It's tough to pin down exactly why I set out on this planet-sized challenge. The more I think about it, the blurrier it gets—a mix of countless motivations, fleeting moments, and long hours staring out the window, wondering. Maybe it started with an overactive imagination as a kid. I dreamed of living every life, doing every job, experiencing every possible version of existence. But reality set in: we only get to be one person, in one place, in one lifetime—a truth that never sat well with me. That discomfort only grew as I followed the expected path from university to an office job, watching my world shrink into something that didn’t quite fit.

Then came my late teens and early twenties, a period of deep reflection forced upon me by loss and uncertainty. Several people close to me battled cancer—some survived, some didn’t, including my dad and a young friend. Life’s randomness hit hard. It made one thing clear: time isn’t guaranteed.

Even before then, I knew I didn’t want the conventional life—a job, a house, a slow march into the expected. But as my twenties ticked by, despite a life many would envy, I felt empty. I chased distractions—hobbies, late-night bar tending shifts—anything to fill the void. Nothing worked.

Eventually, I realized I had two choices: accept this life or throw myself into the wildest adventure imaginable. Go out, see what happens, experience the world in its rawest form. What did I have to lose? Nothing’s promised, certainly not tomorrow. If I make it to old age, I want to look in the mirror and hear, “You gave it a bloody good go, sunshine.”