I should know better.
I mean, I do know better. I’ve read the books, I’ve run the courses, and I’ve probably facilitated more mindfulness workshops than most Buddhist monks. I can explain the neuroscience behind the amygdala hijack, the role of the parasympathetic nervous system in recovery, and how deep diaphragmatic breathing can recalibrate your vagus nerve like tuning a cello.
And yet…
Even with all that knowledge, sometimes my brain still behaves like a caffeinated squirrel trapped in a sock drawer. I sit on a beach in Spain, eyes closed, gently breathing in the salt air and the faint whiff of someone else’s Ambre Solaire… and still I’m running mental checklists of things I haven’t done, might forget to do, or—just to spice things up—might never even happen but I’m catastrophising anyway, just in case.
Here’s the thing: knowing how to relax and actually feeling relaxed are entirely different sports. One’s a textbook. The other’s a dance you’ve forgotten the steps to.
The Psychology of Why We Can’t Just “Chill”
Psychologists call it cognitive dissonance: that awkward gap between what we know and what we do. Neuroscience calls it the default mode network—a part of the brain that becomes hyperactive when we’re not doing anything in particular, and typically defaults to replaying our past regrets or predicting future disasters with Oscar-worthy imagination.
So, when you sit still, your brain thinks, “Lovely. Now’s the perfect time to replay every mistake you’ve ever made and every worst-case scenario you’ve ever invented. Cup of tea?”
No wonder most of us need a reason to relax. It’s not enough to want to switch off. We need permission. A purpose. Something to tether us to the here and now.
For me, that reason has become beautifully simple: to remember who I am.
Not the LinkedIn bio. Not the facilitator, the coach, the bloke who’s never far from a flight or a flipchart. But the person who built this life. The one who grafted. The one who, despite occasional self-doubt and frequent overpacking, has created something meaningful.
And the best way I’ve found to do that?
Solitude. And Breathing. (Not necessarily in that order.)
I step away. I spend time on my own. Not in a dramatic “I must go and find myself” way. More in a “let me sit quietly with a proper coffee and no notifications” kind of way.
I breathe. Slowly. On purpose. I let my brain settle like a shaken snow globe. I look at the simple things that matter: the shape of my son’s smile, the creases at the corner of my wife’s eyes when she laughs (she’s 65 this week—don’t worry, she knows), the fact that we’re all here in Spain together, healthy, eating too much bread, and occasionally arguing about which bar to go in.
This is the fruit of years of graft. This is the life I built. These moments are not “rewards”—they’re the reason.
A Small Commitment (Because Saying It Publicly Helps)
So, as another mad stretch of travel, projects, and hotel minibars looms, I’m making a quiet but public vow:
Over the next two months, I will journal and blog more frequently. Not because I need to be productive, but because I want to stay anchored. To share what I learn, what I notice, what I breathe through. And maybe to remind others that mindfulness is a practice, not a magic trick. It takes effort, just like anything worthwhile.
I’ll leave you now. The sun is setting, the wine is breathing, and I should probably do the same.
Cheers for reading.
Back soon,
Steve
