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Tue 27 May, 2025
Colmar, France
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Dear Reader,
I’m sitting at my little journaling table here in Colmar.
The dog is snoring under the bed next to me.
I'm listening to Spirit Bird by Xavier Rudd while writing this letter.
This morning I went on a bike ride with a couple of friends, and it helped clear out some fog.
Got my body moving. Gave me good energy to start the week.
We also had someone come by to help us connect more deeply with Cléo. But what I want to start with today isn’t that. It’s something I read in a book I’ve been enjoying: You Are a Badass at Making Money by Jen Sincero.
She shares this idea that really landed with me:
The Hopi people, who live more in tune with what Einstein described about time (we can have a conversation about quantum physics another time, if you're interested), supposedly don’t even have words for “past” or “future.” They exist in the present. So much so that they don’t even have a word for “now”—because naming it would pull them out of it.
Whether or not the linguistics are right, the image stuck. And I think it’s worth sitting with.
What would it be like to stop regretting the past or worrying about the future?
To not think about what’s next, or what should have been, but just let this moment be enough.
That’s what rooted presence is about.
And that’s what this letter is about too.
So Reader, before anything else, I want to invite you to pause.
Right here, in this exact moment.
Whether it’s your first time reading this, or your fifth, this version of the moment—what you’re drinking, where you are, what your body is feeling, what you’re hearing as you read—this exact moment will never come again.
So sit with it. Acknowledge it.
This is the only moment that’s real right now.
And the only one you can bring into your family later.
Shall we begin?
Since we last spoke, this has been the thread running through my week: rooted presence.
If you’re someone who reflects a lot—like I do—you know how easy it is to get stuck in it.
There’s a difference between healthy reflection and just reliving the past or ruminating.
When we cross that line, we’re not learning anymore. We’re looping. We’re judging ourselves.
And we’re missing what’s right in front of us.
I listened to some great podcasts this week—conversations about masculinity, about partnership, about returning to a more grounded, traditional way of showing up.
Not in a rigid way. In a way that honors biology.
The fact that we’re different. That men and women aren’t built to be the same.
And maybe that’s something to embrace, not fix.
Saturday we planted a garden.
It was Aurélie’s idea. We took Cléo with us to the local shop and picked out plants together.
She’s a bit over a year old now, but she wanted to help in every way she could.
Climbing ladders. Touching the soil. Pulling on the leaves.
She didn’t do things the way we did, but she was with us. And that meant everything.
It brought me back to my childhood.
Growing up in a small village where we helped each other with whatever needed to be done.
Corn, cherries, whatever it was.
We showed up. Together.
And I realized: this is what I’ve been missing.
Not just the garden itself. But the feeling. Of planting something together. Of being rooted, as a family.
Sunday didn’t go as planned.
We had two different sets of plans with friends. Both fell through.
So we made our own. Plan C.
We loaded Cléo into the bike trailer and took a ride through the forest.
It brought us back to each other.
We came home and picked cherries from the big tree in front of our door.
That little moment felt full. Not because it was perfect, but because we were all in it.
That’s what I want more of.
On Monday we went to a barbecue with friends.
One of them is American, so we celebrated Memorial Day together: French appetizers, American burgers, ribs, Aurélie’s homemade dessert.
A small mix of cultures, and a moment of gratitude for the life we’re living.
That afternoon, I had coaching calls.
One of them brought up something I think is worth sharing with you, Reader.
A client of mine (let’s call him Ollie) has been working with me for about three months.
He runs a business, has a team, was emotionally distant from his partner, and was feeling disconnected from himself.
A mutual friend referred him to me.
When we started, he was on the edge of burnout.
Didn’t know if he wanted to stay in his relationship.
Didn’t know how to connect.
Felt like he was hiding in work, and it wasn’t working anymore.
So we started working together.
Weekly calls. A shared Notion space. Reflection prompts.
Text messages when he needed nudges or tools or reminders of what he committed to.
He did the work. Slowly. Steadily.
And last weekend, something happened.
He and his partner flew to the Azores for her birthday. They had agreed—no work.
But the first morning, she started working.
He noticed.
He felt the old reaction stirring.
The urge to escalate. The pattern they always fell into.
But this time, he paused.
He said, “Okay. I’ll go have a coffee. I’ll wait for you after.”
And when she got defensive—“Why would you go without me?”—he didn’t fall into the fight.
He stepped away.
And he opened the chat tool I built for clients to use when I’m not around.
A little trained version of me, built in ChatGPT.
Not a replacement, but a temporary mirror.
He used it to reflect on what had just happened.
And when he came back, he didn’t come back with blame.
He came back with presence.
With curiosity.
He asked her if she was open to reconnecting.
They repaired.
And they had a beautiful rest of the weekend.
Now, to be clear—he did that.
He chose rooted presence.
He chose maturity.
But I also want to name my part.
Because I helped build that space with him.
And sometimes we forget to name the work we do.
Like Snoop Dogg said, I wanna thank me.
I say that lightly, but also seriously.
Because as men, as dads, we rarely stop to acknowledge what we’re doing right.
And that’s how this connects to presence.
Not just presence in the moment, but presence with our progress.
Presence with what we’ve carried. What we’ve survived. What we’ve healed.
At the barbecue, one of the moms shared something.
She used to be a nurse.
She said, “Back then, I knew I had days off coming. Weekends. Holidays. With parenting, that doesn’t exist. There’s no off switch.”
And she’s right.
So we have to learn to celebrate in the middle of it all.
Not when it’s finished or when the season is easier.
NOW.
I’m finishing work now with two coaching clients.
I’m opening up to new ones this summer.
I’m guiding some cycling trips.
And I’m staying steady with these letters.
And Reader, I want to thank you.
For reading this far.
For practicing rooted presence with me.
For choosing to be here, in this moment, when there are a hundred other things you could be doing.
I hope you remember the Hopi image, too.
That maybe time isn’t what we’ve been told.
That maybe, this moment right now really is all we’ve got.
And that it might just be enough.
Stay rooted,
Mihai
Wake Up. Live Fully.
P.S. If you want details about the men’s retreat in Switzerland I’m co-facilitating with Simon—music, fire, mountains, good men—just reply to this email and I’ll send them over. Early bird sign-ups close at the end of the month and there only a few spots left.
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