March 21, 2026
Nearly 17 months later, and I just turned the Thai keyboard off on my phone.
I’m not really sure why it took me this long. I know now — after seven months of living there — that I was never going to learn the script. I couldn’t even learn the numbers for my classrooms. But a shrimpy sliver of my subconscious is mourning that this era is ending. The one of active exploration.
As the seasons shift from winter to spring, I feel pulled to reflect before new seeds sprout. So here is my attempt at a minimum viable reflection on this container of time I’m calling my Wanderful Chapter: nineteen months of internationally bopping around more than I ever have across three decades of life.
In a nutshell, what I am now referring to as my Wanderful Chapter looks like this:
- One month with family in Michigan
- One month staying with friends in LA, San Francisco, and Seattle
- Seven months in Thailand (five months at boarding school in Chiang Rai, three weeks in Chiang Mai, a month in the south (in Phuket, Koa Toa, Koa Phangnan, Koh Samui), a week with a Bangkok host family, and two weeks camping in central Thailand and
- Weekend visits Laos and Cambodia (a smokey visa run and a friend temple trip)
- Three weeks in Vietnam (Hoi An, Ha Giang, and Hanoi)
- A wedding in Germany (Dusseldorf)
- An Internet reunion in London (and a trip to Guildford)
- A day trip to Belgium (one of the oldest cities: Ghent)
- Five months nomading the Netherlands as a housesitter
- Four months recouping in the US with family (across Michigan, Ohio, California, NYC, Florida)
**Not a calendar year. Nineteen months of trying on places, people, and versions of myself. Four of those months of this chapter I recounted in my letter Dear Zesty 2024. And for the sake of how I remember this season of constant movement in my life, they are included into my “Wanderful Chapter”.
It makes the most sense with my wonky noggin to address this reflection in medias res — right in the midst of it, which happens to be in reverse of where I am right now. So zooming in closer to the nutshell of where I’m at now. I’m writing this from south Florida, at a condo my grandparents bought in the 80s. The last time I was here was 2021, months before I uprooted from Chicago to Hawaii. I love the Spring Break memories I have here, and I love that I get to make new ones with my cousin Matthew.
Over a month ago, I turned 30 in Michigan, in the same house I grew up in, rising from the same bed where my legs literally grew into themselves with copious leg cramps across middle school. I used my mom’s beloved new espresso machine, skedaddled off with a banana in hand to swim 3,000 yards, then ate brunch at the restaurant where my sister is the pastry cook. My best friend from middle school, Miranda, came too. That night: fondue with my nuclear family, just like my 16th birthday.
Michigan gave me small, significant things I didn’t know I needed — Dutch paintings at Detroit’s DIA with my dad that sparked epiphanies in me, discovering Pentatonix with my mom, cross-country skiing for the first time, circular knitting needles and a handmade hat, Smudge and Twinkie and Humhum kitty cuddles curling into my lap, snowy walks with doodles Paisley and Polo, massage movie marathon nights from the DVD cabinet. Long, deep sleep. Slowing down was necessary rather than any ashame for being slothful or lazy.
On paper, past me might’ve felt disappointed. I’m in between homes, jobs, communities. But past me also wanted to close out her twenties with a bang, society’s “get out of jail free” card in hand.
My past self wanted to carpé the heck out of this diem.
Well, we sure did.
This Wanderful Chapter is one for the books. Equal parts wandering and wondering. The light on my spirit faded and dimmed some days, but it always came back.
Most of the time I felt surprised — things unexpected, met with delight and occasionally with dread. Like scooping chicken droppings. Teaching my roommate in Thailand how to drive a moped. Nearly dying from a mosquito bite. Discovering the strength and malleability of my squid hands. Getting inventive with housing — becoming a housesitter after too many shared rooms, the first one with a French bulldog a bit lonely but a genuine win-win. Surrendering more. Figuring out just enough: shelter, food, sometimes friends or family. Befriending people on trains, in writing class, in Zen class, at run club, at church, at weddings.
Some more courageous acts I’m proud of:
Teaching 178 Thai students how to publicly speak in English, write letters, critically read, and become skeptical of technology. Buying new shoes that I found out after weeks of rumors that mine were culturally offensive to the Thai director. Facilitating and connecting with adults and children even without a shared language. Leaning into games like the universal ones of Hangman, one word story creation, and karaoke. Passing my Thai massage exam performing a 3 hour massage without my book. Surviving dengue disease from a mosquito bite, a 4AM dog chase, bed bugs, and food poisoning. Teaching my roommate how to drive a motorbike. Creating an imperfect ring in Vietnam. Putting love on the line in life and in letters sent for the sake of expression. Biking across the country with my friend Mobes. Flying to London to meet internet friends. Reading my poems out loud in public. Naming my fears in a talking circle with a stick. Sending friendship invitations even when I kept getting rejected. Doing my 12-hour walk on a wonky hip. Sitting through a meditation retreat entirely in Thai. Sitting through a meditation retreat entirely in Dutch. Saying no to peer pressure to drink alcohol or smoke weed. Trying numerous times to order Volkoren bread in Dutch.
This Wanderful Chapter is one for the books. It showed me that problems can be solved in unconventional ways. That wind in your sails can come from unexpected directions. I don’t how exactly my next season will unfold, but I do know that I’m packing a bag again soon, this time with the intention of unpacking it somewhere for longer than a few months.
I am proud of us, Jen. Equal parts wandering and wondering, all the way through.
Love you lots. Keep going.
♡ LJ
First published on Substack in letter 307.