I am writing this from a plane to Taipei, suspended in what I’ve started to call the “uncertainty fog.” In March 2026, I will walk away from my job. I have no map for April. I have a dozen mental tabs open —possible countries, potential cities, potential lives— but for the first time, the lack of a destination doesn’t feel like a failure. It feels like calibration.
Don't be an Asshole Rule
My journey here started with a simple rule: Don’t be an asshole. A year ago, I was an intern at a Fortune 500 company. I landed a VIE (What’s a VIE ?) position in Singapore because I was friendly to a colleague named Didier during my onboarding. We became friends over regular lunches, and when the Singapore role opened up, he pushed my resume to the top of the pile. My skills matched the job, but Didier’s intervention was the catalyst. It is a humbling reminder that the world is often moved by proximity and character rather than just algorithms.
I owe this entire era to Didier, even if the job itself is the definition of “corporate bullshit.” It is the kind of job you do because it pays well, even though the meaning is hollow and the management is forgettable. But there is a strange utility in a job you dislike: it creates a sharp friction against the rest of your life. It funds the freedom to find what actually matters.
The Skill Tree
That friction sent me straight into a Muay Thai gym. I wanted the violence, the ritual, and the humility.
As a French-born Eurasian—son of a French father and Chinese mother—my relationship with my own body has always been a shifting terrain. Growing up in France, I was “the Chinese kid.” I was the target of racist jokes that only stopped when I hit a growth spurt, eventually reaching 1.85m and 90kg. It’s a weird realization: the world started respecting me more simply because I took up more physical space.
But in the Muay Thai gym, that 85kg body initially meant nothing. I was at zero. My “flexibility” and “fluidity” menus were entirely greyed out.
After nine months of training ten hours a week, I eventually started to feel some icons on the “skill tree” starting to light up. But more than the kicks, it’s the social reality of the gym that grounds me. I train with my best friend—the older brother I never had. He is faster and more experienced, the ghost I am constantly trying to surpass. I also met other people: fighters, coachs, muay thai practitioners. They all brought something to my journey, and I’ll be grateful forever to them.
In the office, I am a cog; in the ring, I am a practitioner. One role drains me; the other builds me.
The Stranger's Advantage
This “in-between” state follows me outside the gym, too.
Two years ago, during my first trip to Taiwan, something shifted. I arrived expecting a homecoming, but I found a paradox: In France, I am “Yellow.” In Asia, I am “White.” I am too Western for the East and too Eastern for the West.
I used to think this meant I didn’t belong anywhere. Now, I see it as the “Stranger’s Advantage.” Being déraciné—uprooted—means you are no longer bound by the scripts of either culture.
I see this most clearly when I travel alone through Vietnam, Hong Kong, or China. Solo travel isn’t just “convenient” because you choose the restaurant; it’s transformative because it forces you to become a pure observer. You sit on a plastic stool in a Taipei night market, watching locals navigate the rhythms of a life you aren’t fully part of, and you realise that “home” is a flexible concept.
When I return to France now, I feel the warmth of my parents’ house, but the country itself feels like a suit I’ve outgrown. My life is no longer tied to a geography, but to this process of constant transition.
Living in the Fog
So, I sit in the fog.
March 2026 is a cliff, and I am leaning toward it. I’ve stopped trying to clear the mist. If my year in Singapore has taught me anything, it’s that the most honest parts of life happen in the transitions—in the space between the kick and the impact, between the French passport and the Eurasian face, between the job I hate and the life I’m building.
I don’t need a map. I just need to keep my hands up and stay fluid.