Why I Chose This Life
The reason I wanted to travel has always come back to one phrase: memento mori. Remember that you will die.
It’s not morbid or depressing when you really sit with it. It’s clarifying. Life is short. Brutally, beautifully short. And it’s meant to be lived, not just survived, not just endured through another Monday morning commute, another week of counting down to Friday.
I know it sounds cliché to say I want to live life to the fullest. People say it all the time without really meaning it. But that idea has been the compass I’ve followed for years, even when I wasn’t sure where I was going, even when the path ahead looked unclear and terrifying. I’ve never wanted to be boxed into the rhythm of a 9-to-5, saving all my living for Saturday afternoons and two-week vacations that never feel long enough. Deep down, in that quiet place where you know the truth about yourself, I knew there had to be another way. A way to make money without trading every daylight hour for it. A way to choose where I wake up, where I work, where I grow.
The Search for Something That Worked
So I tried everything. E-commerce. Crypto. Digital products. I threw myself at different business models, hoping one would stick, praying that something would finally click. Some came close. I’d get excited, put in months of work, only to watch them fizzle out. Others fell apart before they even started, crumbling under the weight of my inexperience and the harsh reality of entrepreneurship.
But the one that finally worked, the one that actually gave me my time back and didn’t feel like I was just trading one cage for another, was building an automation and AI agency. It wasn’t an overnight success. It took months of learning, failing, rebuilding, and slowly understanding how to solve real problems for real people. I help other entrepreneurs automate the boring, repetitive parts of running a business so they can focus on what actually matters. The irony isn’t lost on me. I built this so I could have the same thing: freedom from the mundane, space to breathe, time to live.
The agency model worked because it combined everything I was good at: problem-solving, understanding systems, and helping people. But more than that, it gave me something I had been chasing for years: the ability to work from anywhere. I didn’t need an office. I didn’t need to be in the same city as my clients. I just needed my laptop, a decent internet connection, and the discipline to show up and do the work.
What Rich Really Means
Now, I’m not rich. Not in the way most people measure it. I’m not living in luxury penthouses or flying first class. I don’t have a closet full of designer clothes or a garage with expensive cars. But I feel rich in ways I never expected, in ways that money can’t quite capture.
Rich in freedom. Rich in moments that take my breath away. Every time I wake up in a new country and pull back the curtains to see a cityscape I’ve never seen before, I feel wealthy. Every time I walk into a café I’ve never been to, order something I can’t pronounce, and sit down to work while the world moves around me, I feel like the luckiest person alive. Every conversation I have with someone whose life looks nothing like mine, whose perspective challenges everything I thought I knew, adds to a kind of richness no bank account can hold.
This life has taught me that wealth isn’t just about what you have. It’s about what you experience, who you become, and how free you feel to make choices that align with who you really are. I’ve met people living in million-dollar homes who feel trapped. And I’ve met backpackers sleeping in hostels who radiate a kind of aliveness I want to bottle up and keep forever. The difference isn’t in their bank accounts. It’s in their sense of freedom, their curiosity, their willingness to be uncomfortable in exchange for growth.
The Weight of Distance
But it’s not all sunsets and adventure. There’s a bittersweet ache that comes with this life, and if I’m being honest, it’s the hardest part.
Sometimes I’m sitting alone in a quiet Airbnb halfway across the world, and all I can think about is my family. My friends. The people I love who are still living their lives back home while I’m out here chasing mine. There’s guilt in that. A heaviness that sits in my chest when I think about all the birthdays I’ve missed, the dinners I wasn’t there for, the late-night talks that happened without me.
I want them to see what I see. I want them to taste the street food from that vendor in Osaka who makes the best Okonomiyaki I’ve ever had. I want them to watch the same sunsets in El Nido that made me tear up because they were so beautiful. I want them to feel the same aliveness that traveling has given me, the same sense that the world is bigger and stranger and more wonderful than we could ever imagine sitting at home.
But I know not everyone can just drop everything and go. People have responsibilities. Families. Jobs they can’t leave. Lives they’ve built that are meaningful and full, just different from mine. And while I’m grateful beyond words for this lifestyle, I also carry the weight of what it costs. The tradeoff between exploration and closeness. Between freedom and connection. Between adventure and the comfort of familiar faces.
There are nights when the loneliness hits hard. When I’m in a crowded city surrounded by millions of people, and I’ve never felt more alone. When I’m scrolling through photos of friends hanging out back home, and I feel like I’m missing out on a life that’s moving on without me. It’s a strange kind of loneliness, being a digital nomad. You’re constantly meeting new people, having surface-level conversations, but rarely going deep. You’re always the new person, always explaining where you’re from and what you do, never quite belonging.
The Trip That Changed Everything
My first real taste of what this life could be happened in Japan. That trip changed everything. I had saved up for months, planned every detail, and boarded a plane with a backpack and a head full of expectations that reality would shatter in the best possible way.
There was something about the way life moved there. The balance between tradition and modernity. Ancient temples sitting next to neon-soaked skyscrapers. The quiet efficiency of a train station at rush hour, where thousands of people moved in choreographed silence. The late-night walks through streets that felt like stepping into a dream, where vending machines glowed on every corner and you could hear the hum of the city even in the quietest moments.
Japan made me realize just how big the world is. How much I didn’t know. How much I wanted to see, to understand, to experience. It lit a fire in me that hasn’t gone out since. Walking through the streets of Tokyo at 2 a.m., eating ramen at a tiny counter where I was the only foreigner, getting hopelessly lost in Kyoto’s bamboo forests, I felt more alive than I had in years. It wasn’t just about seeing new places. It was about becoming a new version of myself, someone who wasn’t afraid to get lost, who could sit with discomfort, who could find beauty in being completely out of place.
That trip planted a seed. A whisper that said, “What if you could live like this?” Not just for two weeks, but for months. Years. What if your whole life could feel like this?
What I’ve Learned Along the Way
Since then, I’ve learned that being a digital nomad isn’t just about collecting passport stamps. It’s not about posting envy-inducing photos on Instagram or bragging about how many countries you’ve been to. It’s about something much deeper and harder to explain.
It’s about building systems that give you freedom and then having the discipline to maintain them when no one’s watching. When you’re your own boss, there’s no one to hold you accountable. No manager checking in. No coworkers to keep you on track. It’s just you, your laptop, and the choice to show up and do the work even when the beach is calling or there’s a festival happening down the street.
It’s about learning to be still even when everything around you is moving. About finding your center in the chaos. About creating routine in a life that’s constantly changing. I’ve learned that I need certain anchors: a morning coffee ritual, a workspace that feels like mine even if it’s temporary, a workout routine that grounds me no matter what city I’m in.
It’s about chasing growth instead of comfort, even when comfort would be so much easier. Every time I arrive in a new country, there’s that moment of panic. The language barrier. The unfamiliar currency. The feeling of being completely out of my depth. But that discomfort is where growth happens. That’s where I learn I’m more capable than I thought, more adaptable, more resilient.
I’ve learned that this lifestyle forces you to confront yourself in ways that staying in one place never does. When you strip away the familiar, the comfortable routines, the safety net of friends and family, what’s left is just you. Your thoughts. Your fears. Your dreams. There’s nowhere to hide from yourself when you’re sitting in a café in a foreign country where no one knows your name.
The Practical Reality
Let me be real about the practical side of this life because it’s not all romantic and poetic. There are challenges that no Instagram post will show you.
Managing finances across different currencies is complicated. Dealing with time zones means I’m sometimes taking calls at 3 a.m. or working while everyone else is sleeping. Finding reliable internet is a constant concern. I’ve had client calls drop because the Wi-Fi cut out. I’ve worked from coffee shops, coworking spaces, hostel lobbies, and once, memorably, from an airport floor during a layover.
Taxes are a nightmare when you’re constantly moving. Visas require planning. Healthcare is something you have to figure out on your own. There’s no HR department, no benefits package, no safety net. It’s all on you.
And then there’s the work itself. Building an AI automation agency means constantly learning, staying ahead of technology that changes by the week, solving complex problems for clients who trust you with their business. It’s not passive income. It’s real work that requires focus, creativity, and dedication. The freedom comes from being able to do that work from anywhere, but the work itself is demanding.
Some days I wake up and feel overwhelmed. By the logistics. By the loneliness. By the constant newness of everything. On those days, I question this whole thing. I wonder if it would be easier to just go home, get a regular job, settle down like everyone else.
But then something happens. I turn a corner and see a view that takes my breath away. I have a conversation that shifts my perspective. I solve a problem for a client and see how it transforms their business. And I remember why I chose this. Why I keep choosing this.
The Paradox of Freedom
There’s a paradox in this lifestyle that I’m still trying to understand. The more freedom you have, the more discipline you need. When you can work from anywhere, you have to be intentional about where you choose to be and why. When you can work anytime, you have to create boundaries so work doesn’t consume everything.
Freedom without structure becomes chaos. So I’ve had to become more organized, more intentional, more self-aware than I ever was when I had a traditional job. I’ve had to learn what I need to thrive: enough sleep, regular exercise, healthy food, social connection, meaningful work, and moments of stillness. Without an external structure providing these things, I have to create them myself.
This life has also taught me about the relationship between comfort and growth. We think we want to be comfortable. We chase it. But too much comfort makes us stagnant. Growth happens in the uncomfortable spaces, in the challenges, in the moments when we have to figure things out on our own. Every time I’ve been uncomfortable while traveling, whether it’s navigating a city where I don’t speak the language or figuring out a business problem with no one to ask for help, I’ve come out the other side stronger.
What This Life Has Given Me
Despite the challenges, despite the loneliness, despite the constant uncertainty, this life has given me gifts I couldn’t have imagined when I started.
It’s given me confidence. The kind that comes from knowing you can figure things out, that you can adapt, that you can thrive even when everything is unfamiliar. I’m not the same person who nervously boarded that plane to Japan for the first time. I’m someone who knows how to navigate ambiguity, who isn’t afraid of being uncomfortable, who trusts myself to handle whatever comes.
It’s given me perspective. When you see how people live in different parts of the world, when you witness different values, different priorities, different ways of finding happiness, it’s impossible to stay closed-minded. I’ve learned that the way I was raised to think about success isn’t the only way. That a good life can look a thousand different ways.
It’s given me stories. Not just the kind you tell at parties, but the kind that shape who you are. The night I met a fleeting connection at a bar in Itaewon, a conversation that lasted hours but ended with nothing more than a quiet understanding that some people are meant to cross paths only once. The evening I found myself in Tokyo’s Golden Gai, talking with strangers entirely in Japanese, realizing how far I’d come from the version of myself that used to hesitate. And the four days I spent between El Nido and Coron- chasing sunsets, hopping between islands, and feeling that rare sense of being completely alive, completely free.
And it’s given me freedom. Not perfect freedom. Not freedom from struggle or difficulty or loneliness. But freedom to choose. Freedom to design a life that aligns with my values. Freedom to wake up and decide what matters to me today. That freedom is worth more than any salary, any title, any traditional marker of success.
The Ongoing Journey
I don’t have it all figured out. Not even close. I’m still navigating what it means to build something meaningful while constantly being on the move. I’m still learning how to balance ambition with presence, how to be driven without being consumed, how to chase goals while also staying present in the moment.
I’m still figuring out how to maintain deep relationships when I’m never in one place for long. How to be a good friend, a good son, a good brother when I’m thousands of miles away. I’m still grappling with the guilt that comes with choosing this life, with the feeling that I’m somehow being selfish by prioritizing my own growth and freedom.
And I’m still learning what home means when you don’t have one fixed place. Is home a feeling? Is it where your family is? Is it wherever you happen to be? I don’t have the answer yet.
But I do know this: when I look back years from now, I want to remember that I tried. That I explored. That I built something with my own hands, something that gave me freedom and allowed me to help others find their own. I’d rather have a life full of messy, imperfect attempts than a lifetime of safe regrets.
I’d rather know I pushed myself, challenged myself, allowed myself to grow in uncomfortable ways than look back and wonder “what if?”
The Real Meaning of Memento Mori
Memento mori doesn’t mean be reckless or ignore responsibility. It means be intentional. It means remember that your time here is limited, so make it count. Make it mean something. Don’t waste it doing things that don’t align with who you are and who you want to become.
For me, that means continuing this journey. It means waking up in new places, meeting new people, solving new problems, building a business that creates value, and living in a way that feels authentic to who I am. It means accepting the tradeoffs, embracing the challenges, and being grateful for every moment of this strange, beautiful, difficult, incredible life.
It’s not the path for everyone. It requires sacrifices that not everyone is willing to make. It requires a tolerance for uncertainty, a willingness to be alone, and a drive to keep going even when it’s hard. But for me, it’s the only path that makes sense. The only one that feels true.
So I’ll keep going. Keep building. Keep exploring. Keep learning. Keep growing. Because life is short, and I want to live it fully, messily, bravely, and on my own terms. That’s what memento mori means to me. That’s why I travel. That’s why I built this life.
