Bangkok had served its chaotic purpose:   a place to regroup, recalibrate, and rebuild systems.  But staying any longer felt like dragging my feet through wet cement.  Even though I still had nearly three weeks to go before picking up my passport,  I knew I couldn’t remain stuck in that hotel room vortex. The decision was made: I was getting out.

I headed straight to a place I knew and trusted, the Sananwan Palace, tucked on the outskirts of Bangkok.  Quiet,  familiar,  just far enough removed from the pulse of the city to feel like a different world.  I decided to run a quiet test: Would a digital photo of my passport be enough to check in?  They accepted it without hesitation.  Maybe because I’m a long-term guest.  Maybe because I looked tired enough to pass for anyone.  Either way, it worked.  A useful data point for what might come later.

But right then, none of that mattered.  I made it to the room, closed the door, and slept like a man who hadn’t rested in weeks.  The afternoon disappeared.

Later that evening, I woke up with a new plan.  If I was heading south to Koh Samui anyway,  why not first take advantage of my position just outside Bangkok and make a quick detour to Pattaya?

Thailand’s geography makes these choices oddly strategic.  If you choose one side of the Gulf — say Pattaya on the eastern shore — you’re effectively committing to a full loop back through Bangkok before hitting the other side, like Hua Hin or further south to the islands.  There used to be a ferry linking Pattaya to Hua Hin directly, but it’s long gone.  Which meant this would have to be a surgical strike: in and out.

I made the decision to head out that night.

Of course, just before leaving, I got intercepted by none other than “Texas Mack”,  a sharp, battle-hardened Vietnam vet who seems to instinctively understand that everything I do feels like a covert mission.  He’s always making jokes about special ops, encrypted agendas, and tactical withdrawals.  Naturally, he’d pick up on the vibe.  Our chat ran long.  He was heading into Bangkok for one of his own "adventures", and for a moment I debated joining.  But I stuck to the plan.  The op was still green-lit.

The driver who picked me up turned out to be a gift from the travel gods.  He told me he was working in Pattaya for the evening and lived right near my guesthouse on the outside of Bangkok, meaning he could drive me back the same night for a discount.   Perfect.

Then came the question:“What kind of music do you like?” 

“Hip hop.” 

“Then we crank it.”

The road lit up with beats. I wasn’t just escaping Bangkok anymore. This was a rolling celebration, a self-declared victory lap  on the coastal highway under neon skies.

Pattaya was, in a word, epic.  A whirlwind.  The kind of place where time bends, decisions blur, and stories get left in the shadows as they should.  I’ll honor the unspoken agreement:  what happens in Pattaya stays in Pattaya.

Just as promised,  my driver was right there waiting at the exact spot,  right on time.  This time, no party playlist.  Just a quiet,  open road under a sky that felt heavier and calmer all at once.  It was nearly midnight.  As I settled into the seat, he looked at me and said,“Just sleep. I’ll take care of the toll fees.”

No fanfare.  No performance.  Just kindness.  After a week of noise, delays, and unpredictability, that ride back felt like the gentlest kind of exfiltration.  What a gift.  What an angel.

The next day, against my better instincts, I went to a social event.

I had a feeling how it would go, the kind where you know you’re being excluded before you even walk through the door.  I nearly skipped it entirely. The pool at Sananwan was calling,  and frankly,  after the night I’d had,  that seemed like the better option.  But something in me said go anyway. So I did.

Late, of course.

Just as expected,  I walked into a room full of closed circles and familiar faces, none of who turned to acknowledge mine.  As an ambivert,  I can flip the switch when I need to:  play the extrovert,  work the room,  strike up conversations.  But this time I asked myself:  Why the hell should I?  Everyone had their groups.  Their histories.  Their in-jokes.  I was just the ghost in the corner.  Present, but invisible.

So I did something radical:  I stopped trying.

I found a quiet lounge area off to the side and sat down alone.   Ordered a juice.  Then came the kicker.   The staff asked, “Would you like to add a Mother’s Day card for just 20 baht — for your wife or mother?”

I stared at them, trying to hold it together.  My mother has been dead for years.  My marriage is dissolving.  There’s no card in the world that fixes any of that.  I gave them a polite nod, declined the offer, and stood up to leave.

On the way out, someone who appeared to be the leader of this event finally approached me.  She tried to be kind, to ask how I was doing.  Too late, bitch.  You could have asked me that at the beginning.  I didn’t have the words.  Not then.

This wasn’t just about one bad event.  It was the culmination of nearly 25 years of showing up to spaces like this and being met, in one form or another, with silence.

Over time, it starts to wear on you.  It begins to feel like slamming a laptop shut after a failed trade.  It's not just because the numbers don't add up, but because the market doesn't even see you.  The only difference?  In real trading, you can try again tomorrow.  At these events, you get one shot a week.  One narrow window every 165 hours until the next.  And if you’re traveling, alone, or just passing through, well, the odds are rarely in your favor.

So I left.

I wandered into a small coffee shop nearby, hoping for some reset.   Maybe caffeine, maybe clarity.  My phone was dead.  The Thai guy running it said the wifi wasn’t working,  but at least let me plug in to charge.  That was enough.  I tethered a hotspot, opened my laptop, and typed a simple but painfully honest question into the AI:

“I want to understand what the fundamental problem is with these social events I keep showing up to.   The ones where I’m brushed off, overlooked, or ignored — and what can be done about it.  This has been happening for nearly 25 years.”

What followed wasn’t a conversation. It was an excavation.

We went deep.  Hours passed.  Pages spilled out.  Patterns emerged.  Truths I hadn’t been willing or ready to see before began surfacing.  It was like peeling away layers that had calcified over decades of social exhaustion.

And then the sky opened.

A sudden downpour crashed against the pavement, echoing off rooftops like a verdict.  It wasn’t just weather.  It was something else.  Catharsis.  Lament. Even grief.  It almost felt like God himself was crying.

The guy running the café was kind.  Not everyone is, especially when you’re soaked,  drained,  and silently falling apart in a corner.  He saw the weather and said,  “No point just sitting here in the rain, why not chill in the hospital lobby next door?”  Strange suggestion,  but it made sense.  Dry.  Quiet.  Free.

So I went.  Finished up my notes.  Wrapped up the last strands of the hours-long excavation I’d just gone through.  Then I checked the time.  It was 30 minutes until the next F45 class

Without thinking twice, I ordered a Grab motorbike.  What followed was a biblical-level downpour ride:  full throttle through Bangkok streets with rain cutting sideways into my eyes.  I arrived soaked head to toe.  The class was intense.  I gave it everything.

And then, in the middle of it all — in between rounds of sweat and breath and movement — something happened.

We may never know how these moments arrive.  What precise mental alchemy creates them.  What mix of exhaustion, surrender, and silence combined with sweat makes the door unlock.

But it happened.

It wasn’t just clarity.  It was something deeper — a download.   A flash of knowing.  Not complete,  not polished,  but real.  An idea.  A plan. A blueprint.

Something in me or maybe somoene said:   "This is what you do with the pain. This is how you turn it into something else.  You're going to start a movement and this is how you're going to do it."

I still don’t know what it is, or whether I’ll follow through on it. But I can tell you the exact moment it arrived:

4:00 PM. Sunday. May 11th. F45.