For years, I believed that my work should be my passion. I thought that if I could just figure out what I was wildly passionate about, everything else would fall into place. I also believed, quite strongly, that I needed to feel deeply connected to the products I was working on.

You are not meant to stay the same. Not for the version of you who once needed this life. Not for the people who still expect you to be that person. Not for the comfort of familiarity. You are allowed to want something different now. You are allowed to walk away from things that no longer fit

I had a client interaction recently that left a bitter taste in my mouth.

We talk all day—at work, over WhatsApp, in our heads—and most of us rarely stop to consider how deeply our words shape the way we experience the world. But science keeps showing what many of us sense intuitively: words are not just descriptions of our reality. They create our reality. They shape our mood, impact our relationships, and influence our ability to cope with stress, connect with others, and build resilience.

Until about two weeks ago, I was living out of a suitcase—and had been for more than six months. It started when we sold our property in London and packed up everything we owned into a storage unit. My entire life—objects, furniture, keepsakes, kitchen tools, all the little “just in case” things—boiled down to a few boxes. And then, even smaller, into a suitcase I’d carry with me. A few outfits, my laptop, essential toiletries, and the Aeropress I now consider a non-negotiable.

It happens without thinking. The alarm goes off. You are still under the covers, your body not quite ready to move, still half asleep. Outside, a car drives past. A few birds chirp near the window. But the first thing you do? You reach for your phone.

There’s a lot of talk about what to do. What to add. What to build. What to start. Most goal-setting conversations are centered around doing more. But what about the things we stop doing? What about the daily decisions, habits, and patterns that quietly drain our time, our clarity, and our presence—and go completely unchecked? Here’s a short list of things I’ve consciously stopped doing—not as a productivity tactic, but as an act of mental protection.

Ever notice how your best ideas seem to arrive when you’re not trying to think at all? Not when you're staring at the screen, trying to force focus. Not when you’ve carved out the perfect productivity block. But in the shower. On a walk. While folding laundry. That’s not coincidence.

You didn’t climb a mountain. You didn’t run a marathon. You just lived a normal day. A normal day that probably included poor sleep, unread emails, one too many decisions, a blurry meeting, a sugar crash, someone’s slightly passive-aggressive tone, and the subtle shame of knowing your to-do list is still quietly laughing at you from across the room.

There are moments that feel like being paused mid-scene. Something’s ended—or is about to—but the next frame hasn’t loaded yet. You’re not sure what to say, what to fix, or which way to turn.

We carry this belief quietly but religiously: that we’re supposed to be happy. That the measure of a well-lived life is lightness. That peace should be our permanent setting, and if it isn’t, something is wrong. But what if happiness isn’t the goal?

There’s a kind of tired that has nothing to do with sleep. It shows up when your body is technically upright, but your mind has quietly curled up in a corner somewhere, overwhelmed by everything it’s been asked to hold.