t dreamed about. I want to have conversations I never imagined. I know what traveling does to my soul and I want that feeling back. That said, I’m staying put for now.

I’ve never cared about the place I’ve lived. Israel was fun, but so was Paris. Los Angeles was meant to be a pit spot, and I stayed in Boston to get to know myself. Brussels was not supposed to become “home”, and I’ve been here for the longest time in all my adult life. I don’t love it, and I don’t hate it. I’m here for now though, and I want to change the way I live it. So I had an idea.

What would happen if instead of running around the world, I ran around my own town? What if I got to know the 188,737 people, and ate at the 1,196 restaurants here? This past Saturday, I was binging The Best Ever Food Review Show. A familiar craving flared up again. I want to live Sonny’s1 life; I want to meet strangers, eat such cool foods, and constantly experience new things. I’ve thought about it a million times but I haven’t thought of how I could do it. Is staying in Brussels the way?

Running around the world is the easiest way to stimulate me. I’ve got a 99% chance of happiness on the road. It’s probably age or something that I’ve started to want to feel what roots are. What if I built a community and enjoyed where I am now? I don’t need to plan on staying forever. I can just stay until the plan is changed.

I love people and I love cool food. I also love the people who read my thoughts here. What do you guys think? Does “getlunchwithyehudis.com” have a nice ring to it? I’m doing lunch so I can worry less about lighting. Maybe that’ll change as I grow. I’ll post on Facebook or stop people on the street, asking them to join me. I was thinking of recording the entire conversation, editing it a bit and posting it like that. I started working with a great editor last week and I think he could handle most of that kind of stuff. I don’t want to overthink it - once I’ve recorded a bunch, I’ll start posting. I can’t wait to “visit” Ethiopia, Egypt, Hawaii, Iceland, and probably at least 43 other countries from home.

Let me know if you’d like lunch in the comments below :). Or any thoughts, things I haven't thought of or ideas I could implement later down the road.

I’m sorry to myself that I haven’t been writing. I don’t know what happened. Too much happened, that’s probably what. I’ve been everywhere these past few months. Everywhere but inside myself.

I’m doing too much and I know it. If I don’t do too much, I won’t grow. I’m trying to learn violin, go to the gym 6 days a week, eat good homemade food, walk my dog, do the laundry, love my boyfriend, and build a business with my sister while working for my regular clients at the same time. It’s a hurricane and my head hurts. I need to stop. I need run away - but I need to run away into myself.

I love so much of it. I love all the phone calls I take every day, and brainstorming with my sister on how we could grow. I love holding the violin and breaking my brain for a few hours. I still don’t know what I’m doing (and that applies to so many other areas of my life) but at least I’m having fun.

I’ve lost count of planes I’ve been on the past few months. 15? 20? I’m not sure. I’m so tired while taking them that I’m not meeting anyone on the road. That’s never happened before. Every trip is efficient. I’m on my way back from New York right now. I was there for 72 hours. I met 4 clients and hung out with my 2 sisters at the same time. I was in such go, go, go mode that jet lag couldn’t catch up.

I’ve always written for you when I’ve figured things out. Every essay would be a win. I don’t feel like I’m winning now; I feel like I’m learning. I’m figuring out how to balance everything and still feel good. When I do too little, I get sad. When I do too much, I stop feeling fully. The latter seems to be a better option for me.

Don’t get me wrong. I laugh a lot. I feel high almost every day. I’m accomplishing a million little things all the time. I’m signing clients, figuring out strategies, and going through some personal healing moments too. But every day I go to sleep hoping I’ll wake up sick the next day. That’s my own brain’s code telling me “Yehudis, please stop”.

What would I stop? So I stopped writing. That kind of hurt. Made me feel like I hadn’t looked in the mirror for a few months. Today I started again. I don’t want to stop the concerts I love so much, the violin classes or TaeKwonDo. I can’t stop the work that makes money for present me, and I don’t want to stop the business that’ll feed my kids one day. I don’t know how to find the balance in everything. How do others do it? Do they also drown like me?

Maybe some people do. But some have figured it out. If you’re one of those that does a lot but doesn’t drown, tell me how you do it. I need to know. I don’t want to drown.

I feel bad for my boyfriend. I know he misses a calmer version of me. To tell you the truth, and he doesn’t even know this, I’ve started taking Concerta. It’s an ADHD med that just helps me do more. I feel crazy for artificially pushing myself to work harder. How else do people do it? Some days I’ve got 8 meetings back to back. Some days I’m working until 2am, taking meeting or working on client stuff before they notice I’m overwhelmed. I wouldn’t be able to do it without Concerta. What I’m starting to realize though is that I shouldn’t “be able” to do it at all.

I’ve read about a lot of old people. I’ve spoken to some too. They’ve all seemed to say the same thing: don’t sacrifice the present for some unknown future. Enjoy time while you have it. Slow down. Please, someone tell me, how does one do it? Do I give up on hard work? Because hard work to me is symbolic of a more carefree future. Tell me!

There’s no lesson to this essay, if you want to call it that. There’s no win because I’m not winning these day. I’m lost on how to do it. Should I work until I drown, or live life less fully? I don’t know. I don’t know.

One last thought before I try to work on my flight home. I wonder if I’m missing the forest for the trees. Pushing so hard is not just for the future. It also feeds me now. I go to concerts and shows, shop without looking at prices and do the same at restaurants when I eat out. Working hard is how I pay my trainer, my violin teacher, and it gives me some time to do things I love. What worries me is that I’m never really focused on what I love. I’m always thinking of my next meeting or project I need to complete. Is working hard worth the pleasure it brings to present me?

I don’t know. But maybe if I start writing, I’ll know a little more.

Thank you for reading and please tell me your thoughts. I need to say that I’m grateful I know how to work hard. I’m so fucking grateful I know how to dream, and that I know how to dream big. I hope one day I’ll write an essay on how to stay sane while connecting hard work to my dreams.

The plane didn’t have wifi so I’m publishing this the morning after I flew in. I woke up feeling sick today. My body is smarter than me.

I missed you guys. Thanks for being here.