2024 unWrapped

Dear reader,

As my therapist that I don’t have would say, some things require an explanation.

Two friends sent me a message on the same evening earlier in December. One from JD said, “Hi Mark, just wanted to know how you are doing?,” while another one from Kristina went, “Texting to say I love you and I’m proud of you.” The conversation went on with her, and she asked about my day. I explained that I was getting used to a new job and was excited to learn about things I already knew but to put them in a different perspective and use, reaching out to people while being inspired by the team I feel lucky to be part of. Then I opened my Spotify 2024 Wrapped and realized not only how depressed I was but also what kept me afloat throughout this leap year.

Abel Korzeniowski and Max Richter became my escape and refuge in the storm of emotions. It's wild to see the time I spent listening to The New Four Seasons – Vivaldi Recomposed or soundtracks for W.E. and Nocturnal Animals. Tamango came into my life later, and I listened to their Rosso Cosi song 123 times—moments of rage and denial. (If you haven’t watched the music video for their Sirene e Pirati EP yet, you absolutely should.)

Then there was Zemfira, whose music has been my constant companion through every breakup, dilemma, and moment of joy or struggle since I was a teen. In April, while in Italy, I almost missed her show in New York—forgetting my ticket until the last minute and changing my flight to make it back. That night, during her show,, surrounded by friends, we sang, cried, and danced together for two unforgettable hours. It’s a memory of 2024 I return to often.

At the end of July, I quit my job and retreated to East Hampton, where my godparents surrounded me with immense care and love. For days, I barely left my room, spending my time sleeping, eating, and watching TV until I could drift off again—a rare luxury I had long dreamed of. But on August 25th, Spotify marked my 2024 Wrapped with 720 minutes of listening—a staggering number for a single day. Curious, I checked my calendar and realized it was the weekend we celebrated a friend’s birthday Out East. Long conversations over a dinner table filled with food prepared with love reminded me how much my friends kept me afloat during some of my lowest moments.

One day, walking down Via Spiga in Milan and listening to the Interstellar score by Hans Zimmer, I had my first panic attack. I began crying uncontrollably and said to myself, I want to go home. But then the question arose—where is home?

For those of you who've followed my story for a while, it might not surprise you to learn that I didn’t have a stable sense of home for years. The first home I knew was destroyed during the war. During that time, our family moved constantly. I changed seven schools and studied at college and university simultaneously before eventually settling in Moscow, where I lived for a decade. Moving to New York brought back the feeling of home I’d lost—the sense of belonging that had disappeared when my childhood, and everything left of the home I grew up in, was taken away. As André Aciman said in a conversation with Amor Towles earlier in December, “We all belong to New York because New York is an easy place to belong to.”

On that day later, walking the streets of Milan, I felt an overwhelming sense of pride. Despite everything, I could call New York my home—a place where I built a life and surrounded myself with the most incredible people I now call my chosen family. It was this feeling that inspired me to write thirty-three handwritten letters in November to those who’ve been with me since the very beginning and who have remained a part of my life through the past seven years in the U.S.

Looking back at the passing year, I’m not surprised that my friends kept me afloat during this difficult time. I feel the same way about my friend who’s fighting cancer—seeing her look so strong and fabulous, even as hard as it is, reminds me that no matter how high the highs or how low the lows are, we are always there for one another. Friendships like that are miracles, and they remind us to cherish the communities we build—a sense of belonging that sustains us.

This belief is also a big part of my new job and a significant responsibility, if you will. Having spent time in many members-only spaces, I’ve often felt like I was walking into rooms full of strangers searching for connection in the wrong places, spaces created by people who lack a true sense of community themselves. I firmly believe that success comes from pursuing what you’re genuinely passionate about, and I hope that’s something I can bring to this role.

I’m deeply grateful for you—my Substack community—for continuing to support me on this journey. None of you canceled your paid subscriptions, even during these past few months when I wasn’t writing or sharing much. I’m equally grateful to those of you I don’t know personally but who reached out during difficult times with words of encouragement and support. None of this has been taken for granted.

I’ll do my best to continue sharing what I learn and am working on a long-overdue guide to Milan with Cristiano Cora of N'Ombra de Vin, and a recipe Chef Jaïs kindly wrote for me on the back of a menu at his restaurant in Paris, which will be part of the Epicurist Manual series, alongside other personal reflections and discoveries that fuel my curiosity.

Thank you for being here and Happy New Year!

Yours truly, Kiki —