Letter to myself

Today I caught myself trying to “optimize” my soul like it was a training plan. More hacks. More tweaks. More future-me fantasies. And then it hit me: I’m not a problem to solve. I’m a living thing—like a wave, a tree, a storm passing through. Nothing to fix. Just something to be.

When I chase a shinier version of me, I make a quiet accusation: “This one isn’t good enough.” That’s the loop that keeps the wheel spinning. The wanting becomes the cage. And honestly, I don’t need a prettier cage. I need the open sky.

Life isn’t a staircase to climb; it’s music to play. You don’t listen to a song to finish it—you listen because it’s beautiful now. Same with this breath, this smile, this stumble in the kitchen, this long run where the watch doesn’t matter. Arrival is a myth. Aliveness is here.

So, Luca, let the river be a river. Thoughts roll in; feelings change weather; the body hums; the world moves through you and as you. You’re part of the whole performance, not a separate manager with a clipboard yelling at the universe to improve its KPIs.

When the fixer voice shows up (and it will), try this:
Pause. Notice the urge to edit yourself.
Soften. One unforced breath. Drop the shoulders.
​Belong. Remember you’re not behind. You’re inside—of this moment, this body, this life.

​Do things for their own sake today. Run because running feels like wind. Eat because food is sunlight remembered. Speak because kindness tastes sweet on the tongue. No scoreboard needed.

And if the mind insists on goals, give it one: treat this very you as already whole. Move from that truth, not toward it. Let practice be celebration, not penance.

For the record—write it in big letters somewhere I’ll trip over later: I am enough. Not tomorrow. Not after. Now.

See you out there, easy and awake.