A love lettre to… myself

My girlfriend said I’m one of the most fortunate people she knows - not because of her, though I’d happily state otherwise - and she’s right. Which is exactly why I’m writing this: not to fix a bad mood or patch a bruised ego, but to put anxiety, uncertainty, and the daily pressure to become into perspective.

Since coming back from a brief getaway, everyday life in the Netherlands took about twelve minutes to reacquaint me with the treadmill. A few short encounters (some random, others not) were enough to reignite the reflex to pursue, persist, hustle, and honour any form of success I could plausibly claim. The irony, of course, is that this exact feeling also feeds worry, unease, and purposeful delay. The last one being a prime suspect in a two-week detour before I wrote this.

A week ago my mum asked me what’s next, and I caught myself mid-stride on the prestige–procrastination loop. I felt the pressure to pick up the project I started a month ago, to finish the one I’ve nursed for years, and to locate something entirely new that might yank me out of bed with intent. Meanwhile, I was hunting for the perfect cocktail of food, exercise, social rhythm, and sleep. Meanwhile-meanwhile, I was in the kitchen with chocolate, bingeing The Good Doctor, or in my hammock reading Dan Brown. This doesn’t sound like a love letter yet; bear with me. I’m getting there.

photo: Maurice

Thirty-Five Years Later: A Reunion.

We were in the backyard of our boss, having a BBQ as we used to sell them at the beach in the mid-90s. Even the quick mid-session refill sprint to the supermarket wasn’t missed. War stories were exchanged and the feeling of my own chosen family getting back together was shared with brothers and sisters I hadn’t spoken to for decades. Someone said, “Remember the nights at the staff table?” while throwing a full box of Snickers and Lions even though we were all still eating. The table erupted with a laughter I could still map to the exact people we were at nineteen. I watched my younger self flicker between being part of the family and being the younger brother who felt the need to catch up. I worked far beyond what I thought I was capable of just to prove I was moving, improving, becoming. I once crashed after a 21-day stint because the weather stayed good and we just never stopped.

I’ve lived in a world that sanctifies “more” - more skill, more reach, more proof. For years I kept a running scoreboard in my head: my brother, classmates, colleagues, people on the street and, later, faces in little squares on a screen. Everyone seemed to be playing a different game. My system learned to want the wanting itself. It looked like hunger; it was a habit.

Less than a year ago, a dear friend heard an interview with the author of The Big Autism Book and couldn’t stop thinking of me. He said it out loud. That nudge helped me recognise my brain routes things differently. Sitting later with a professional in a small room, feeling just as small but also seen at the same time, something dropped. The recognition wasn’t a plot twist; it was a footnote that finally existed. As a kid - and then as a man - I taught myself anthropology without calling it that. I moved through jobs, rooms, and relationships the way field notes move through a notebook: watch, ask, test, adjust. I read, listened, copied, borrowed, and sometimes stole styles of being that might help me belong. I didn’t aim for a tidy career or a medal count. I wanted to understand people enough to find a way among them.

And to be honest, I failed miserably. But I succeeded magnificently at the same time. This survival system gave me an unruly education and sent me to more countries than I care to count. It let me be a musician, a swimming teacher, a photographer, a bartender, a woodworker, a roofer, an actor, a coach, a store assistant, a set manager for TV, and much more I’ll remember when I’m washing dishes. I learned to make, to observe, to capture, to listen, to build, to write, to create, to guide, to connect, to analyse, to teach, to be of service - to practise patience and, when possible, trust. I don’t think I’ve fully mastered any of these crafts. I’m not sure mastery was ever the point. Curiosity was.

Photo: Jan

At 49, nearly 50, tired of worrying and comparing, I’m learning contentment. Not the flat kind—the one that feels like giving up. The kind with breath: spacious, alert, able to hold both effort and rest. The long chase for success, recognition, and wealth wore me down enough to see the doorway. I don’t need to strive for perfection; I already am. I don’t need to pursue success; I embody it by living the life I live. From sufficiency, I still grow. Success, for me now: being unapologetically myself and being recognised as such.

To avoid any doubt (for others or myself): contentment isn’t quitting. It’s refusing to outsource my worth to outcomes. It’s letting slowness be a tool, not a flaw. It’s honouring recovery as part of the work. It’s choosing fewer, truer moves over constant motion.

The Work That Isn’t Counted as Work

I keep myself open, and that’s labour. It looks like small disciplines: walking without headphones; pausing before I reply; leaving early when a room starts to buzz in the wrong register even if it feels uncomfortable; turning off the tap of feeds that teach me to distrust my own pace; letting awe interrupt a plan. I do “the work” some reels prescribe - just not the kind with edits and subtitles. It’s maintenance of attention. It’s recovery from too much. It’s care for future me.

Anxiety hasn’t packed up. I still flinch at the lack of a neat job title or linear direction, even though I know I’ve been trained - by culture and by myself - to think that’s the only respectable state. I still watch my savings account leak and feel the old heat rise, even as I’m grateful there’s enough to leak. I still catch a reel telling me to grind, persist, and incarnate purpose. Fine. I am persisting at my own pace. I am doing the work of seeing, of being surprised, of following serendipity where it taps my shoulder.

Today that same close friend who told me about my neuro-spicy mind sat at my table. I told him about this lettre. He echoed my girlfriend without blinking: “You’ve never moulded yourself to whatever passes for normal. You’ve wrestled with it instead of lying down. That’s not a flaw.” He’s right. They both are. Being loved by people who recognise me is part of the blessing I’m naming here.

Where this lettre lands is simple: I’m proud of being open, honest, and loving. I’m proud of the odd-shaped inventory of skills and the years I’ve spent learning them in public and in private. My ethical compass; the way curiosity pulls me into rooms I didn’t know I needed; the way chance encounters become teachers, students, comrades, lovers, friends… This is my success. The pressure to hustle and produce is just another lesson in trust: trust that I’m allowed to be content, that enjoyment isn’t negligence, that feeling blessed is not naïveté but attention.

And because every good letter eventually stops explaining and simply speaks, here it is.

The Lettre

Cher moi,

You are enough. And not as a compromise. You are enough as a starting point that keeps starting. You’ve built a life from noticing and refusing to fake it, from small repairs and long walks, from showing up for people you weren’t told to care about. You have let curiosity be your compass and kindness your proof.

Keep setting your own metronome - slower breath, honest pace - in ordinary rooms. Keep trusting that your work includes rest, and your rest includes listening. Keep learning without making your life a performance of improvement.

If anxiety knocks, let it sit, pour it tea, and ask what it’s protecting. Then take what’s useful and walk on. You do not need permission to be content. You do not need a slogan to be purposeful.

I’m open and ready for whatever arrives next; whether it looks like a project, a person, a path, or a quiet season. Surprise is welcome.

xx D