After observing a growing argument on Threads about the privileges foreigners in Japan abuse, I finally composed my thoughts on what it means to be an expat, and the privilege, contribution, and perception that comes along with it.

“What do you photograph?" It should have been an easy question. Technically, it is. But the answer was, and still is, everything. The problem wasn't that I didn't have an answer. The problem was that I didn't have only one.

Madeline planned the whole night—Nissan GT-Rs, secret parking garages, and six hours through Tokyo's underground car culture. I went along for the ride and left with more than I expected.

Jackson turns eighteen today. Standing here in Tokyo—the city where he first reached for my hand from a stroller—I find myself thinking less about the milestone and more about the thousands of ordinary days that led here. This is what I've learned about parenthood, time, and the quiet honor of watching someone grow into exactly who they were always meant to be.

There's a question I keep returning to, one that disappears for a while before finding its way back. Am I as good a friend to myself as I am to the people I love? It turns out knowing yourself and befriending yourself are two very different things.