"Yeah mate, I saved up $100,000 from working and traveled all around South and Central America for twelve months. Got robbed in Chile and lost $10,000. But now I'm back."

Wow, I thought.

Not wow that he got robbed. He seemed like the type to get robbed. Wow that he was willing to drop his entire bank account on a year-long backpacking trip with no second-guessing.

I wondered if I should do something like that.

Nah, I'd probably get bored.

I shouldn't have been surprised though—that summed up most of the people I met that night. It was day two in Panama City, and I'd promised myself I'd say yes to everything. 

So after watching a local soccer match (literally Panama vs Panama) with three people from my hostel, I had no choice but to say yes when they invited me out with 20 other geezers from the hostel.

Most of the people there were like the Australian guy who got robbed.

When I asked why they were traveling in Panama, they almost looked confused.

Their answer: just cause.

That was it. No justification for traveling, for Panama, for any of it. And as someone who'd just spent two days explaining (and internally justifying) to friends why the hell I was going to Panama for a week in the middle of October, I felt something crack in my psyche.

Then I realized I was still deep in beer-to-beer convo with the Aussie.

"By the way, do you want to do coke?"

"What?"

"Coke. Do you want some?"

"Uhhh, I think I'm good for now. Thanks though."

That was where my YES MAN night ended. Probably for the best. Mama always said don't take drugs from strangers!

The week after I got back from Panama, I was browsing YouTube and came across this video:

The video is 8 minutes of monotonous, quiet, exhausting footage of a Japanese salaryman taking the train to work. That's it. No talking, no smiling, no interaction. 

"Every morning, millions of people move in perfect synchronization like blood flowing through the veins of the city. Shinagawa station becomes a living organism, endless streams of suits and heels merging, splitting, flowing again. No words, no emotions, just motion. Everyone knows where to go, but no one knows why."

Jeeeeez, well that's a debbie downer!

The last sentence really got me thinking: "Everyone knows where to go, but no one knows why."

No one knows why.

Ever heard the Mexican Fisherman parable? 

This is my Shakespeare, my Bible, if you will.

Short version: An American investment banker meets a Mexican fisherman and tells him he should catch more fish, scale up, build a company, eventually IPO his... fishing business, if that's even a thing. When the fisherman asks why, the banker says, "So you can retire and spend your days fishing, playing guitar with your amigos."

The irony is that the fisherman's already doing all of those things. He skipped straight to the end.

I’ve always tried to think this way .

In high school, I worked as a tennis coach during COVID and realized my stubbornness extended beyond sibling bickering: I hated working for other people. 

So I worked backwards. Who had the type of life I wanted, and how did they get there? Once I figured out the means, I had a crystal-clear playbook. I started a company, got lucky, and got my freedom.

But in Panama, something changed in my thinking. 

I met a handful people who weren’t asking "what's the end?" in the first place. And they seemed... fine. Better than fine, actually.

Back to Panama.

I'd had enough of random Aussie dudes offering me coke... time for something new. That night, I went back to my hotel early (i.e., 1 AM) and slept like shit. Could've been the three beers I chugged to fit in, or the pillow that felt like it was stuffed with straws.

Either way, next morning I dragged myself to the Panama Canal, saw some boats, then headed back to meet my cousin Ian for our 5-hour drive down to Playa Venao—a tiny surf town known for checks notes absolutely nothing.

The drive to Venao was five hours through mountains and abandoned ghosttowns. We drove through towns with one gas station and no people, hitchhikers running onto the highway, and hand-painted signs for hole-in-the-wall tacquerias. 

While Ian drove, I started thinking about what I wanted from this trip. What was the goal? What would success even look like?

Maybe the theme was building new skills, like surfing. No—I wouldn't get good at surfing in three days. Being uncomfortable? Stepping out of my comfort zone? Connecting with family? It could be all of those things, maybe. 

Means-to-an-end thinking, right?

Next morning, after crushing some overpriced, mid avocado toast, I headed to the ocean for my first surf lesson with Itay. 

Itay was maybe 5'7", all muscle, sun-bleached hair down to his shoulders. He moved like someone who'd spent the last year either in the ocean or sleeping. When I word-vomited the only Hebrew I remembered from study abroad, he just nodded. 

Not impressed, not annoyed. 

Just... Israeli.

The next hour—no small talk, just surfing (if you can call it that). I thought I might catch a few waves like a cool surfer dude but spent most of the hour being pushed onto whitewater like a toddler afraid of getting splashed in the face. Every time a wave crushed me, I came up with sand in places I didn't know sand could reach.

Thankfully, no beautiful surfer girls were witnessing this complete embarrassment (they were all surfing the real waves).

I stood up on one wave. 

Well, "stood up" is generous. 

Itay was literally behind me, hands on my back, shoving me onto a wave that a five-year-old could've ridden. But I got vertical for maybe three seconds before eating shit, so let's call it a win.

Walking back to shore, I learned more about what Itay and his crew were up to. They were living here in Playa Venao for now. Days spent teaching surf lessons to noobs like me, playing cards, making music, working out, sipping beers.

I asked Itay what was next for him. He said, "I'm not sure."

Later, I was talking with my cousin, who caught infinitely more waves than me that morning. He joked, "Y'know cuz, you should just move down here and live with these guys. Do what they're doing."

He was theoretically right—I couldddd move down there for no reason other than to do it—but it felt impossible. 

I shot back: “C’mon we both know I’ve got empires to build back home.”

Later that day, I met a second long-haired, Jesus-looking specimen also living temporarily (or permanently?) in Playa Venao.

I was walking around this surftown kibbutz and stumbled on the local wellness center—infrared saunas, 50°F cold plunges, mushroom-infused lattes.

I found my synagogue, I thought.

Then, straight out of a movie, a guy shouted down at me from the roof: "Hey man! Can I help ya?"

I look up. Well-built, handsome, 30-something dude wearing a t-shirt with Where's Waldo meditating, legs crossed.

#spirituality

Usually, I would've said "oh, I'm good, thanks" and avoided the whole thing, but curiosity pulled me in.

His name was Cashmere. 

We called him “Cash” for short.

I walked upstairs. Over tea, Cash explained that four years ago, he, his friend, and his friend's wife took a trip to Playa Venao for a few days, not unlike mine.

Within 48 hours, they all looked at each other and said, "We have to move here. Not someday—right now."

So they picked up their bags, left Los Angeles, left their conventional lives and careers, and moved to this tiny beachtown in pursuit of something deeper, more meaningful. Bought a small coffee shop shack and turned it into a full wellness center that, in their words, was built for community with no other end in mind.

Cash gave me a tour. 

The wellness center smelled like eucalyptus and something vaguely burnt—incense, maybe, or whatever happens when you brew mushrooms into coffee. Books scattered everywhere, cats running around, and a speaker in the corner played the kind of music you'd hear in a yoga studio that takes itself too seriously.

Cash also gave me a monologue. And his thoughts on breathwork-centered healing practices. And a brief—no, extended—history of his life leading up to this point. 

Guy could talk. 

The more he talked, the more I couldn't tell if this whole thing was wooey spiritual bypassing (he kept saying stuff like "I just want to expand 1% of the world's consciousness") or real, scientifically-backed healing practices, or something in between.

It didn't really matter.

Cash was down here, he hadn’t checked his phone once in forty-five minutes, and when he talked his hands moved like he was conducting something. 

Who was I to judge?

But it wasn't just Itay or Cash living life their own way down here. There were families—lots of them—who'd also left conventional lives up there to build new ones down here.

They built schools around nature, surfing, and exploration. Not iPads, tests, or homework. They hung out together on the beach at night, dancing, cooking organic food, drinking beers, connecting. 

One night, I watched a group of about eight 8-year-olds practicing aerial skills while their parents watched from the sidelines. There was not a single iPhone in sight. The audio from this moment may have actually been more special than the visual: laughing, yelling, chatting, awe-ing. 

The kids played, the parents chatted, and I watched attentively, hoping no one thought I was a creep. 

Watching my own mind throughout this week, I saw a mix of admiration and judgment.

Actually, judgment and admiration. In that order.

I saw the families in Venao and my first thought was: they're running away. Maybe they abandoned family or friends to pick up and move here. Maybe they couldn't hack it back home—the traffic, the social media, the daycare waitlists, all the mundane bullshit the rest of American families just deal with. Part of me watched Itay walk back to shore and thought: this guy's pushing 30 and his biggest accomplishment today is keeping a tourist from drowning.

What an asshole thought, right? 

Then, once I got a hold of my ego, laughed at it, and told it to fuck off, admiration took over.

Something's happening in this tiny town in the middle of nowhere. I could feel it. These people weren't running away from anything—they were running toward something. Living according to their own ideals, in nature, with connection instead of notifications. How many people in your life can you say are truly living on their own terms, in harmony with something larger than themselves?

I could count mine on ten fingers.

The people in Panama realized something I sometimes miss—the end is often possible right now, today. Not in some distant future. And sometimes you don't need the means. The means become the end. 

The Mexican fisherman wanted to fish, play guitar, hang with his friends. The banker told him to spend 20 years building a business so he could eventually do... what he was already doing.

The families in Venao wanted to be present with their kids, cook together, escape the rat race… so they did.

The question I've always asked is: What's the end? What are the means to get there?

The people in Venao, I think, ask different questions: What do I want to be doing today, right now? How do I want to feel?

When I was in Panama, I kept asking myself: "What's the goal of this trip? What would success look like?"

Building new skills? Being uncomfortable? Connecting with family? 

But when I was actually sitting on the beach playing Monopoly Go with Ian (getting my ass handed to me), I wasn't thinking about goals. I was just there. Laughing, talking shit, watching the sunset.

And it was exactly what I wanted to be doing.

Now, at this point, I've thoroughly confused myself philosophically.

Do I have goals or not? Am I building empires or playing cards on beaches? Should I travel again or stay in Chicago? 

And honestly, I start to get annoyed at this whole exercise. Like, what's the point of all this navel-gazing?

P.S. I used the word navel-gazing to sound smart. I have no clue what it means.

But here's where I land: the end can often be experienced today.

Seriously—ask yourself what future you're "doing today" for. Are you working hard now so you can make money, settle down, spend more time with your kids someday? Are you grinding through a job you hate so you can eventually do something you love?

To be clear, there's nothing wrong with that approach. I'm not judging it. What I'm proposing is simpler: look at the end and ask if it's possible, in some form, right now.

Can you spend more time with your kids today? This week? Can you pick up that hobby you've been meaning to try now instead of waiting for some mythical free decade that may never come?

Some ends will be out of reach—that's normal. But I think people's ends can often be achieved today, without the means. The Mexican fisherman was already fishing.

And if you do choose an end—some future thing you're working toward—hold it loosely.

I'm 23. 

My worldview has shifted more in the last three years than in the previous twenty combined. It would be arrogant to think I can accurately select an end right now—even if I could magically skip to it today. The person I am at 23 is picking goals for the person I'll be at 43. Those might be two very different people.

The real risk isn't that the journey sucks. It's that you grind for decades, finally arrive, and realize: this isn't it. You optimized for the wrong thing.

So have direction, but don't white-knuckle it. Find a path where the day-to-day feels worth it on its own—not just suffering you're tolerating to get somewhere else.

On my last day in Venao, Cash invited us to a breathwork session at the wellness center.

I showed up not knowing what to expect. 

Six of us lying on mats in a circle, blindfolded, shirts off. The room was hot—no AC, just a ceiling fan pushing warm air around. Some kind of psychedelic music played from a speaker in the corner, the kind with no lyrics and too many layers, like someone was trying to soundtrack an ayahuasca trip. Cash paced between us, talking loud over the music, guiding us through the breathing—fast, deep, primal.

By minute fifteen, my fingers started tingling. Then my lips went numb. My mouth got so dry I couldn't swallow. I started seeing things behind the blindfold—not quite visions, but shapes, colors, like my brain was throwing random images at the wall to see what stuck. I felt lightheaded in a way that was quite enjoyable, like I was slowly lifting off the mat.

After about 30 minutes, Cash told us to let out whatever sound wanted to come out. A primal scream, basically.

People started releasing. I screamed as loud as I possibly could for about 15 seconds. Other people wailed. Some made sounds I didn't even know were humanly possible.

And then someone from the corner screamed at the top of his lungs:

"I'M FREEEEE!"

It echoed through the room.

Whether or not that scream was spiritual bypassing (think toxic positivity to avoid emotional wounds), I'm still thinking about it.

Freedom isn't something you build toward. It's what happens when you're honest about what you actually want, and you just do it.

I'm not there yet. Some days I'm the fisherman, present and content. Other days I'm the banker, optimizing and planning and grinding toward some future version of success.

But at least now I'm asking myself more: Is this what I actually want? Or is this what I think I'm supposed to want?

I don't have the answer yet—maybe I just need to scream a little more sometimes.

BYEEEEE PANAMAAAAA