A few weeks ago, I found myself caught in a typically quiet. The kind of evening where the hum of the day has faded, the kids are tucked in, and the silence becomes its own kind of presence. It wasn’t late enough to go to bed, but I had no clear urge to do anything productive either. I wasn’t restless, exactly – just a little bored. That soft kind of boredom that nudges you to wander.
So I did what many do in such moments – I opened Netflix.
A new movie had just come out: The Life List. The title alone felt light and digestible, which was exactly what I needed. I was a bit exhausted from the day too, so I didn’t have the energy for anything heavy or profound. I read the short synopsis. It seemed easygoing, maybe even a little cheesy. Just what I was looking for. But then I saw the runtime – over two hours. That gave me pause. For something light, that’s a bit of a stretch.
Still, I figured I’d just watch half an hour. See how it goes. If I got tired, I’d pick it up another night. So, with low expectations and a warm drink in hand, I pressed play.
The film followed a young woman in her twenties – a teacher by profession, living with her boyfriend who was deep into developing a video game. She worked at her mother’s company, and her siblings teased her about being the favorite child. Her mother was terminally ill, and after her death, the family gathered to hear the will. The daughter expected to inherit the business – after all, she’d been the one helping to run it. But instead, all she received was a DVD.
A message from her mother. A challenge.
On the recording, her mother reminded her of a list she had written at the age of thirteen – a “life list” of dreams, goals, and silly ambitions. Her mother’s final request was simple: complete the list within a year. After each completed item, she’d receive another message. And if she finished the list, she’d receive a final surprise – an inheritance, perhaps, but more likely something deeper.
The plot wasn’t anything groundbreaking. You could predict most of the story beats a mile away. But something about it worked. It wasn’t the film that surprised me – it was what it awakened in me.
I didn’t stop after 30 minutes. I watched the entire thing, long after I should’ve been asleep. And when it ended, I didn’t rush to turn off the TV or scroll for something else. I just sat there, quietly thinking.
It got to me.
Not the drama, not the romance or humor – but the idea of the list.
I realized I’d never really made one. Not as a teenager, not as an adult. I’ve always lived mostly by instinct – following curiosity, going with the flow. That’s served me well, to a point. I’ve had a good life. A full life, even. I’ve been lucky in many ways.
But as I sat there reflecting, I realized I had no formal bucket list. Nothing pinned on the fridge or written in an old notebook. No list of dreams slowly being crossed off. And for the first time, I wondered if maybe I should.
At first, I laughed it off – “Maybe this is just a midlife crisis,” I told myself. But the next day, I caught myself thinking about it again – subconsciously, in the middle of breakfast and during a meeting. And again the day after. The film had cracked something open in me, and thoughts started to spill out. Quiet thoughts. Unfinished thoughts. But thoughts nonetheless.
That’s why I started writing.
I’ve never enjoyed writing. It’s not something I naturally enjoy. But I’ve learned it’s one of the most effective ways to think clearly. There’s this idea – Kidlin’s Law: “If you can write the problem clearly, you’re halfway to solving it.” Maybe this wasn’t a problem to solve. Maybe it was just a fog that needed to be shaped into something visible.
So I wrote. And as I did, the fog began to lift.
I started thinking about what I’ve already lived through. I’ve had a beautiful childhood. Loving parents. I’ve traveled more than most, and those journeys have deeply shaped me. When you meet people from different cultures and backgrounds, it expands your perspective. It forces you to listen differently, to see yourself as just one thread in a vast human tapestry.
I’ve been in relationships that didn’t last and others that changed me. I’ve experienced divorce and found new love again. I have four kids from two different marriages. They ground me. They surprise me. They remind me daily that life doesn’t pause – it moves forward whether you’re ready or not.
Of course, there have been hard times -moments I won’t unpack here. But even those, in their own way, are part of a rich and complex life.
Still, something about the idea of a list started to gnaw at me. Not a rigid “do before you die” kind of thing – but more of a mirror. A way to ask myself: What kind of life do I want to keep building?
I started thinking about places I haven’t visited yet. Australia came to mind first – maybe because it’s so far away, or because my cousins live there and I haven’t seen them in years. I have had so many great memories as kid with them. If I made it all the way to Australia, I’d also want to visit New Zealand. It just feels like the natural next step. Then, Singapore and Japan surfaced – places I’ve always been curious about. And closer to home, Iceland, with its stark beauty.
And then an old idea resurfaced: driving a camper van to the North Sea and swimming there. That one made me smile. I’ve never liked cold water. In fact, I swore off it during my army days – said I’d never step into freezing water again unless absolutely necessary. And yet, I’ve found myself swimming in the ocean in January. Because sometimes discomfort teaches you something important. Sometimes it becomes a story you tell.
Maybe that’s what this writing is, too – me stepping into a discomfort I normally avoid. I’ve always liked pushing myself just a little. Doing something that feels unfamiliar, or even a little silly. Like singing.
I love singing. I really do. I think I can sing – not really. But I’ve thought about it. Maybe one day I’ll sing a song for my wife or my kids. Just one honest song, nothing more.
That thread led me to music more broadly. I didn’t grow up in a musical family. My touchpoints with music are pretty clumsy. But I’ve always admired people who can play instruments. There’s something almost magical about making music with your hands. Maybe that’s something I’d like to learn – not to perform, not to impress, but just to play.
It also reminded me of how I used to want to be an architect. That dream never fully left me. There’s a deep satisfaction in creating something physical, something that lasts. I used to build houses in my twenties. It was hard work, but there was something special about starting with boards and ending up with a structure. Maybe now, the dream is more modest: a sauna or a shed at our summer place. But still – something tangible, something mine.
And then there’s this vision I can’t quite shake – me, owning a cozy coffee shop. Nothing too polished. A place with good coffee, warm cinnamon rolls, and laughter. I’d be the familiar face behind the counter. The guy everyone in the neighborhood knows. I don’t want a restaurant. I’ve thought about it – even ran numbers on a kebab stand when I moved to Denmark. A tiny shed by the street. It wasn’t a terrible idea, just not the right one. Food will always be something I enjoy, but I’d rather let professionals handle the gourmet stuff. My thing would be comfort, not complexity.
Although… I wouldn’t mind visiting a three-star Michelin restaurant one day. Just once. Not for the prestige. Just to know what the fuss is about. To see if food can really be that transcendent.
Another recent idea that stuck with me was sparked during a chat with a friend – he was telling me about his experiences at Roskilde Festival. I’ve never been, and I’m not the biggest music guy, but the feel of the festival – that carefree, electric atmosphere – that’s something I want to experience at least once.
And then, maybe the craziest idea of all: backpacking from home with only a coin to guide the way. Toss it – north or south? Let it pick the train. Let it decide when to jump off. Follow the randomness. Trust the chaos. Maybe I’d end up somewhere like Roskilde, or maybe in a remote little town with a story I never expected.
As these thoughts unfolded, I began to recognize something deeper. My list wasn’t just about doing impressive things. It was about curiosity. About creativity. About connection. About playfulness. I began to see categories forming – experiences that stretch me, create joy, build something meaningful, or simply make someone laugh.
And strangely enough, just writing all this down – pushing myself into this unfamiliar, slightly vulnerable zone – felt good. It felt honest. Therapeutic, even.
So here it is. Not a bucket list, not a performance. Just a life list. A living reflection of the things that keep me moving forward.
The Life List
- Travel & Exploration
- Visit Australia and reconnect with cousins
- Visit New Zealand (since it’s nearby Australia)
- Explore Singapore and Japan
- Travel to Iceland
- Take a camper van trip to the North Sea and swim there
- Backpack from home with a coin deciding direction and transport
- Visit the Roskilde Festival
- Travel with kids and share the adventure spirit
- Personal Challenges & Growth
- Sing a song publicly for my wife or kids
- Learn to play a musical instrument
- Push myself into uncomfortable or vulnerable zones
- Do something silly in public that makes people laugh
- Creativity & Making
- Build a sauna or shed for the summer house
- Design and create something meaningful and authentic
- Bake and serve my own cinnamon rolls
- Ventures & Unique Experiences
- Own and run a cozy local café where I chat with customers
- Explore ways to contribute something valuable to the community
- Visit a 3-star Michelin restaurant just to experience the taste
- Let curiosity and creativity guide whatever comes next
Maybe I’ll do them all. Maybe I won’t. Maybe the list will change tomorrow. But for now, it feels right. And maybe—just maybe—somewhere along the way, I’ll sing that song.
Every experiment starts with curiosity – just start!