Years have passed since I last allowed myself to just sit here and write—back when I was still working at the children’s hospice, taking my lunch breaks to boot up the generic Windows XP desktop in the poorly-lit back office in order to wax nebulous poetic on a Medium with a different logo, on a very different Internet. The older I become, the more I scoff at the idea of continuing this tradition. Or rather, the more I’m intimidated, the more I’m filled with existential fear. My identity hinges on what I present publicly, the calibre of my writing, and my identity informs who I am.

The economics of writing freely, with reckless abandon, progressively becomes more scarce. Any particular thought which fills my lofty head no longer has the luxury of being splattered across an Internet that is increasingly hostile towards what is antithetical to the profitable, to the outrageous, or to the misinformed. Put another way, I am an adult and ought to act as such. I admit to thinking the vulnerability and openness that come with these posts demonstrate an arrested development — for what am I doing differently? How am I progressing in a meaningful, demonstrative way?

*My tongue, every atom of my blood, form’d from this soil, this air,
Born here of parents born here from parents the same, and their parents the same,
I, now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin,
Hoping to cease not till death.
* — Song of Myself (1892 version) by Walt Whitman

We are designed to become desensitized, to think our thoughts are plainly unoriginal and not compelling enough to share—our experiences and perspective not unique enough, either. I cannot begin to count the amount of days I feel have a similitude enough to be forgotten completely.

But then, I have the privilege of being brought down to my knees, inspired by the mystical that refuses to diminish: What happened to the wide-eyed wonder we had when we were kids? We need to approach the world with that same perspective that we did when we were growing up — with a sense of curiosity, awe, and appreciation for the unique beauty that surrounds us each day.

16-year-old Yuguo, who has a passion for Eastern European romantic poetry, makes a pilgrimage from his home in China to the foothills of Romania’s Carpathian Mountains.

An inspiring example of this kind of passion is the documentary The Joys and Sorrows of Young Yuguo, which chronicles the story of a Chinese student who was so enamored by Western romantic literature and art that he was willing to travel across the world to Romania to pursue his dreams of learning more, having a fierce intensity of love for the country. Tragically, he died purely by chance while studying abroad, yet his parents felt no regrets allowing him to leave, as they knew how happy he was in his final days while chasing his passions.

His story is, more than anything, a reminder to not fret about our own mortality and health concerns. We just need to passionately pursue our dreams in our own lives no matter what the outcome may be. Life is fleeting, and we need to make the most of every moment that we can.

I am taking this opportunity to challenge myself to write with eyes that appreciate the beauty of life and the unique situation that I’m in — both of which are present within my life and the lives of so many others. I encourage you to do the same. We need to see the world with fresh eyes and hearts in order to truly make the most of our lives before it’s too late.

In a world where we thought the only rewards are invitations to more work, more hustle, more transactional intent, we have forgotten the fundamental power of telling our stories. We have forgotten, too, the power it has to bind us human together, to lift the veil and further create understanding, to further dip our toes in the traditional knowledge, and to find ourselves in the glow of a stranger’s joy.

It is not just Romanian history that warrants such spotlight, and in that regard, such vulnerability. It is ours, too. Our simple stories, our unflinching bravery. Our ability to form new alliances, to find a new way and to demand a different kind of justice.

Our stories often challenge and embrace inevitability, and it is in those stories and those moments we can redefine the world. And if we listen closely, each story is a call to a personal reckoning—only through passion and persistence can our stories matter and give way to self-discovery.

It is with these stories that come hope, bravery and a new kind of commitment, a new fuel in the pursuit of a more honest life. Each story an opportunity to recognize our joy, our pain and to be forever changed.

I now understand, we are simply put in a place to be vulnerable and to, as Whitman wrote, “cease not till death.” To live a life without recklessly expressing yourself would be an absolute disservice to both you and the world around you. I hereby commit to diving back into this pool of Medium with reckless abandon and no shortage of vulnerability. I anticipate a wild ride. Let’s see how far this will go.

As Romanian poet Paul Celan said:

If breath were taken away from what once counted for breath, then that which counted for nothing, for play, for dream, and for prayer, then all of that would rise up, like a corpse behind the headstones of all that once counted for breath.

Reflected in the stories of the Romanian people I’m reminded of what once counted for breath, for all of us, for every atom of our blood.