Everyone went around answering. Is it collecting expensive watches or branded bags? Being able to afford fine dining without worrying about the bill? Is it being able to fly first or business class instead of getting cramped in coach, sacrificing comfort for savings?

Nobody talked about time. Nobody talked about presence. Nobody talked about the freedom to be unhurried. To wake up without dread. To choose what deserves your attention today and quietly decline everything that doesn’t. To not sell your hours cheaply out of anxiety.

And I kept thinking about that on the drive home. Because if luxury is only ever about what we can consume, what we can own, what we can afford — then most of us will spend our whole lives feeling like we’re just short of it. Always one raise away. One promotion away. One good year away from finally feeling like we’ve arrived.

Luxury of presence is the most expensive thing in the world. Because to afford it means we need to give up luxury as we know it.

I’ve been interviewing writers and travelers for a while now and I keep noticing the same pattern.

sold everything she owned. Went from a three bedroom house to two backpacks. No car. No insurance. No bills. She convinced her husband — who used to work fourteen hour days and was barely home — to give up his income and travel the world with her full time. Most people heard that and called it reckless.

But here’s what Alicia told me. Her husband’s father worked his whole life. Retired. And died before he got to do a single thing he had planned.

That’s what staying on the first curve too long looks like.

is a chemist from Budapest. He went to India for forty days because two of his friends were getting married there. That was the whole plan. He ended up on an empty beach outside Vizag with a family of cousins who hadn’t seen each other in years, listening to stories about sneaking away on scooters when they were teenagers. He didn’t book that moment. He just showed up.

Two very different people. Same shift in thinking.

They both stopped defining luxury by what they could consume and started defining it by how they could be present.

Arthur Brooks writes about this in From Strength to Strength. He talks about two curves in a life.

The first is about achievement. You climb. You build. You trade time for money and tell yourself it’s temporary. Someday, you say. Someday I’ll have enough. Someday I’ll travel. Someday I’ll write the thing I keep meaning to write.

But the second curve is where purpose lives. Where you stop accumulating and start contributing. Where legacy begins. Not the legacy of what you owned but of what you gave. What you noticed. What you said out loud that someone else needed to hear.

Most people miss the second curve entirely. Not because they don’t want it. Because they never stop running the first one long enough to find it.

I’ll be honest with you. I have not seen Jaipur. Not been to any of the places in my homeland that Flavio traveled. And like Alicia I have always dreamt of leading a life of traveling the world and being in the moment, blending in with the local culture. But I haven’t been able to do any of that.

While I am waiting for enough savings and having time, Flavio gave himself forty days and two wedding invitations and came back with forty stories. Alicia gave herself permission to say yes to a house sit in Australia she couldn’t really afford and it rerouted her entire year. Morocco. South Korea. Wales. Japan. All of it started with one yes to one thing that wasn’t in the plan.

They chose time over money. Not by giving up everything — but by stopping the slow trade of hours for things they didn’t need.

Here’s what I keep coming back to from that same dinner.

When you have money, luxury is about where you spend it.

When you understand time, luxury becomes something else entirely. It becomes the forty days in India. The house sit in a suburb of Wales you’d never otherwise see. The empty beach with strangers who become family for an afternoon.

It becomes writing the thing you’ve been meaning to write.

The shift isn’t about having less. It’s about wanting differently.

From consumption — look what I have — to presence — look where I am. Look who I’m with. Look what I’m finally paying attention to.

That’s the trade. And nobody can make it for you.

What I didn’t realise until the next morning was that we had already answered the question that night — without knowing it.

These were our closest friends. People we hadn’t seen in over six months. From eight in the evening to midnight we talked, reminisced, laughed, reconnected. We had four cameras between us. We never turned one on.

Nobody suggested a photo. Nobody reached for a phone. We were just there.

We had accidentally chosen presence over consumption. No documentation. No proof it happened. Just four people in a room being completely unhurried with each other.

That’s the luxury nobody thought to mention when we went around the table. And we stumbled into it without even trying.1

The question we should have asked — that nobody asked — is this: What are we spending our time on? And is it worth what we’re paying?

For Further Reading…

Business class champagne, a lounge bar at 35,000 feet, a Tesla with 23% charge. It's easy to mistake all of that for luxury. But somewhere between Nashville and Cochin, I think I found the real thing. More on that

The Full Breakdown

• 0:00 – The “Off the Record” Intent Moving past polished tutorials to discuss the raw, often messy reality of the creator economy.

• 05:15 – The Leap from Corporate Mike discusses the transition from a traditional career to writing full-time and why he views Substack as a relationship tool rather than just a blog.

• 15:30 – Identifying the “Puddles” The core philosophy of the session: avoiding “puddles” like over-editing, obsessing over unsubscribes, and getting distracted by technical “feature creep.”

• 28:45 – The Minimum Viable Post (MVP) How to kill perfectionism. Mike explains his workflow for testing ideas in Substack Notes before committing them to a full-length article.

• 42:10 – Growth via the “Internal Engine” Why external SEO matters less than the Substack network. Insight into leveraging Recommendations and cross-stack collaboratio…

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To watch more related content, please subscribe to my YouTube channel @rajofftherecord.

Here is a summary:

• Proposed Elimination: The main focus is on bills being introduced by some lawmakers, including a Florida representative, to completely eliminate the H-1B visa program. The proposed legislation, titled the “EXILE Act,” is framed to end what proponents call “Exploitative Imported Labor Exemptions Act”

• The Argument for H-1B: Larry Bone argues that eliminating the program would be detrimental to technological excellence in the U.S. He contends that companies rely on highly qualified foreign workers, often with advanced degrees, to maintain a competitive edge, and restricting this talent could hurt the companies and the overall economy.

• Proposed Reforms: The guest suggests that if American students are facing unfair disadvantages in the job market, the government should focus on reforming the program legislatively to address these specific issues, rather than cutting out the whole program.

• Administrative Changes: The discussion also touches on recent changes by USCIS, which have moved away from a purely lottery system for the visa and are introducing a tiered, qualification-based selection process (favoring higher degrees like PhDs).

• Impact on Students: The video highlights the real-world consequences of the uncertainty, noting that many students are currently in a state of limbo, with some interview appointments being postponed and others choosing to leave the country early.

This is a developing story.

Video Guide & Key Moments

• 00:00 – The Performance Trap An introduction to why memoir is so difficult today. We discuss the tension between our “public selves” and our “remembered selves.”

• 08:15 – The Act of Excavation Dr. Naik explains her process for digging through old memories. It’s not just about what happened, but about finding the emotional truth buried under years of perspective.

• 18:30 – Family, Ethics, and Shared History A major hurdle for every memoirist: How do you write your truth when it involves other people? Insights into navigating the complexities of family stories.

• 28:45 – Killing the Inner Censor Practical strategies for overcoming the fear of judgment and the instinct to “sanitize” your life story for an audience.

• 38:20 – Writing as a Mirror A look at how journaling and long-form reflection act as tools for personal clarity, helping the writer understand their own patterns.

• 44:10 – Living Honestly Final thoughts on how the discipline of memoir writing eventually bleeds into real life, leading to more authentic interactions and self-awareness.

Top 3 Takeaways for Aspiring Writers

1. Truth over Facts: A memoir isn’t a legal deposition. It’s an exploration of how a moment felt and how it shaped you. Don’t let a missing date stop you from writing the feeling.

2. The “Two-Year” Rule: Much like Mike Searles’ advice, writing is most effective when you speak to a past version of yourself. It grounds the narrative and removes the need to “perform.”

3. Journaling is the Gym: You don’t start with a book; you start with a page. Use consistent journaling to build the “memory muscles” needed for larger projects.

Find more content on my YouTube channel @rajofftherecord, for more conversations with writers about their craft, and why any of it matters.

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It was my regular check‑up visit, and I know I haven’t been watching what I eat—especially over the holidays, when it’s easy to fall off the wagon. So naturally, I’m terrified of that condescending weighing scale at my doctor’s office.

My solution? Wear the lightest clothes humanly possible. Indonesian lightweight pants. Bamboo socks from Nara, Japan. Okinatsu Tiger minimalist shoes. All strategically chosen to beat the scale by at least half a pound.

After an elaborate virtual check-in process—which asks the strangest questions—I arrive to find an unusually long line in the waiting room.

But let’s talk about that check-in for a second.

“Did you have 4 or more alcoholic drinks in one night in the past year?”

Who the heck remembers? I noted 5 drinks.

Then it asked: “Have you had 5 or more drinks in one sitting?”

It doesn’t believe me. Thanks, now the system thinks I drink like 20 in a night or something. How is this going to help the doctor?

Anyway, I arrive to find lots of patients standing. An irritated, distraught older woman is at the front desk—she’s been calling the office for an appointment, but no one answered, so she decided to drop in. The woman behind the counter tells her that she can’t see a doctor without an appointment. The older woman responds, “But I am in pain.” She gets their sympathy but no appointment. The earliest opening? Fifteen days out.

I’m still standing in line with a few others, waiting to be marked "present," waiting to be seated, waiting to be shuffled through waiting rooms, waiting to be judged by that condescending weighing machine and other vital-sign contraptions... all so I can be seated in the final waiting room where the doctor is finally allowed to enter.

Standing there, I feel a wave of sympathy for the elders. Eldercare in this country feels so unsympathetic. I'd researched it after writing Dave's story—he'd moved to Tennessee from Florida seeking better care. I still remember learning he'd passed in rehab, where I'd visited him once; he'd been so eager to get back home to his little puppy, Beta.

Here's this old woman with a walking stick, shriveled skin, and a shivering voice—being told to go back home. I don't think she drove herself here. I don't think anyone's waiting for her outside. What a stark contrast to my dad in India, who had two of his three sons fly in internationally just for his doctor's checkup.

If this isn’t a break in the American healthcare system, what is?

Why can't the front office staff ask all of us waiting in line if we'd be willing to switch appointments with her? Maybe a page they could take from airline counters, where they bribe us to switch flights.

So I couldn’t just stand there and do nothing.

I realized how hard it is to raise your hand and speak up. We overthink these moments of good Samaritanism.

I called out from behind the line to a confused front office staffer—who probably thought I was about to make a ruckus because my appointment was getting delayed.

“I can switch with her if that’s possible. Mine’s not that urgent. I can take the appointment two weeks from now.”

I felt the eyes of the crowd on me.

The old woman turned around and said, “That’s very kind of you,” and blessed me.

The front office staffer looked surprised, quickly checked her computer to make sure the machine agreed, and said, “That will work.” Then she thanked me too.

I turned around and walked toward the door. This younger, beefed-up dude said, “Way to go, man...”

I said, “Thank you, man,” and walked out with my head held high.

Then, driving home, the doubts crept in.

Would I still be charged for my “visit” since I’d already checked in?
Would the front office staffer remember to send my new appointment confirmation?

More than anything, I wondered how much I don’t trust the U.S. healthcare system—and how little it seems to care for its elderly.

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Part II — On Belonging in a Country of Immigrants

The one who asks a culturally insensitive question — he’s the biggest fool in the room.

This guy I met was a little drunk and the alcohol brought out his true colors. He starts with, “How long have you been here?” Then, “What’s your religion?” All of it building up to the strangest, most offensive question I’ve been asked in my 20 years living this American life: “Are you comfortable in this country?”

This man, in a country built by immigrants, in all his audacity wants to know if I am comfortable here. What, I wonder, has prompted his curiosity? Is it my accent? Is it the color of my skin? Because he can’t pronounce my name? He asks again: “Are you comfortable in this country?”

I ask him, "What do you mean by 'comfortable'? What comfort are you talking about?" He can't comprehend. He fumbles, retracts, and says he just wants everybody to be nice, that everyone should be taken care of. What he really wants me to know is that he's okay with me being here. That I am allowed to be comfortable here, in his America.

The audacity to ask that of someone who's lived here for years, a U.S. citizen. Then he asks about India: "I want to go to India. It's a big country, a lot of people." He asks, "What is the primary religion there?"

I tell him, "We've got all kinds of people. Many religions—Hindus, Christians..." Before I can finish, he jumps in: "Do you celebrate Christmas? Do you exchange gifts with your neighbors?"

I explain that in India, we celebrate all religions. That's the beauty of India. We celebrate Eid, Christmas, Diwali. Christmas is a national holiday—schools close for vacation, bankers send plum cakes, neighbors bring homemade wine and treats. We put up Christmas stars to celebrate with Christian neighbors. That's India. While some states with Hindu majorities see communal tension, India remains a secular nation by Constitution.

He hears me, but doesn't really listen, circling back to his key question: "Are you comfortable in this country?" Again I ask, "What is comfort? What do you mean by comfort?" He says, "I just want to make sure everybody's nice."

And I explain, once again, that to me comfort is human, not political. While politics polarizes us, you and I can be neighbors and live comfortably as human beings. That's what the world needs—not national fabric, but human fabric.

He says, "Yeah, yeah, I just want everybody to know we must all live as nice people." But underneath his talk of niceness is that same undertone—a prevailing mindset lately: You are the outsider. I decide if you belong. That's what it sounds like.

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After Thoughts

In the US, there are two main ride-share companies: Lyft and Uber. Lyft likes to present itself as the more liberal company. Its branding leans on pink, fist bumps, and that atrocious pink mustache they encouraged drivers to attach in the early days (it looked stupid, really). It’s all about being fun, inclusive, for everybody. It leaned into Pride, into the LGBTQ community, into this image of openness and acceptance. Lyft’s president even described the company as “woke” in a 2017 interview.​

“We’re different from Uber,” they’d say. “We’re Lyft. We’re for everyone.”

That was the business strategy: stand apart from Uber, which kept its branding sleeker, more corporate, more about profit and surge pricing. Lyft became the “values” choice. If you’re liberal, you ride Lyft. You boycott Uber. Just like people boycott Chick-fil-A or other brands when they don’t align with their values.​

So it’s easy to assume everyone who takes a Lyft is less prejudiced, more accepting. But that’s just appearance. A brand choice.

Same with the neighborhood block party or community meetup crowd. They craft their "welcoming neighbor" personas—eager handshakes, questions about your family and your journey to a foreign land, offers of casseroles and cookies. But then you hear it slip:

• “You Indians are so smart—you know how to fix all our IT problems.”

• “You have a strong accent. Where are you really from?”

• “Are you comfortable in this country?”

It’s easy to dismiss these as ignorance—the non-confrontational choice. But ignorance lives in the space between doubt and enlightenment. These aren’t that. These are microaggressions.

Even more publicly:

“You’re murderers/rapists—go back to India!” (2025): Woman in Georgia fast-food joint yelled at U.S. citizen Indian family, threatening ICE deportation despite their citizenship.​

“Do bharatnatyam in your living room—Trump says go home!” (Dec 2024): Stranger accosted Asian American at Thai restaurant post-Trump win, slinging slurs and threats.​

H-1B visa attacks: “South Asians are stealing jobs!” rhetoric from Trump/Musk (late 2024), spiking online threats by 75% against South Asians.

Dismissal feels easier. But acceptance is overdue.

Thanks for reading.

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This video features a discussion with Marc A. Wolfe, author of the book “Yeah, But... Cut Through the Noise to Live, Learn & Lead Better.” The conversation centers around his book, his journey as a first-time author, and the concept of overcoming “yeah buts” or limiting beliefs.

Here’s a summary of the key points (summarized by Google Gemini):

• About the Book “Yeah, But” (1:30-2:21): Marc explains that the book was 14 years in the making, born from the common phrase “yeah, but” which he heard frequently in his career. He realized that “but” often negates possibilities, and the book aims to help people overcome these limiting beliefs, including his own initial “yeah, but” about writing a book (2:52-3:17).

• Marc’s Background and the “Yeah Buts” (4:06-5:36): Marc has owned his own business since he was 16. He encountered “yeah buts” early in his career, even in technology and coaching, where people had limiting beliefs about new systems or strategic plans. He emphasizes that “yeah buts” are limiting beliefs that can hold people back, often originating from past experiences.

• The 15 “Yeah Buts” in the Book (8:49-10:01): The book covers 15 common “yeah buts,” structured into five sections:

  • Time-based: “I’m not ready,” “Somebody already did it,” “I don’t have time” (20:57-21:04).

  • Path-based: “I don’t know where to start,” “I don’t know what to do next,” “What’s the plan?” (21:06-21:10).

  • Worry-based: “I’m not sure I can do it,” “It’s not safe,” “I need help” (21:12-21:16).

  • Demographic-based: “I’m too old or too young,” “You can’t where I’m from,” “I’m not qualified” (21:17-21:24).

  • Perspective-based: “I don’t feel successful,” “What will others say or think?”, “What if I fail?” (21:24-21:30). The book also includes a final chapter, “Yeah, but now what?” (9:59-10:02), and features 25 stories of people who have overcome their “yeah buts” (10:17-10:31).

• The Book as a Tool (11:18-12:01): Raj highlights that the book is evergreen and can be revisited repeatedly, as people go through cycles of limiting beliefs. Marc designed it so readers can pick up any chapter relevant to their current “yeah but” (12:56-13:00). Each chapter includes a “but buster” section for self-reflection (15:32-15:59).

• Marc’s Biggest Struggle (17:03-18:00): Marc reveals his biggest “yeah but” was “What are others going to say?” or “What are people going to think?” as he was not a professional writer.

• The Publishing and Marketing Journey (24:02-32:50): Marc details his extensive process for publishing and marketing his book, including:

  • Using Reedsy.com to find editors (24:28-26:50).

  • Learning about different types of editors (developmental, copyediting) (25:50-26:00).

  • Emphasizing that the book was not written with AI (26:17-26:26).

  • Working with a UK-based editor for 18 months on cover design, editing, and layout (26:50-27:29).

  • Registering with the Library of Congress and obtaining ISBN numbers (27:41-27:44).

  • Ensuring worldwide distribution through platforms like Ingram (27:44-27:47), leading to sales in Italy, Sweden, and Brazil (27:48-27:53).

  • Producing the book in multiple formats: hardcover, paperback, ebooks (Apple, Kindle), with an audiobook in the works (28:05-28:22).

  • Handling the marketing himself (29:02-29:03), leveraging his business background and CRM to track advanced reader copies, engagements, and endorsements (29:06-29:35).

  • Acknowledging that most first-time authors sell fewer than 100 copies, and many book buyers don’t read the books they purchase (31:36-32:05).

• Prioritizing Time and Value (33:09-35:50): Marc introduces his “wolfeisms” acronym BUMPT (Best Use of My Prioritized Time) (32:57-33:03). He advises people to read his book first before asking for his time, establishing a barrier that shows willingness to invest in themselves and value his time (34:00-34:52).

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Conversation Summary (by Google Gemini)

This video captures a live session that encountered initial technical difficulties (0:01-0:12), leading to the host, श्रीraj, temporarily losing his intended guest. While waiting, he discusses the new desktop live streaming feature (0:27-0:31) and invites viewers to join and test it out (0:37-0:50).

The original topic for the live session was “street photography in the age of smartphones” with Rajiv Chopra from Delhi (1:48-1:52, 35:56-36:03), but due to his absence, the conversation shifted.

Larry Bone, an author, unexpectedly joins the live stream (3:14-3:26). The host introduces Larry’s book, Myself Lost (4:43-4:57), a thriller about a character named Lal Benjamin (or Red Benjamin) who experiences challenges while visiting India for the first time (10:19-11:03). A unique aspect of the book is that Larry wrote it without ever having been to India, relying on extensive research and his knowledge from Bollywood movies (11:19-11:37, 13:38-13:50).

Larry discusses his two-year writing process (16:58-17:02) and how he was motivated to finish the book by a colleague from Kerala (17:19-18:08). He also touches on the challenges of marketing his book, particularly to an Indian audience (26:38-27:46), and the hope of attending the Jaipur Book Festival (32:33-32:52).

The host also mentions other Substack authors and their works, including Alicia, a house sitter (34:38-35:05), and Flavio, a photographer (29:30-29:55), who recently visited India. The session concludes with the host expressing excitement about the new desktop live streaming feature (36:10-36:23) for building community and promoting content on Substack (40:09-41:04).

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Conversation Summary (by Google Gemini)

This live session is a conversation with Rajiv Chopra about various topics, from personal journeys to cultural insights. The purpose of the live session as an opportunity to connect with people (0:39-1:11) and our shared passion for writing and photography as a way to escape the current political climate (1:28-2:06).

Rajiv resides in India (3:07-4:19). The conversation highlights interesting ways people travel the world, including an introduction to Alicia, a global house sitter (4:42-6:20), and Flavio, a volunteer traveler (6:26-6:50).

Rajiv shares his personal history, describing himself as part of the “sandwich generation” due to his family’s refugee status during the 1947 partition of India (7:27-10:03). He recounts his career journey from engineering to corporate life, and his unexpected …

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Welcome to the America (and world) flipped Upside Down, where the rules don’t just bend—they break, twist, and mutate into something almost unrecognizable. Where the Demogorgons don’t lurk in shadowy caves but tower in skyscrapers, dressed in designer suits, tweeting from plush offices, and hosting dinners with controversial royals at the White House.

Meet the Modern Demogorgons

There’s a new breed of monster stalking the halls of power—the megalomaniacs. Billionaires like Elon Musk and Jeff Bezos, political figures like Donald Trump, and their entourage make up the Mega Crowd of Demogorgons. They feast not on flesh, but on influence, control, and the collective patience of a society teetering on the brink of exhaustion.

Musk, with his space rockets and trillion-dollar ambitions, paints a picture of salvation but often leaves behind trailblazing chaos—a digital wild west on his once-promising social platform, now wracked by misinformation and division. Bezos, ever the reticent giant, expands his shopping empire while dodging scrutiny, his fortune growing even as workers demand dignity.

Trump? The most flamboyant Demogorgon, weaponizing chaos with every tweet, blurring lines between fiction and reality, and somehow maintaining a loyal following in the perpetual storm of this upside-down narrative.

The Extinction Crisis Ignored

Outside this monstrous spectacle of distraction, the real world edges closer to an ecological cliff. Species vanish, temperatures soar, and natural disasters rage—yet these Demogorgons and their Mega-Crowd bicker over trivialities. They host dinners honoring questionable allies like the Saudi crown prince—a Master Demogorgon in his own right—while painting themselves as champions of progress.

In the real world, we would slap each one with a rap sheet, but here in the Upside Down, it’s the “void ledger”—a dark, cursed record where deeds and disappearances are etched in shadows. And who’s got the most notorious void ledger of all? None other than MBS, the Crown Prince with a taste for grim power plays and record-breaking execution sprees even Vecna would raise an eyebrow at. His ledger is the stuff of Upside Down nightmares—overflowing with names, dates, and sinister deeds, a true “black mark” on the fabric between worlds.

Mohammed bin Salman (MBS) - Master Demogorgon - Void Ledger

2019: Mass execution spree—37 lives taken in one go, mostly “terrorists” but some still question the evidence. Oh, and minors? Executed too. MBS’s early power play.

Mar 2022: Outdid himself with a record-breaking mass execution of 81 men—terrorism charges and vague “monitoring officials” accusations lead the hit list. Death penalty game on fire.

2022 Total: A cool 196 executed. Not just a number—more like a grim scoreboard. MBS signing off on a killing spree that shocked human rights watchers.

2023: Over 170 heads rolled. Special shoutout to the peaceful dissidents and a school teacher sentenced to death for tweeting critiques. Cyber-terrorism or thought crime? You decide.

2024: Execution bonanza—345 and counting. The highest toll ever. Drug offenses now a get-out-of-jail-free card to the grave. MBS’s war on drugs? More like war on human rights.

Early 2025: 111 executions by mid-May; Ramadan did slow the party down, but only briefly. One execution a day, give or take.

June 2025: 46 dead in one month. Mostly drug offenders, mostly foreigners. The MBS execution machine running hot.

August 2025: Peak killing month with 1.58 executions per day. Year-to-date tally near 302 and climbing. The world watches in horror.

Overall MBS Style: Trials? Fair? Nah. Confessions? Often coerced or tortured out. Dissenters? Silenced permanently. Foreign nationals? Making up over half the dead. The house of Saud’s deadliest season ever.

The Show Must Go On

As the world struggles to discern what’s real in a narrative hijacked by billion-dollar egos and political theatrics, the Upwardly Downward elite cast headlines, tweets, and “breaking news” like sorcery—bending truth into whatever shape best suits the spectacle, while dodging the messy inconvenience of consequences.

Those of us watching this show are left gasping in disbelief, half-horrified, half-fascinated—witnessing a drama too bizarre for any TV script, yet inescapably real.

So, What Now?

As the Demogorgons lunge through our societal shadows, perhaps it’s time to stop playing along in the Upside Down’s theater. To demand accountability. To find the light in a world that’s desperately seeking one.

After all, even in Stranger Things, hope flickers amidst the darkness. The question is: will we act before the Demogorgons make it impossible to turn back?

Because in the show, the kids don’t beat the monsters by just hiding in their rooms and doomscrolling—they fight back. Together. Messy, scared, outmatched on paper, but still choosing to show up.

If you’re ready to do more than just watch this twisted season of reality unfold, I’d love for you to go deeper with me into the Upside Down we’re living in—and what it might take to claw our way out. These paid essays (just $24/year for full access—grab the limited-time offer!) are where I push further into the madness, the megalomaniacs, and the small, stubborn ways we can still resist.

Join for Cheaper Than Your Monthly Latte

Before we redefined what normal meant, my emergency tip-calculating brain cells always did the work to calculate the cost of gratitude and good service. If I was happy and satisfied, it’s a no-brainer 20%. If the server continued to address me as Roger or Rodge instead of Raj, maybe 10%? If I was having the best time of my life, it could be a whopping 25%. If the good times got me drunk, then I wouldn’t even remember what I had scribbled on until the regretful morning after. In general, restaurant tipping is easy. The measure of my satisfaction is an easy formula.

But lately, that formula feels broken. Ever since the pandemic, the news is full of inflation reports—none of them good. The Biden administration flip-flopped on the softness of the “soft landing” they predicted to keep hope alive, kept reminding us that we were not all that inflated. Still, prices soared, and my latte lifestyle took a nosedive.

A year later, here comes the Trump administration’s version of relief—a headline inflation rate hovering around 3% for much of 2025. Trump’s team touts progress, even flashing numbers like 2.7% “average inflation” from January to September, with promises that kitchen staples are getting cheaper. The White House points out that some basic grocery prices actually dropped, but the collective wallet hardly feels any lighter. Meanwhile, voters are still frustrated: years of price hikes don’t simply unwind. My cold brew still feels like a splurge, and somehow, “making lattes great again” isn’t part of the campaign just yet.

If there’s a ‘soft landing’ somewhere, it’s not showing up at my local café. Whether it’s Biden’s post-pandemic battle or Trump’s new round of tariff-fueled sticker shock, the American price tag still feels heavier than my conscience after a second fancy espresso. Politicians may celebrate slowing inflation, but for those of us doing the daily math—latte in one hand, calculator in the other—the squeeze is as real as ever.

The bitter truth, according to the experts, is that pre-pandemic prices at the grocery store aren’t coming back. A true price drop—deflation—is actually bad news for the economy. What we’re told to hope for is disinflation: prices holding steady, not dropping. In other words, those $6 lattes aren’t going anywhere—they’re here to stay.

Nowadays, the base price for a regular latte is over $6, then maybe you add in vanilla syrup, which costs you an extra dollar, and ask for oat milk, which is a dollar more. You’re now staring at an $8 drink, plus taxes and, assuming you’re doing the right thing here, at least a $1 tip.1

Every dollar counts.

Not just for my Barista, an hourly wageworker, but also for me — the coffee-art loving customer who lives pay-check to pay-check. So when I tip my Barista for the coffee I bought, it’s generally a happy transaction. Tipping is my way to express gratitude for the service I expect or hope to receive. At times, it’s simply a friendly gesture between acquaintances. As the gratitude-giver in this relationship, I add that extra 15-20% for the warm welcome, for making me feel important, and for knowing exactly how I like my coffee — never too sweet, always in a mug, and extra hot.

But when every dollar counts, with the prices already inflated on everything from eggs to gas, this “happiness contract” needs to have some basic rules. Because it has gotten out of hand.

Don’t get me wrong, there is absolutely no debate to why good service needs to be appreciated with extra gratitude. After all, it’s a tradition that tracks back to 17th century taverns and inns.

What grinds my gears is the math that goes into pre-defined tipping recommendations at the point-of-service checkout machines. The business owners who set it up seem to take the customer for granted.

For instance, why would the merch (sticker, cap, tee, etc.) that I picked up from the counter along with my coffee require a default 15% tip? Shouldn’t those orders be kept separate?

Why would a takeout order require a tip when it was ordered over an app or online with minimal human interaction? We are already paying for the cost of the product and the service as part of the MRP, aren’t we?

What about the audacity of the unmanned kiosk at the airport vending machine asking for tips? Not only are we allowing machines and AI to take over human jobs, we also want to tip them for it.

Needless to say, this culture of tipping in America has gone wild. What started out in the restaurant industry as a way to foster an environment built on quality of service, has been adopted widely in the food-service industry to delivery apps and anything with an app face. This has led to the culture of guilt-tipping, which is what most of us are defaulting to these days.

The tipping culture is truly unique to America—not merely a matter of custom, but an unwavering expectation etched into every meal and service transaction. Unlike in most other countries, where a modest 10–15% tip is generous and never obligatory, in the United States the act of tipping can feel more like a requirement than a reward. In the UK, much of the EU, and countless other regions, leaving a tip is seen as a courteous gesture, appreciated but never demanded. In fact, tipping in some places can even be unwelcome: in Japan, for instance, offering a tip can be considered impolite or even insulting, a gesture that disrupts the pride and professionalism built into service itself.

When I traveled to Japan in September, I was struck by the absence of tipping culture—and more importantly, by the relief it brought. There were no iPads swiveled toward me at the end of the meal, no silent or direct cues, no awkward pause while the server glanced away, waiting to see whether I would hit the “20%” button, or add a few dollars more for fear of being thought stingy. In Japan, the price listed is the price paid. The exchange—a meal for money, service for gratitude—is already balanced and complete.

Tipping in Japan is not expected, and attempts to leave a tip will almost certainly be turned down (a potentially awkward moment). In Japan, it’s thought that by dining out or drinking at a bar, you are already paying the establishment for good service.2

That stark contrast lays bare just how ingrained and transactional American tipping has become. Here, every coffee run and casual meal now ends with a digital ask for “generosity,” pushing customers to question not just their appreciation but their social standing and sense of fairness. Abroad, gratitude is reserved for moments that truly move you; in America, it sometimes feels like gratitude is demanded by default, making both customer and worker question the real meaning behind every exchange.

In my frequent travels to India, the Middle East, and Australia, I’ve never felt the sticky guilt that comes with tipping in America. In those places, a small token of thanks—some leftover change, a modest amount, or sometimes nothing at all—is simply left behind if you wish. The gesture carries no social weight, no pressure. Locals seem entirely unconcerned, and the baseline expectation is that good service is part of the job, not something to be bought in increments at the end of the meal.

There, tipping is what it was originally meant to be—a spontaneous act of gratitude, reserved for occasions when you are genuinely moved to give thanks, not a mandatory supplement to a substandard wage. In stark contrast, American tipping culture has become loaded with obligation and anxiety, fueled by digital prompts and social expectations that can feel impossible to escape. Here, it’s not uncommon to tip out of guilt rather than gratitude, caught in a system where the “choice” is more about economic survival for workers than appreciation from customers.

As the rest of the world upholds the principle that good service is a standard—not a luxury paid for one tip at a time—America’s practice leaves everyone second guessing: am I generous enough, too generous, or unintentionally shortchanging someone whose livelihood hinges on my decision? In a tough economy, the meaning of tipping here has shifted, becoming less about thanks, and more about the burden of keeping a broken system afloat.

So, what’s so unique about America?

Up next: a deep dive into America’s tipping culture, and what I learned from my Q&A with Dr. Saru Jayaraman. - a leading labor activist, author, and president of One Fair Wage, nationally recognized for her relentless crusade to end sub-minimum wages and transform America’s tipping culture into one rooted in fairness and dignity.

Upgrade now with a limited-time offer to dive deeper, get full access, and never miss an insight. Don’t miss your chance to unlock premium content and join the conversation today!

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At a follow-up press meet, with the same YouTuber present, the topic resurfaced and Gouri immediately pushed back—asking how her weight was relevant to the film, emphasising that women come in all shapes and sizes, and insisting her work, not her body, should be the focus. For over 10-12 minutes, she defended her basic right to bodily autonomy and professional respect before a room full of social media influencers whose reviews hold significant sway over a film’s success. The packed audience recorded the incident on their smartphones, but her co-star, director, and team on stage remained silent. The lack of support from those closest to her, and the quiet watchfulness of the room, spoke volumes about the broader culture of indifference she was confronting.

As I watched the social media clips replay repeatedly over the past several weeks—clips that captured national attention—one moment stood out above all, reminding me of how deeply entrenched patriarchy, male ego, and family hierarchies continue to silence women and chastise men in South India.

It was the expression on Gouri Kishan’s face, vividly captured on camera, that spoke volumes to me: an extraordinary blend of helplessness and fierce courage.

She was summoning the strength to hold back tears, to stand tall in a room dominated by men, and fight not only for her own dignity but for every woman who has endured similar indignities. That sustained moment embodies the quiet resilience and bravery required to confront a culture that often demands silence from those it seeks to marginalize.

This is what makes Gouri Kishan’s stand so profoundly inspiring—it is a testament to the courage required to claim respect in the face of disregard. In a recent interview with India Today, Gouri reflects candidly on the incident and on that powerful moment captured on camera—the moment that left a lasting impression on me.

The Silence of Institutions: Why Support Failed Gouri Kishan in Real Time

The most troubling aspect of Gouri Kishan’s experience was not the offensive question itself, but the collective silence that surrounded it. In a room full of journalists, media professionals, film industry veterans, and her own co-star and director, virtually no one spoke up in her defense while she was being subjected to this treatment. This silence is not accidental—it reflects deeply embedded patterns in Indian society where women’s voices, particularly when they challenge male authority or established norms, are systematically marginalized and silenced. Research on women journalists in South Asia reveals a troubling pattern: women who challenge patriarchal norms face severe backlash, yet institutional support is virtually non-existent. Even more concerning is the realization that institutions—whether media organizations, film bodies, or corporate environments—often do not consider it their responsibility to intervene when gender-based disrespect occurs in real time.​​

The delayed support that eventually came for Gouri Kishan—triggered only after her video went viral on social media—highlights a significant structural issue in patriarchal societies: women’s voices often gain recognition not through institutional backing, but through widespread public validation. Press clubs, South Indian film industry bodies, and cinema collectives ultimately issued statements condemning the behavior and expressing solidarity. Numerous actors also publicly supported her. However, this backing emerged only after the incident became impossible to ignore due to viral social media attention. This pattern exposes how institutions in India tend to be reactive rather than proactive in addressing gender-based harassment and discrimination. They frequently await public pressure before taking any action, implying that without widespread social media outcry, such incidents might have been dismissed or relegated to the background noise of everyday misogyny.

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The YouTube Journalist vs. The Professional: A Question of Accountability

One of the unsettling aspects of Gouri Kishan’s experience was the role played by a so-called journalist—a YouTuber who asked the insensitive question that was less about insight and more about spectacle. The casual cruelty of that question, posed in front of cameras and a crowd, felt like an object lesson in how the new media landscape pressures film promotions to cater not to journalistic rigor, but to clicks and controversy.

This is not to dismiss the evolving landscape of journalism. YouTube creators have democratized access, given voice to many unheard, and challenged traditional gatekeepers. But with this power comes responsibility—responsibility that seems glaringly absent in that moment. The YouTuber’s question was framed as innocent curiosity, yet it reduced a professional actor to a body measurement, an object to be weighed and sized rather than respected for craft.

Contrast this with the kind of journalism practiced by seasoned reporters from global outfits like the BBC or CNN. These professionals are trained to pursue lines of inquiry that reveal character, context, and complexity. They understand when a question crosses from inquiry into insensitivity. Their ethos is not to generate clicks through discomfort, but to illuminate truth with empathy and respect.

The film fraternity, caught between traditional media and this newer model of content creators, finds itself in a precarious position. These YouTube journalists wield significant influence, shaping public perception through viral moments. Consequently, events that should be platforms for meaningful dialogue become arenas for sensationalism, often at the expense of dignity—particularly women’s.

The question then arises: should the industry implicitly endorse such conduct by giving airtime, by allowing these moment-driven queries to eclipse thoughtful discourse? And if not, what accountability mechanisms exist for these new media figures who straddle the line between journalism and entertainment? Who upholds standards when the lines blur?

Gouri Kishan’s ordeal shines a spotlight on these tensions. It exposes a system that prioritizes virality and spectacle over respect and professionalism. It challenges us to reconsider not just what questions we ask, but who we call a journalist—and what that title entails in this new age.

In a world reshaped by digital platforms, the hope is that the core values of journalism—truth, respect, ethical responsibility—are not casualties of this transition, but rather its guiding stars. Only then can we hope to create spaces where artists like Gouri are valued beyond physicality, and where questions are bridges to understanding, not weapons of marginalization.

Patriarchy, Male Ego, and Family Hierarchies: A Personal Context

To truly understand Gouri Kishan’s experience, it is essential to look at the specific cultural dynamics of South India, where deeply entrenched patriarchal hierarchies persist despite the region’s reputation for high literacy rates and relative progressivism.

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But the stories I’m retracing, the ones pressing against my screen, are quieter—not TikTok trends or viral hashtags, but encounters with real people.

In what follows, you’ll meet three: a young man reeling from a sudden car accident, a young father struggling to rewrite his story after a rough start, and an older man anchoring his family through the storm of mental health challenges and pandemic fallout.

This morning, history isn’t just something remembered around a fire, or rewritten at the ballot box. It’s unfolding in the lives that aren’t usually front-page news. These are the scenes you will read below—acts that, like bonfires through the mist, light up “this” American life.

Act One: The Car Crash That Changed Everything

The first is a young man working at Lowe’s. Two months ago, he left his shift and got rammed by a Grand Cherokee in the parking lot — his old Honda Civic totaled, airbags blown, but at least he walked away. The insurance will barely get him $6,000, and in today’s economy, that’s not enough for even a modest replacement. He’s stuck Ubering to work, leaning on family, watching his budget leak away, all for something he insists was not his fault. There’s CCTV footage still being waited on by the local cops; it’s unclear when — or if — justice will arrive.

It’s hard not to see the parallel to recent headlines: with mortgage rates1 hovering in the mid-6% range and inflation2 sticking near 3%, everyday Americans find themselves having to stretch every dollar3, not just for houses—but now, cars, too. So when this kid says, “Things are tough right now,” he’s not just talking about a fender bender. He’s talking about the headwinds facing a whole generation.​4

Act Two: Seeking a Second Chance

My second conversation is with a young father, just starting as a waiter. He’s training, learning the ropes — but life’s already tested him hard. At 17, a felony charge for dealing drugs, then a DUI. He’s got a two-year-old daughter and dreams of expunging his record by 2030, hoping to build a better future. But the odds? Statistics tell us unemployment5 among youth is double the general rate, aggravated even more for anyone who’s old enough to be “justice-impacted.” Lack of transportation, financial distress, and employer bias stack the deck.​

I watch him clear tables and talk about breaking cycles, changing destinies. “I did wrong. But I’m trying,” he says. He’s not alone; across the U.S., Gen Z is more pessimistic6 about their prospects than any previous cohort, uncertain if they’ll ever own a home or retire, and nearly half feeling less secure about their future. It’s a quieter headline — less flashy than election drama, but maybe more important.​

Act Three: Keeping Family Close in a Time of Isolation

Finally, I meet an older man, just moved up from Miami with his wife and three sons. For him, COVID changed everything. His middle son struggled with anxiety and depression — rehab, isolation, the all-too-familiar shadow of pandemic fallout. Rather than sending him away, he kept the family close, buying land so everyone could live together. It’s countercultural in America, where independence is so prized, but there’s wisdom in it: Tennessee’s rates of teenage anxiety and suicide have surged in recent years, exacerbated by pandemic isolation and loss.​78

He says, “We’re a community here — you earn your share, but you’re never alone.” In his words, I hear echoes of what mental health experts are now calling the ‘hidden pandemic’ — the rise of anxiety, substance abuse, and suicide that data suggests will be part of our reality well beyond COVID’s worst waves.​9

Epilogue: So What Connects These Lives?

You step back, and you realize: each story here is about struggle, but also about searching for connection — for justice, for meaning, for a future worth chasing. It’s what Ira Glass calls the “antidote to polarization”: let the characters drive the plot, let us feel what they feel. And today, the plot is this: the American Dream isn’t broken, but it’s farther out of reach, especially for the young and the vulnerable.

As Glass himself says, “The fundamental advantage of narrative is that you can create a context where it’s possible to imagine being someone different from yourself.” That’s what we do here — three stories, three scenes, one America in transition. Stay tuned; these lives are not just dispatches. They’re today’s reality, quietly banging on the door of hope.​

In the soft light of a Montana morning, she stood - a storyteller who never writes a word, an artist who paints without brushes. Her hands, calloused from decades of transforming empty spaces into living memories, held more stories than most libraries.

Twenty-two years of creating worlds from nothing. Not through sight, but through an almost supernatural ability to feel a narrative's heartbeat. Imagine walking into an abandoned warehouse. To most, it's just concrete and shadows. To her, it's a canvas waiting to whisper stories of forgotten cowboys, lost loves, generational struggles. Each prop, each carefully placed object isn't just decoration - it's a character waiting to breathe.

The industry tried to break her once and it will try again. Technology threatens to replace human creativity with cold, calculated algorithms. They say AI could generate images of entire sets in seconds, but could it understand the soul of a Montana sunset? The quiet desperation of a rancher's living room? The unspoken tensions captured in a single misplaced cushion?

She didn't just resist. She danced with the challenge.

When Hollywood's massive productions came calling, it elevated her set design skills to new heights. She reconstructed entire historical periods. 1923, Yellowstone - these weren't just shows but time machines powered by her imagination.

Her colleagues are her family. Her craft, her language. Each project was a delicate negotiation between historical accuracy and emotional truth. A couch wasn't just furniture - it was a character's biography told through fabric and form.

COVID-19 tried to silence her industry. Instead, she adapted and commercials became her lifeline. During times of uncertainty, she has learned to transform limitations into opportunities.

A new challenge looms her industry after the recent LA forest fires. Production companies are scouting for new locations. Would she have to move to Texas? Or Atlanta, Georgia? Will the unions be effective as they are in California to advocate for the unseen artist, the unsung heroes who help create on-screen magic. Time will tell.

When we think of the movie industry we see richness, fame, and glamour. But for artists like her having seen the ups and downs of a volatile industry, it’s politics, their struggles, it is about survival.

The allure of meeting and interacting with legendary actors still exists but more for her genuine curiosity of understanding their stories. Harrison Ford wasn't just a celebrity - he was another storyteller, weathered by years of bringing narratives to life.

Her greatest weapon wasn't a camera or a computer. It was empathy. The ability to look beyond what exists and imagine what could be.

In a world increasingly dominated by digital perfection, she remained gloriously, imperfectly human. A reminder that true creativity isn't about what you see, but what you feel.

Her story is not just about set design. It was about the extraordinary potential hiding in ordinary moments, waiting for someone brave enough to bring it to light.

And in the end, isn't that what all great stories are about?

Seeing Beyond Sight

In the quiet corners of a Goodwill store, a remarkable story of human resilience unfolds. A man with macular degeneration moves through shelves, his hands reading the world where his eyes cannot. Diagnosed in his early twenties, he watched his vision gradually fade - not as a defeat, but as a transformation. Where others might have surrendered, he developed a remarkable ability to navigate life through intuition and touch. Every shirt he sorts and every customer he helps tells a story of how the human spirit adapts and thrives.

His peripheral vision becomes his compass, his sense of touch his primary language. He can match shoes by feeling their unique grip, understand clothing textures with a gentle brush of fingers. What might seem like a limitation has become his extraordinary skill.

But his curiosity extends far beyond the store's shelves. On a monthly podcast, he delves into historical mysteries - tracing the complex narratives of serial killers, exploring forgotten historical connections. His research is methodical, almost scientific, driven by an insatiable desire to understand the intricate layers of human experience.

He speaks of fact-checking obscure claims about a serial killer's potential connection to Lee Harvey Oswald, not to prove a point, but to unravel the complex threads of human stories. Each investigation is a journey, each hypothesis a doorway to deeper understanding.

His world is not defined by what he cannot see, but by how deeply he can perceive. Deductive reasoning has become his superpower, allowing him to predict conversations, understand patterns, and connect dots invisible to others.

In a society that often sees disability as limitation, he represents something profound: the human capacity to reimagine oneself, to transform challenges into opportunities, to see beyond the obvious.

Sometimes, losing one kind of vision helps us gain another.

Dreaming Through Ink

A tattoo artist who sees beyond the stereotypical image of ink and rebellion. For eight years, he's been transforming blank skin into living, breathing art, moving from the saturated tattoo scene of California to the more nuanced world of Tennessee.

Each design tells a story, each line carries meaning. Gone are the days of generic, mass-produced tattoos. Instead, there's a careful dance between artist and client, creating something truly unique. Tattoos are not just a trend. They're a form of personal expression.

Military personnel, first responders, everyday people - they all come seeking more than just a design. They want a piece of themselves immortalized in ink. A Celtic knot that speaks of heritage. An American eagle that symbolizes pride. A delicate line that represents a deeply personal moment.

The craft is more than just needle and pigment. It's about understanding, about listening. It's about translating someone's most intimate thoughts into a permanent piece of art that will travel with them through life.

The shop becomes a sanctuary of creativity. Walls lined with sketches, artists hunched over drawings, discussing line weights, color theory, and the subtle nuances that transform a good tattoo into an extraordinary one. It's a world where art meets skin, where creativity knows no bounds.

To the tattoo artist, every tattoo is a story. Some are loud, some are whispers, but each one is unique.

The stigma of tattooing is slowly melting away. No longer are these artists seen as rebels on the fringe. They are creators, storytellers, professionals who approach their craft with the same dedication as any fine artist.

For those hesitant about taking the plunge, the message is clear: tattoos are more than just ink. They're memories, they're art, they're a form of personal expression that travels with you, telling your story to the world.

Who knows what story will be told the next time a needle meets skin.

For me, it’s the cafe I stopped over at Lorne, Australia. We were driving back to Melbourne after a day of exploring the scenic views and beach towns along the Great Ocean Drive when I noticed a quaint little coffeehouse on the roadside overlooking the ocean. Since then, I’ve dreamt of opening my own cafe someday, when I am ready to slow down and ease into life.

For world travelers, Mykonos (Greece), seems to be the hot spot to relax by the seaside with their favorite cup o’ joe. Similar bucket list destinations flaunt breathtaking views, attracting tourists from all over the world to the lure of watching boats pass by as they sip on a cappuccino.

Unique cafes are popping up everywhere, even in small remote forgotten places. In my hometown in South India, we now have a retro themed highway tea stop which has been capturing the intrigue of young Instagrammer’s. Their USP? A recreated 1970’s village vibe! All it takes is one reel from an influencer to ensure their cash registers don’t stop ringing. The only caveat is that the place needs to be easily accessible, politically stable, and structurally intact.

For Yosef, his unique cafe was supposed to be in his homeland - the Gaza Strip.

It would have been centrally located on his beach-facing family land situated alongside Al Rashid Street, bringing Gazans from the North and the South of the strip to experience a cafe culture that’s not common to the region.

Yosef dreamt a life of a cafe owner. He would start his day early to serve his famous Mazaj Latte to the morning commuters along the Gaza strip, to brighten up their morning with the freshness of pistachios and cardamom infused in his signature drinks.

It would have been Deir Al Balah’s very own Deir Cafe, if October 7th, 2023, was just another peaceful day in the Gaza Strip.

That morning, when yet another Israel-Palestinian war was about to become breaking news, Yosef logged into zoom waiting for his interior designer in Gaza to join from the site, eager to see the progress they were making on his dream seaside cafe. No one joined. Instead, he received a call from his cousin in the Gaza Strip about the unfolding situation.

We all know what happened next. As millions in Gaza woke up from their dreams to the nightmare that would upend their lives for more than a year, Yosef watched another war break out in his homeland.

War was not new to Gaza nor was it to Yosef. He had seen the loss and devastation it brought from the frontlines during the Israel-Palestinian conflict1 of 2020. Yosef was a young aspiring doctor of internal medicine at the time, working in every ward at the Al-Shifa Hospital2 as part of his residency, including the casualty ward where his steady hands were entrusted to stitch up war-torn men, women and children of the Gaza Strip.

The Al-Shifa Hospital is in ruins today, and buried underneath the rubbles are the dreams and aspirations of many Gazans. Only some got to live another day, to rewrite their stories, or to rebuild their dreams. Yosef was one of the lucky few.

In November 2024, a year after that fateful October day, Deir Cafe opened its door 7000 miles away at the buckle of America’s Bible Belt in Nashville, Tennessee. At this ethnically inspired coffee house there is no calming sea breeze flowing in nor the warmth of an Arabian sun shining through. The setting is wildly different from what Yosef had imagined it would be, but the culture of Gaza thrives at this little neighborhood cafe through inspired lattes, tasty treats, and lively conversations.

Today, 6 months in, Yosef serves a diverse customer base - Middle Eastern, American, Asian, and Indian; families, students, tourists, and local Nashvillians. People from all walks of life find their way to Deir Cafe, the first Palestinian-owned cafe in Middle Tennessee.

As I sit here and write this, an Egyptian artist fills the air with soft tunes, and Yosef is busy preparing orders one by one, making his unique cardamom and pistachio infused caffeinated drinks for customers who hang out for hours together. The doorbell chimes as customers pop in and out with their takeaway coffee, and on the paper cups they find their names inscribed in Arabic.

For many the cafe is a home away from home. For some the cafe pays tribute to what got lost in conflict. For me this is a place that brings back fond memories of a childhood long gone.

It’s peaceful here. No politics, no fights, no divide.

At Deir Café3 everyone is welcome.

I switched my mind to HIIT mode, my body into Zone2. In less than two hours I got the job done but I was exhausted to the core.

I moved three carts at a time each overflowing with stuff from my expiring 10x10 storage unit. I pushed them one by one down the 2nd floor hallway, into the elevator, down the 3rd floor hallway, and unloaded them into my new 10x10 unit.

It took me 20 to 25 mins to complete one round of move. Seven rounds later I was done moving all this stuff that we can’t seem to get rid of. They are the remnants of what remain from the years gone by.

The stack of bankers boxes, each packed with random stuff, once had purpose in our lives. Now they lie discarded in a pile of junk, waiting to be sorted, unaware of the power they hold to take us back in time.

The storage containers, each filled with clothes that we can’t get rid of. They remind us of our “cuter” selves, of special occasions, and places we may never see again. Betrayed by our bodies they wait patiently to be rediscovered.

The disintegrating cardboard boxes, each filled mementos, gifts, collectibles, books, movies, and music; stuff that once defined us. They are all pieces of our forgotten identity waiting for a comeback, waiting to be released from the suffocation of the polyethylene bubbles that keep them hidden.

I closed the shutter, locked it, and walked away from it all.

As history repeats itself I am bound to return to them one day. When the cost for public storage units go up, I will reserve another empty 10x10 space to reorganize my memories.

I’ll revisit my shuttered past. I will find them where I had left them, gathering more dust, waiting endlessly to be included, or to be finally let go. Again I will repeat the words,

“Rinse and Repeat.”

As I was walking out, I found Mary carrying out her duties at the Public Storage1 building. She makes multiple rounds through out the day inspecting the units, cleaning the floors, and resetting the recently emptied units.

I wished her a Happy New Year and asked if she was looking forward to 2025. She replied jokingly, “Well, it keeps coming back doesn’t it?”

It made me wonder. Isn’t this just another year of repeat? A repeat of birthdays and anniversaries, of time spend with family and friends, of happy and sad moments, of loss and gain, of healthy choices and grave mistakes, of wants and needs, a repeat of the last 365 days.

Doesn’t this repeat get monotonous after a while? Boring even? We get into a cycle of repetitions even if we try to rinse out some of that behavior by introducing something fresh into our lives - a resolution, a change, a reset, a new habit, a new look, maybe a full reboot for a newer version of us. But even that gets repetitive.

But Mary seems happy and content. Day after day she works in this lonely building full of haunting pasts. Is it a hopeless resignation from life or a greater understanding of it?

I wonder if Mary has a storage unit of her own in the building. If so, what does it contain? What stories will it tell?

As I get ready to repeat another year I wonder if I should find time to revisit the past. I wonder if it will enrich this new year and make it more meaningful.

Maybe that’s why I took three books out of a box, out of my 10x10 unit, out into the world, and back into my life.

Emma learned early on as a young trained dancer that running was her true passion, because unlike dancing, it was never about chasing glory. That’s also why she enjoyed long distance runs and marathons. Less pressure, more fun. She reminded herself to endure the first 3 miles to let her mind settle and her legs to warm up, then wait for her runners-high to kick in before switching to cruise-mode.

So here she was, on a rainy Sunday morning, wearing bright green tights and a flowery holiday sweater, far away from her New York Queens life, on her way to the Santa’s Hustle 10K race in Nashville, Tennessee.

Emma was in town to spend some family time with her brother and her nephews but the timing of her visit was orchestrated around the race. In fact, all her travel escapades have almost always been planned around a running event. That’s just how she rolled, I mean, ran.

Rick Steves, the American travel writer and TV personality, says there are three ways to travel the world - as a Traveler, a Pilgrim, or a Tourist. Emma was a Traveler, and I’d like to think I am one too.

Those who travel to experience the world

I started road cycling during the pandemic. Like all my interests in the past, I quickly became obsessed with this too. I would stalk Amazon vendors for all kinds of cycling gear. I was always looking up cycling events near and far, pestering my wife to join me on my getaways. Between me and my road bike, which I named The Gold Digger, I am sure she felt like the third wheel.

Once we spent a weekend in Atlanta Georgia to participate in the “One Love” century ride, a total of 60+ miles over the rolling terrains of the Chattahoochee Hills in two days with 1300 cyclists from around the nation. To call it challenging would be an understatement. I made it to the finish line at an acceptable pace. It was my first real race, and like Emma I was not there to compete. I was in it for the experience and their famous fish fry, served at the afterparty.

We drove to Chattanooga Tennessee where I rode as a guest cyclist with a small group of regulars from the local biking club. They unlocked an entirely new way to explore a city I have been to many times before. They took me through the inner city trails and old neighborhoods, and stopped at a local farmers market. They taught me cycling etiquettes, signs cyclists use when riding in a group, and showed me why a gas station with a “beer cave” was a cyclists best friend on a hot September day.

We drove to Little Rock Arkansas, so I could ride 53 miles around the Arkansas river with 2500 cyclists for their annual “Big Dam Bridge” ride. The day after the race we explored coffee shops and found our new favorite Pakistani restaurant.

My bike tagged along on all our roadtrips that year. When I couldnt find events to partake in, I would plan solo riding routes. I rode the flat terrains of Florida around lakes and alongside beaches. I rode from downtown Chicago all the way to the Indiana border and back, in cold icy rain on a winter Friday.

The Gold Digger and I didn’t feel like tourists in those places. We were blending in with the locals, and I left with a deeper connection that I had not felt before.

“Ideally, travel broadens our perspectives personally, culturally, and politically. Suddenly, the palette with which we paint the story of our lives has more colors.” —— Rick Steves

Those who travel to find themselves

In India, December through January is the peak season for the famous Sabarimala pilgrimage, when many Hindu pilgrims from remote parts of India begin their journey after 41 days of fasting.

The pilgrims wearing black clothing, beaded chains around their necks and wrists, carry a sacred bundle with offerings for their deity and just enough provisions for the strenuous path ahead to reach the foothills of the mountain to pay homage to Lord Ayyappa, the son of Lord Shiva, a symbol of unity, who’s path they follow.

The real test of mettle starts with a final 46km (or 26 miles) crowded trek up a slippery uphill mountain trail in order to reach 18 steep gold-plated steps that leads up to the gold-crowned temple of worship.

The most devout of these pilgrims even walked the entire way, from their home to the temple, barefoot.

It is a humbling trip for the estimated half a millions pilgrims who travel this path of penance every year, to detach themselves of their material processions. Rick Steves calls it the way of the Pilgrim.

“Regardless of your journey, you can put a little pilgrim in your travels and find your own personal jubilation.” —— Rick Steves

But not all pilgrims travel for religious reasons, as evidenced by NatGeo list of the top 10 pilgrimage routes in the world. People just want to detox from their digital TikTok lives.

Those who capture more and experience less.

Emma once traveled to the Grand Canyon with her mom. At the entrance to the trail they saw a guy entering with very few supplies, clearly not enough for the challenging trail ahead. Anyone who’s traversed this trail before knows that you pack more than you need not less, Emma thought, and asked the park ranger if they should warn him.

“That’s a TikTok tourist”, said the ranger, “and he’ll probably learn the hard way. We always keep an eye on them.”

In our eagerness to take a selfie, frame a scene, and post that reel, many tourists tend to be oblivious of the dangers that lurk ahead.

This was evident when we visited Yellowstone National Park last year. Despite the abundance of cautionary signs it is surprising how many tourists fall prey to their carelessness. The reports of missing hikers who went off trail, of thermal burn victims who went too close to the geysers, are reported far too often. The most recent incident reported was of the 83-year-old woman who was gored by a bison when she approached too lose to the wild animal.

Many popular tourist destinations are also seeing protests against mass tourism. In Barcelona this summer, tourists were driven out of restaurants by locals who fired squirt-guns at them while chanting “Tourists Go Home”. Similar protests are also reported in other European destinations such as Italy, Greece, and Amsterdam.

The major impact of overtourism is the displacement of local people. Young families in particular are struggling to find affordable housing in the city and, as more apartments are rented out full time to visitors, many residents are starting to find that they don’t know their neighbours anymore. ¹

The world is becoming increasingly hostile for a tourist. Protests, uprisings, and never-ending wars prevent us from crossing off our “been there, done that” destination bucket list. It is the 21st century reality. “We are in Kaliyuga2”, my grandfather would have said. Gone are the days of the hippie trails when expressive travelers toured the world freely, and mesmerized locals looked at tourists in awe and wonder.

Rick Steves says the only way to over overcome fear is by understanding. This philosophy is of more significance today than ever before. He urges us to visit the popular landmarks but also the lesser known ones, to travel with our curiosity but also with respect.

“I travel around the world in a way that tries to open my mind and give me empathy and inspire me to come home and make this world a better place.” —— Rick Steves

Arrivederci

My most memorable international trip was in 2015 when my wife and I journeyed the length of Italy, from North to South in 11 days. We immersed ourselves in the local culture and cuisine, from the busy fashion-forward city centers of Milan to the architectural wonders of Florence, from the forgotten streets of Old Naples to the coastal villages of the Amalfi Coast, from the magnificent castle towns of Umbria to the serene and picturesque vineyards of Tuscany.

We would sit at the piazza’s observing the locals who gathered every evening to wine down their day with music, dancing and laughter. We were in love with Italy.

I had learned some Italian phrases for our trip. A frustrated pastry shop staff who dealt with unruly tourists all day managed to break a smile for us when I asked for the bill in Italian: “il conto, Por Favore!” I could tell that he appreciated it, that I cared enough to even try.

We asked to be seated at the chef’s table in local restaurants where we learned about Italian cooking styles, that the delicious meat plate the chef had curated for us came from his early morning hunt. “Arrivederci” I said as we got up to leave. “Grazie, arrivederci”, he responded.

“Arrivederci” means “until we see each other again” - a powerful word which is more than a good bye. It communicates that the guests want to return, and the hosts hope that you will. I hope that all my future travels end on that note.

Thank you for reading. Arrivederci.

For the past four months, I had been immersed in the whirlwind of wedding planning—from scouting the dream venue to helping her choose her perfect dress, and every detail in between. These were moments I would cherish forever. My firstborn was marrying the love of her life. Her fiancé, a kind and remarkable young man.

Though she lives 967 miles away, the anticipation was palpable. My tickets were booked, and my hotel reservations confirmed. The countdown had begun.

Then my phone rang. The caller ID displayed: "Vanderbilt Medical Center." I picked up, not thinking much of it. The voice on the other end changed everything.

I was officially on the kidney transplant list.

Disbelief, joy, gratitude, excitement, and fear swept over me all at once. I had been waiting for this moment for seven long years. This was my third attempt to get placed on the kidney transplant list at Vanderbilt.

How Did I Get Here?

At just 15, a life-altering diagnosis of polycystic kidney disease cast a long shadow over my future. My kidneys were now riddled with countless cysts, beginning a slow decline. Seven years ago, the grim reality of stage five kidney disease loomed large. A transplant or dialysis became the only options to keep me alive.

In an effort to avoid the inevitable, I sought a kidney transplant before dialysis became necessary. Twice, hope was dashed by rejection,due to underlying health conditions.

Six long years of dialysis, constant pain, and invasive treatments, countless surgeries, and large needles. The past six years have been a relentless, grueling battle. Each day was a precarious tightrope walk, a constant gamble with life and death. Yet, despite the immense physical and emotional toll, I am profoundly grateful for the precious gift of life it has afforded me.

A relentless cycle of treatments, both in the sterile clinic and the sanctuary of my home, became my lifeline. The constant fear of missing a single treatment, of succumbing to the disease's relentless grip, was a heavy burden to bear. Yet, amidst the hardship, I discovered a strength and resilience I never knew I possessed.

Every day was a conscious choice to live. While others wake up to life effortlessly, I had to work for it. My three children, especially my youngest, who was just a kindergartener when my health took a turn, were my unwavering source of strength.

I vividly recall picking him up from school after dialysis, my body heavy with exhaustion, my head throbbing with pain. Often, I would pull over to rest, ensuring our safe journey home.

Now, The Unimaginable Choice.

13 days later, after that initial call, Vanderbilt called again—they had a kidney for me! I couldn’t believe it. My daughter's wedding was only six days away, and now I had to choose: accept the life-saving organ I had waited so long for or attend my daughter's wedding.

A whirlwind of emotions surged through me. What should I do? The decision weighed on me like a ton of bricks. The clock was ticking, each heartbeat a drumbeat echoing the gravity of the moment. The organ was already at the transplant center, kept on ice.

I had just one hour to decide whether to head to the hospital or turn down the offer. Do I say no to a chance at freedom and a normal life to attend daughter's wedding? It was a tough choice.

I called my daughter to tell her. She was with her fiancé when she answered. I explained the situation. They were both so happy for me. With love and unwavering support, they told me to go for it.

"Don't let this opportunity pass you by," they said.

Her calm and immediate reassurance reflected the incredible woman she had become.

I spoke with my youngest daughter and other family members, and they all echoed the same advice.

"Get the transplant."

For them, the choice seemed clear. Yet, for me, it was anything but. The thought of missing my daughter’s wedding pained me deeply. At the same time, the prospect of a healthier life filled me with hope and gratitude.

I reconciled my decision by focusing on the many key life events I would be present for in the future. I felt a sense of clarity as the time ticked down. Never had I felt so much support from my family as I did at that moment.

I took an Uber alone to Vanderbilt. The drive to the hospital felt surreal—emotions swirling, thoughts racing. My mother and uncle met me at the hospital and stayed by my side through the pre-op testing and preparations. Their support meant the world to me.

I felt like a celebrity when one of the surgeons personally wheeled me into the OR for the urgent transplant. The chief of the department performed my surgery, and I couldn’t stop singing and humming "Oceans (Where Feet May Fail)" throughout the pre-op.

The surgery went well. My new kidney started producing urine on the surgical table—a sign of success. I hadn’t been able to urinate in four years. When I woke up in the recovery room, surrounded by angels (the nurses), I felt immediate relief. I had a new birthday: September 30, 2024.

I am eternally grateful to the donor and their family for this incredible gift of life. Their generosity will allow me to share countless more moments with my three children.

I was discharged from the hospital the day before my daughter’s wedding.

The Wedding Day!

I wore my purple gown, and ordered a salmon dinner, the same meal I would’ve had at the wedding. I watched my eldest daughter get married live on FaceTime with my other daughter, who stayed to support me after my transplant.

I’m deeply grateful for her help. It was bittersweet—heartbreaking not to be there in person, yet filled with gratitude for this second chance at life.

The wedding was everything she had dreamed of. The New England fall foliage was vibrant, the sun shone in a clear blue sky, and the warm 75-degree weather was perfect. She looked stunning in her vintage lace gown, holding her bouquet of wildflowers under a beautifully decorated arch.

Since the transplant, my health has transformed. I was at stage 5 kidney failure, on dialysis five days a week, unable to urinate or eat many of the tropical foods I loved. Now, I can drink freely, enjoy my favorite meals, and keep up with my son, and be there for both of my daughters. My energy has returned, and life feels brighter.

Looking back, I am confident I made the right choice. Though I missed my daughter’s wedding, I gained the ability to share in many future milestones. As autumn painted the world in vibrant hues, my daughter and I both embarked on new chapters. For me, it was freedom from dialysis and renewed hope. For her, it was the beginning of a beautiful journey with her husband.

It was a time of inexplicable grace.