Right.
There was a time when I could work for 24 hours straight on a client proposal, grab a shower, shake my head like a Labrador coming out of the Mersey, and walk straight into the next meeting as if sleep was optional and hydration was for the weak.
There was also a time when a party that finished at six in the morning required nothing more than a bacon sandwich, a quick nap and a lie to myself about how “I’m absolutely fine.”
Now?
Now a late night requires strategic planning, electrolytes and what feels like a small rehabilitation programme.
This week has been busy. Proper busy. Airports. Poland. Workshops. Deadlines. That creeping realisation that I’m writing February when it’s clearly March.
And somewhere in the middle of it I realised I forgot to post last week’s blog.
The one about pressure in different cultures. The Danes. Hygge. Calm faces. Quiet stress. The idea that just because a nation looks like it lives inside a candle doesn’t mean its nervous systems aren’t doing star jumps behind the scenes.
So yes. I wrote a blog about stress.
Then created some of my own by forgetting to post it.
You couldn’t script it.
It also links beautifully to that earlier blog about Stella and Kyle fact checking my version of events in real time. I’ll say, “It was definitely a Thursday.”
Stella: “It was Wednesday.”
Kyle: phone already out.
He only comments when I’m wrong. If I’m right, the phone quietly goes back in his pocket like nothing happened. It’s ruthless. Efficient. Scientific.
And here’s the thing.
Memory is not what we think it is. Neuroscience has been telling us this for years. We don’t store life like CCTV footage. We reconstruct it. We tidy it up. We edit out the bits that make us look daft. Add busyness, travel, age and a bit of ego and suddenly you’re absolutely convinced you posted that blog.
You didn’t.
But here’s the interesting part.
All that thinking, planning, solving, presenting, navigating airports, navigating clients, navigating your own diary. That’s exercise.
My physio once said to me while bending my ageing spine into something that looked medically unnecessary, “motion is lotion.” The worst thing you can do for joints as you age is stop moving.
The brain’s the same.
Challenge it. Stretch it. Make it work. Neuroplasticity doesn’t retire at 50. Cognitive effort keeps the machinery lubricated. Busyness, when it’s meaningful, keeps you sharp.
So being active isn’t the enemy.
Recovery is.
At 30, recovery was optional. At 64, recovery is infrastructure.
Back then I could run on fumes. Now my nervous system wants negotiations. It wants silence. It wants proper off time. Not eyes closed while mentally writing emails. Not “I’m resting” while scrolling LinkedIn pretending it’s research.
I mean off.
The sort of forced stillness you used to get on a plane at 30,000 feet when nobody could reach you.
Except now they can.
Because the airline industry, which I once proudly championed with the phrase “work is an activity, not a location,” has kindly installed WiFi in the sky.
Brilliant!
Exactly what I need while trying to recharge. The gentle ping of notification doom somewhere over the Baltic Sea.
But here’s the uncomfortable truth.
Every device has an off switch.
And during my month of digital detox I discovered something mildly shocking.
The world does not collapse if I fail to respond within sixty seconds.
Clients cope.
Teams adapt.
Civilisation continues.
Which suggests something slightly awkward.
Maybe it isn’t just that we live in a stressful world.
Maybe part of it is ego.
Maybe part of it is that I still quietly label myself by what I do, how responsive I am, how needed I appear. If that’s the case, of course switching off feels dangerous. It feels like disappearing.
That’s not a technology problem.
That’s identity.
There’s a balance that shifts as we age. In our twenties and thirties, the push builds capacity. In our sixties, the pause protects it. Thinking keeps the brain supple. Rest keeps it sane.
Thinking is lotion.
Recovery is maintenance.
Both matter.
So this week, somewhere between Heathrow and Poland, I’m experimenting with something radical.
Airplane mode.
Not because the world is unbearable.
But because I’m finally old enough to know that if I don’t choose downtime occasionally, my body and brain will choose it for me.
And they’re far less polite about it.
