On turning 33, getting somewheres, and learning that a beautiful life doesn't have to be a finished one.
I turned 33 on October 22, and I have a confession: I still don't know what the hell I'm doing.
I know considerably more than I did at 23. I know how to navigate a foreign city, order a reasonably impressive dinner, make friends with strangers, and occasionally find myself in rooms I had absolutely no business being invited into.
I have also learned that being well-traveled does not necessarily mean knowing where you're going.
Sometimes life is less like an exquisitely planned Hawaiian vacation and more a missed connection at an massive airport with a dead phone and the stubborn determination not to pay the egregious prices of airport food these days.
And I suspect I'm not the only person who feels that way.
We live in a culture that treats adulthood as a series of increasingly expensive milestones. An impressive body. A respectable career. Financial security. A beautiful home. A partner. Then comes marriage. Preferably all documented in flattering natural light. I’m just lucky because I have a media degree and can make my life look good.
By a certain age, we're supposed to have become somebody.
But what happens when you become somebody entirely different from the person you imagined?
Or worse, what happens when you finally get a taste of the life you've always wanted, only to discover that it isn't permanent or guaranteed?
I've been thinking about that a lot lately.
Years ago, my first food post was at Panera Bread.
FREAKING PANERA BREAD.
I was young, didn't have much money, and was trying to eat somewhat healthily. More importantly, I was learning to enjoy my own company. I'd sit there with my phone, Instagramming my little heart out, pretending to be more comfortable than I actually was.
What began as a small exercise in independence became something much larger.
In Boise, Boifood eventually opened doors I couldn't have imagined. Expensive dinners. Invitations. Collaborations. Relationships with people who shaped the local food community. I met Hugh Acheson, I traveled for food. I met fascinating characters, built a reputation, and occasionally experienced that intoxicating feeling of being in exactly the right room at exactly the right time.
For a while, I felt unstoppable.
But here's the funny thing about getting older: I no longer think those expensive adventures were necessarily the most important part of the story.
The important part may have been that first lunch at Panera.
A young man walked into a restaurant alone, sat down, and began participating in his own life.
He didn't wait for someone to invite him to the table.
There is something rather radical about that.
We spend so much time waiting to become worthy of the experiences we want that we forget we're already entitled to participate in the world. To take fabulous detours.
We wait until we're thinner or more muscular to take the photograph. Until we're wealthier or healthier to travel. Until we're more successful or extroverted to introduce ourselves. Until we find a partner to live happily ever after.
I understand wanting to improve yourself. Believe me, I have an extensive renovation project underway with a bootstrap budget. At this point, I’m pushing the struggle bus to the side of the road for repairs. My Tripple A has damn near expired.
But I increasingly reject the idea that our lives should be placed on hold until some hypothetical, more accomplished version of ourselves arrives. Or when society give us permission to give ourselves the things we desire.
Because that person will have insecurities and struggles, too. They might just have better luggage or a mindset.
Growing up in Hawaiʻi, I inherited a relationship with the world that was shaped by family, place, storytelling, and an extraordinary collection of people who came before me.
My great-grandmother Ida once explained her determination to improve her circumstances by saying she wanted to "get somewheres."
I love that expression.
Not arrive. Not win. Not become the most successful person in the room.
Get somewheres.
There's movement in that word. Verbage. Possibility. A refusal to accept that the world has already decided how far we can go.
It's also the philosophy behind how I blog at Alex Milles Foodie.
I've spent years encouraging people to eat something new, take an unexpected detour, visit a place they've never considered, or simply look at their location with fresh eyes.
But the older I get, the more I understand that getting somewheres doesn't always require a plane ticket.
Sometimes it's having an uncomfortable conversation. Leaving something that no longer fits. Asking for help. Allowing yourself to begin again, particularly when you would much rather be announcing your latest triumph.
And sometimes it's recognizing that the person you were five years ago did the best he could with what he knew and needed.
I think of a younger version of myself who, after a particularly dark period, experienced a brief, extraordinary feeling of freedom.
For a moment, the lights came back on.
He believed anything was possible.
And for a little while, it was.
I wish I could tell him that every dream unfolded exactly as he imagined. That success was permanent. That confidence, once discovered, could never disappear.
But that wouldn't be the truth.
The truth is that we can experience extraordinary happiness and still encounter extreme disappointment. We can build something meaningful and watch it change. We can be deeply grateful for our lives while simultaneously wondering how we're going to navigate the next chapter.
Halloween Costume #2 (My brother and mother are both sailors, I figured why not me too)
Gratitude and uncertainty are not mutually exclusive. As they say not all those who wander are lost.
I think that's something we need to talk about more openly, particularly in a world where everybody seems determined to market their lives as a continuous upward trajectory.
I don't believe a person's worth can be measured by the elegance of their circumstances.
And I don't believe joy should be reserved exclusively for people who have figured everything out.
Which brings me to the people at the table.
I've been fortunate enough to travel, eat, celebrate, and occasionally misbehave alongside some extraordinary human beings.
I think of my great-grandfather Chang, who called me Tiger. I remember his beloved cacti and family barbecues around his grill. I think of my mother, my grandparents, my ancestors, and the friends who became family along the way.
I think of the people who gave me opportunities, helped me through difficult times, or saw potential in me when I struggled to see it myself.
Maya Angelou's image of standing as ten thousand has taken on a more personal meaning as I've gotten older.
I may come as one, but I walk as ten thousand.
Those ten thousand include people who are no longer alive. People I haven't spoken to in years. People who loved me imperfectly. People who changed my life without ever realizing it.
And all the earlier versions of myself who got me here.
I wonder how often we underestimate our influence on the lives of others.
You may not remember the dinner you invited someone to, the compliment you offered, or the afternoon you spent showing somebody around your favorite place.
They might remember it for the rest of their life.
That's why I have come to believe hospitality is about more than setting a beautiful table. It's a way of communicating that somebody belongs.
Food does this particularly well.
A meal can turn strangers into friends. A family recipe can make someone who has been gone for decades feel present again. A birthday cake can briefly suspend the anxiety of growing older long enough for everyone to sing badly and laugh together.
And none of it requires a Michelin star.
Sometimes it just requires an invitation.
At 33, my life is not even close to where I thought it would be. I’m struggling with that.
There are things I want to accomplish, places I want to see, relationships I want to cultivate, and parts of myself I'm still trying to understand.
I'd like more stability. More adventures. More love. More opportunities to do meaningful work.
And, ideally, fewer experiences that people insist on describing as character building.
I have developed quite enough character, thank you.
But I no longer want to measure my life exclusively by the distance between where I am and where I thought I would be.
I want to measure it, at least in part, by how I’ve changed the world, the friendships I've sustained, the moments I've noticed, and the courage I've managed to find when the itinerary fell apart. I want it was known, I was here.
I want to keep discovering beautiful places without forgetting the beauty of coming home.
I want to continue pursuing ambitious dreams without treating the present as an inconvenient waiting room.
And I want to make more room at the table.
So, if you're reading this and quietly feeling behind in life, I hope you'll reconsider whose timeline you're using.
You are allowed to change direction.
You are allowed to want more while appreciating what you already have.
You are allowed to be ambitious, imperfect, deeply uncertain, and still have a wonderful time.
You don't have to have everything figured out before you order dessert.
As for me, I'm 33. Still gay. Still hungry. Still curious and wandering. Still occasionally ridiculous.
And despite everything, I still believe there are magnificent experiences waiting around corners I haven't turned yet.
I hope there are some waiting for you, too.
With love and aloha,
Alx 🤙🏼
Still getting you somewheres.
Birthday Dinner October 22, 2026
