I’VE BEEN referring to this season as my spiritual odyssey. Nearly two months ago, the chronic back pain that I’ve dealt with for six years overwhelmed me, creating a fissure in my reality.

I began to understand that the chronic pain derives from emotional wounds — what is known as TMS (The Mindbody Syndrome), not a structural abnormality.

To find out why my brain has been creating this pain, I’ve forayed into my shadow, my past, and all that’s brought me to where I am today. It’s been an odyssey indeed — but in the past week, this season has taken on a new name, one that fires me up: the phoenix era.

The phoenix simplifies. He or she rises from the ashes, unafraid to be who they are in their core. It’s from that essence, devoid of years of piled up dust, that they may build a life of authenticity.

This past week has informed me of my true essence, as I had several experiences, both big and small, that helped me understand who I am that much more deeply.

Last week was the fourth of July in the United States, a holiday that in the U.S. feels like the good ol’ summer kick off. It was a rather normal day here in Japan. My new American passport came in the mail, which was cool, fitting for the day.

And then when I went to get an iced coffee from the konbini (convenient store), “Surfin’ Safari” by The Beach Boys was playing on the speakers. That made me smile.

But the day felt sort of strange; it made me think about holidays, and of course, just what the hell I’m doing here in the first place. On the fifth, which was the fourth of July in the U.S. in real time, I decided to celebrate. I asked for this adventure — it’s up to me to create some magic, which often means an excursion out of Tokyo.

In my hometown of Los Angeles, the fourth of July means a day at the beach. Hopefully, the weather is dry, hot, and the sky is blue. Instead of dry desert heat, however, Japanese summers are humid and tropical. Days may be bright and sunny, or there may be torrential rain and lightning, a proper summer storm.

No matter the weather, there’s something special about summer in Japan. The mood is soft, yet dramatic: paper fans and golden sunsets, red rivers below purple skies, pouring rain dripping from neon signs.

The stage is set for an adventure, even if it’s just a visit to the local konbini.

In Japanese television and movies (I’m thinking of Ghibli Studios), the characters often journey into fantastical worlds inspired by the aesthetics, diverse landscapes, and cultural nuances of the country.

As a kid, the video game and television show Pokémon was a big part of my life. The main character, ten-year-old Ash, ventures out into the world, one based on Japan’s cities, countryside, mountains and seas.

So when I opt for a weekend excursion, I feel like Ash leaving for the unknown, where anything is possible.

A couple of days ago I was talking to one of my best friends, a brother. I realized that I’m not alone in how I’m feeling about life right now. In September I’ll be twenty-nine. Just like with these weekend trips, I really have no clue what’s to come.

We were talking about this period that we’re both in, one of transcending our past, crossing a threshold, and dare I say, growing up.

It’s scary in a way. Part of me wants to hold on to childhood, the kid I’ve become so comfortable being. But that kid was in pain. Things need to change.

This change is very poignant for me because it entwines with overcoming pain, but what I’m experiencing isn’t unique. My friends are going through changes. We’re at that stage, and it’s beautiful, and it’s sad, and it’s life.

Growing up isn’t something to fear.

Growing up isn’t a mortgage, or having a kid, or getting married. These are aspects of getting older, which, hopefully, inspire you to grow up. Growing up, to me, is truly understanding who we are, so we can simplify, cut out the bullshit, and begin living our best lives.

Getting older means letting go. By letting go of things which no longer serve us, we make room for what does. The important relationships. Meaningful work. Health. Joy. Peace.

Growing up means rekindling our childhood spirit, who we are before life tried to make us something we’re not. By growing up and stepping through this threshold, I’m becoming a kid again. I’m learning to let go of the fear, the shame, insecurity and judgement, and to honor being me.

Words can’t convey the love I feel for my brothers that I get to grow alongside with on this unbelievable journey. I seriously couldn’t do this without you fellas.

The fifth was a beautiful day, so I made the two-hour journey from Tokyo to Kamakura, one of the most historical cities in Japan, with some awesome beaches.

Similar to the magic of driving up and down the California coast, there’s something wonderful about a train journey through Japan.

A large crowd and I alighted in Kamakura. It was Friday. The whimsical mood, expressed by straw, wide-brim hats, sundresses, laughter, and the artificially cheerful smell of sunblock, was abundant.

After walking down the beach, I found a place to hunker down. Then, I ran. Running on the beach is one of my favorite activities in life. I’ve run over the past six years, yet I did so believing something was wrong with my body. My brain was conditioned to create pain, but I ran anyway.

Running on the beach in Kamakura symbolized the restoration of my freedom. I ran, no longer hoping I could one day heal, but knowing that my body was never broken.

I don’t think I know who I am without this pain, I told my therapist last week through tears.

I’ve spent my adult life (my twenties) battling this. Yet, he helped me realize that I’m nothing without the pain — that is, there is no me who hasn’t dealt with this thing that’s felt insurmountable.

I’m me because I’ve dealt with this pain. I’m me. The pain isn’t some demon or curse, but a calling of my heart, a voice that needs to be heard, a plea of understanding — a guide.

Running wouldn’t be so meaningful without having gone through this. Running on the beach, I feel like me to my core.

Afterward, I jumped into the water and swam. No matter where I go in the world, I’ll always get in the water. Often I’ll be the only one, but that’s the Van Patten way. Looking back upon the coast at the burger shack and coffee shops and cliff-side restaurants, I was in awe.

And my fourth of July celebration was just getting started.

The sun was high in the sky and dried me quick; I picked up some shells, marveling at their iridescent shades. I grabbed a big stick and drew a shark in the sand. As the sun began to set, I scanned Google Maps to see what was in the area.

I noticed the symbol for onsen (natural hot springs), right down the beach. ​Inamuragasaki Onsen,​ tattoo-friendly, I read in the reviews — yes. That’s pretty rare with onsen, however I think things are beginning to change.

I started walking.

Whereas the ​previously discussed sentō​ are artificial bathhouses, scattered around what I imagine is every Japanese city, the atmosphere of the onsen is usually more luxurious and tranquil. Each onsen has a unique identity.

I’ve been to some absolutely incredible ones around Japan, and each is totally different. ​One was in a gorge on the island of Shikoku​, where we had to take a cable car down the face of the valley to reach it.

​Another was Kinosaki Onsen​, an onsen town comprising seven different hot springs. It feels like the entire town is one big spa (the entire town is also tattoo-friendly). This experience in Kamakura was different. It cost about fifteen dollars to enter. After a day in the sun, my body was tired and ready for a soak.

There’s one large, hot pool at the onsen, with an open glass window overlooking the road and the coastline. The water was hot and golden-black from the minerals, the color of twilight.

After ten minutes in the sauna, followed by a cold plunge, I dipped back into the hot pool. The sky was velvety now, transitioning from deep-orange to violet. Off the coast is an island where a light tower had cast its light into the sea.

As I gazed through the open window, a Black Kite bird, Tobi in Japanese, flew across my vision. It felt like a scene from ​my favorite book​, Shōgun, which takes place in Feudal Japan in the year 1600.

Suddenly, the clean silhouette of Mt. Fuji emerged from the distant, dusky sky. I couldn’t believe my eyes. I sat there in the pool, unable to see below the surface of the glassy black water, gazing upon one of the most extraordinary sights I’d ever seen: crashing waves. Red lights on the highway. A vast sky. The mountain.

It was so quiet, so peaceful. In that moment, nothing made sense. Everything made sense. I miss my friends, my family. I miss holidays back home — I miss speaking English to strangers.

But something out in the world has called me. This is my answer: If today was one of the most incredible experiences of my entire life, I thought, that means it’s only getting better.

Life is incomprehensibly beautiful.

The best days are yet ahead if you make them so. Just go.

Say yes.

Do it by yourself if you must.

The journey’s far from over, but after two years, by saying yes to this adventure, I feel like I’ve come to understand Japan in my own particular way.

For some inexplicable reason, Japan has been a passage into my childhood, a threshold into adulthood, a voice that’s spoken to me through autumn leaves and silver moons, earth-shattering thunder and moments of revelation, which, perhaps, I had to be on my own to receive.

I can’t express how meaningful this all is to me, a period in which I need to venture into the world to discern what heart beats from beneath this chest, and why the summer moves through it so passionately.

I’ll walk in the heat and listen to the trees, and I’ll swim in the sea after a long train ride, grateful for the sun and cool water on my skin.

The seasons carry me. They follow us, as we follow them. Spring gone and summer come; what lies behind the orbit of this great stone in empty space, revolving around fire?

New friends, growing with old friends, becoming best friends, and memories yet to come that’ll one day be nostalgic. And in the onsen, unable to believe my eyes, I watched the sky turn black.