Rewiring to the Unknown

On mental silence and writing to my future self

January opens up slowly, every thought is left behind in the wind tunnel created in the stairwell to exit the train station. I walk in the rain to a table in the corner of a restaurant. I squeeze past a silent couple, struggle to put my things down and sit for a meal. Dessert is ordered so the ending is always sweet.

What’s on your mind? (Substack’s words, not mine)

Why does it feel wrong to say nothing? The growing silence in my brain is strange, it feels like the true embodiment of doing nothing. Not the claim of “I’m doing nothing” we all make far too often when someone asks us what we’re up to, when what we mean is we’re scrolling, reading, watching TV, or overthinking.

This nothing feels different, it’s real silence.

Ever since I turned meditating into a habit, I find myself saying the phrase “nothing” when someone questions what’s on my mind during conversation pauses. Though I still face my moments where I’m uncomfortable with this silence. Shouldn’t I be doing something? When the silence gets to me, I grab my laptop or my journal and begin to write. This to me is the ritual to rewrite the narrative I’ve carried for too long. The belief that I’m not good at writing. Why did I convince myself that I only have to do things I’m good at? I can’t fall for willful ignorance.

Now, I have newfound confidence. Knowledge and perspectives remain ever-expansive, always enticing. I’m practicing keeping my mind in silence, because that’s truly living in the moment. It makes me feel like a resident outside my body. I’ve never experienced silence before. My focus has never been better, but when I disconnect from that state, I remember I’m still a vessel of emotions. I’m exploring the balance between shutting my mind off and channeling my passions to create a new reality.

Standing at the intersection of time and space I reach the unknown..

Recently, through the Polymath Book Club, I’ve read books like Here by Richard McGuire and Orbital by Samantha Harvey, which explore how we view progression: to live in the moment while encountering reflections on what has come before and what is yet to come. These stories remind me how life is rarely linear. Moments stretch, fold, and interlace, often surprising us with meaning when we least expect it.

Day to day, we measure time in meals, social commitments, TV episodes, and the numbers on our phones. The anticipation often pulls us away from being present. Recent political agendas and societal shifts have propelled us deeper into collective uncertainty. This mirrors my attempt at personal work: navigating silence, embracing the unknown, and walking into what’s next.

A Letter to Myself

I once had an assignment to write a letter to myself. My academic advisor kept it and mailed it back before graduation. I had no recollection of what I’d written, but its relevance wasn’t diminished by the unforeseen choices I’d made since. Inspired by this, I recently purchased a book where I can write letters to my future self. On January 18th, I wrote my first letter. It’s a keepsake I hope will carry the same charge as receiving that letter years ago. There’s a strange power in writing to the person you hope to become. It’s not about predicting the future but about anchoring yourself to what you value in the present.

I’m also kicking at the feeling of embarrassment over sharing my thoughts in conversations (or writing them down for others to read). Possibly this too is an overshare, but I’ve decided it doesn’t matter. These letters to myself are public-facing because they’re as much for me as for any third-party who stumbles upon them. I’m still learning the balance of when to stop speaking (or writing, in this case).

What’s next?

Upon my brother’s recommendation (forcing him to read through all my newsletters), I’ve been considering making these letters shorter and more frequent. Don’t be alarmed if you see some experiments with format or tone in the coming months.

My word of the year is consistency. For now, that means continuing to show up: in silence, in writing, and in the unknown.