Today. July 16th marks my birthday. And later this week, the anniversary of Isamu’s death—twenty-three years ago.

These two dates live in tandem on the calendar. Just two days between them. And every year, I feel it—an invisible weight pulling through my chest, my breath, my skin. A kind of cellular knowing that this week hints at more than a passage of time. It’s another threshold.

In the early morning hours—when the world is quiet and the page is still listening—I often find myself returning to the stories I’ve inherited, those I’ve told many times, and others I’m only just beginning to reclaim. Lately, as I explore the world of longevity, those stories have circled around aging—not simply as a biological process, but as a reflection of culture. A culture that tells those in midlife and beyond: you’re disappearing. Your symptoms are glitches. Your wisdom has an expiration date.

Last time I wrote to you, I shared some thoughts about the stories we carry—about health, aging, and what it means to live inside a body that doesn’t always follow the script.Lately, I’ve been trying to listen more deeply to my own.