A few weeks ago when we were in Chiavari, we walked the promenade there over and over. Drinks for aperitivo were advertised all over the place, and next to the usual Aperol Spritz I kept seeing something called a Hugo Spritz.
Last night I finally decided to look up what it was and make a non-alcoholic version at home. We happened to have the right ingredients, and Oh My Gosh, it was delicious – Light, refreshing, and perfect for sitting outside on a hot summer evening!
We were out on our back balcony enjoying the drinks and the view when I noticed my glass was halfway gone. My immediate thought was that I should go inside and make another.
But I caught myself. That thought felt very familiar. For a long time, I thought this was just part of my drinking problem. But I’ve come to realize it’s bigger than alcohol. The deeper issue is scarcity.
If I love the taste of something, the moment I notice it’s running out my mind shifts. Instead of enjoying what is still there, I start thinking about how it’s going to be gone and how I can replace it. If it’s replaceable, half full becomes a signal to refill.
What’s interesting is that this didn’t disappear when I stopped drinking alcohol. I noticed the same pattern with seltzer, soda, and other NA drinks. The object changes, but the thought pattern stays the same.
As I sat there looking at my glass, I thought about the saying: glass half full or glass half empty.
I’ve always kind of thought of myself as a glass-half-empty person, though that never fully made sense. People who know me often describe me as optimistic, sunny, and positive. So why have I always identified more with half empty? I think I finally understand.
This isn’t really about optimism or pessimism. It’s about how quickly my mind shifts from enjoyment to scarcity. The moment something reaches halfway, I stop experiencing what’s still there and start focusing on what’s disappearing. And that mindset can insidiously steal joy.
Way back in 1992, someone told me something that left a deep impression on me. Her grandfather always said to think of the gas tank as empty once it hits halfway. If you fill it before it drops below half, and you’ll never risk running out. That idea embedded itself in me.
I developed this strong need to prevent depletion. Refill early. Stay ahead. Don’t run out. In many ways, that mindset has served me well. I’m organized and prepared. I rarely get caught off guard. But it doesn’t work everywhere. Especially not with life.
When it comes to personal consumption—food, drink, time, energy, even joy—constantly trying to refill or stay topped off can actually rob me of the experience itself. Instead of enjoying what’s here, I’m focused on what’s going to be gone.
Turning 50 and moving to Italy has shown me how much my thought patterns are changing. I know I retired young. And if I live to be 100, I still have half of my life left. That feels very different from thinking half is gone.
I am seeing this now a lot in the recovery community or in conversations with younger people who feel like they’ve messed everything up. They get stuck in thoughts like: I wasted so much time. I’m behind. I ruined things. That’s half-empty thinking.
But the shift happens when you start looking at what remains instead of what’s gone. You still have time. You can still change direction. You can still create something meaningful with what is ahead of you, whether you are 30, 60, or 90. Why not live the remaining years with purpose and be proud of every minute of it?
I’ve spent much of my life focused on avoiding depletion—refilling before things run low, staying ahead, making sure nothing runs out. That mindset can be useful in some areas, but it has also robbed me of presence and joy because I was hyper-focused on what was disappearing instead of appreciating what remains.
The Hugo Spritz ended up being a reminder. Half empty doesn’t always mean lacking. It can also mean there is still plenty left.
Maybe the better question isn’t what’s gone. Maybe the better question is what remains, and whether we can appreciate it before reaching for more or mourning what was lost.
So I sat there and enjoyed the remainder of this Hugo Spritz slowly, savoring it and reminding myself that I still had half left. And when I reached the end, I didn’t want more. It was just right. It was enough.
Long before our move to Italy, we had planned a trip to Rocca di Neto for April of 2026. I turned 50 in February and wanted to go to Italy to see where my father grew up and connect with my relatives. At the time, I was even hoping my father would be able to come too.
My father hadn’t been back to Italy in about 20 years. For his 70th birthday, my brother Mario and I helped him renew his green card so he could get his passport and travel again. This April would have been the perfect time.
Running in the background of all of this since 2018 was my effort to obtain Italian citizenship.
I had worked with a lawyer for a few years who suggested that the fastest path might be to move to Italy temporarily and apply from here. At the time, that didn’t feel realistic. We had kids still in school and jobs that wouldn’t allow for that kind of move. Who has the luxury of just packing up and heading to Italy “for a while”?
So I gathered all the paperwork and began the process through the Italian consulate in the United States. Because we live in Connecticut, that meant going through the New York City consulate. The wait time for an appointment there is several years long. After years of gathering and translating the correct documents, I added my name to the list in June of 2022 and still haven’t received an appointment.
Then last year, everything shifted in ways we couldn’t imagine.
I unexpectedly retired. Not long after, my father passed away in August. The months surrounding that were a whirlwind of family chaos and change. Daren was still working full time, but we started talking about what we really wanted next.
We both wanted to keep working—but in a way that allowed for more flexibility, less stress, and more control over our time.
And suddenly, moving to Italy for a year didn’t feel unrealistic anymore. It felt right.
After my father passed, the three of us—his children—made the decision that Pops would still go to Rocca in April. We cleared it with the family in Italy, who thought it was a great idea. This week, we carried that plan out.
Before moving to Italy, we had even considered settling in Calabria to be closer to family. We visited the area last October. I had met many of my relatives before in the United States when they visited.
When we arrived last fall, we were welcomed at the small airport in Crotone by my uncle and two aunts. The airport is so small they were practically at the gate. Even though it had been many years since we had seen one another, we all recognized each other right away.
And then came the welcome.
It was like the movies—one long table, full of food, constant conversation, introductions, laughter. We spent a few days with them, fully immersed in it all.
For me, it truly felt like home.
I lost my mom when she was 49, and my dad last summer. For the past 15 years or so, my father didn’t really have a place of his own, so “going home” meant going to newer places that were fine, but didn’t have a deep connection to me.
But in Italy—even having not been there since I was very little—it felt familiar.
My relatives’ homes were decorated the same way my parents decorated. The same types of frames, candy dishes, the same overall feel and aesthetic.
My uncle Joe and his wife even had the same dishes my parents had. My aunt said it was because she and my mom bought them at the same time.
My aunt Sarah’s food tastes just like my mom’s did. It’s uncanny—especially the rabbit sauce. When I told her this, she said it was because her mom (my grandmother, and my mom’s mother-in-law) taught them both how to make it.
We don’t know each other well, but my cousins—especially the men—have the same mannerisms as my father and brothers. The same humor, the same playful energy. They laugh and carry on with the same joy we had when my father was alive.
The language barrier was there, but it was also strangely fun to navigate. We made it work.
When we visited last fall, we seriously considered moving closer to them.
There are real benefits. It’s much easier to practice Italian when people are patient and willing to wait while you find the words or look them up. Learning feels more natural that way.
But Calabria is far south and not close to major international travel routes. With four adult children and family back home, we felt more at ease staying connected and accessible. Being that far away made us feel just a little too vulnerable.
And even though we didn’t move here, we are driving away, having carried out the plan to bring Pops back to his hometown on Rocca.
Thursday we packed into few cars and made the short trip up the road to local town cemetery where the family has a mausoleum. We placed my father’s ashes amongst the other relatives that have passed alongside his parents (my grandparents).
My brother Frankie and his partner Mary were with us this time, and Daren and I took immense joy in seeing how quickly they were welcomed and made to feel at home—that they were with family.
It was special to see the experience we had before through their eyes, and to be back in it ourselves—this time understanding just a little bit more of the rhythm and the sounds around us.
Calabria feels like home. Not because I had been there before—but because so much of it already lived in me. The way people gather, the way meals are shared, the way homes are filled with the same small details I grew up with.
It made me realize that home isn’t always a place you return to. Sometimes it’s something that travels quietly through generations—carried in traditions, in mannerisms, in the way people connect with each other.
Being with people I barely know, in a place I had never lived, somehow—and truly—feels like home. It All Clicks.
Thanks for taking the time to read. I’d love to hear your thoughts!
Please feel free to leave a comment or subscribe for future updates.
I’ve had a lot of time recently to reflect on dreams. Not the kind you have while sleeping, but the things we wish for, hope for, and sometimes, if we are lucky, plan for. I’ve been struck by how many people, when they hear about our plans to move to Italy, say that we’re living their dream. It seems that lots of people—including us—have imagined living abroad, and particularly in Italy. And with good reason.
Italy is the land of La Dolce Vita. It’s a place of great food, famous landmarks, incomparable art, and fascinating history. Everyone has seen images of its stunning hillside towns and seaside villages perched on cliffs overlooking the Mediterranean. These images seem to live in our collective consciousness.
Over the past two weeks our own dream became manifest as Esterina and I packed up our home, our dog, my bicycle, five boxes, and six suitcases and moved to Tuscany. We were excited to the point of giddiness as our plane lifted off. But as we arrived and drove into town toward our new home, I have to confess that I felt more than a little trepidation.
As I thought about where this feeling was coming from, I realized that when you act to realize a dream you are taking a big chance and putting yourself at risk. Now the dream has to deliver. What if it doesn’t? What if it’s not everything you imagined? Honestly, how could it be?
In the contemplative stage of creating and sustaining a dream, we build images in our mind’s eye of what that dream will be like. Often those images come from photographs, movies, and social media. Dreams contain the best vision of what we expect to see and experience, but they leave out the more mundane aspects of daily life.
So as we drove up the steep cobblestone street, turned into the driveway and began unpacking boxes, I experienced an odd blending of dream and reality. There was a gorgeous Tuscan vista from our pool, looking out over the hills. From our window we could see small hilltop towns and farms. Roosters crowed, sheep bleated, and everything was in bloom.
Superimposed on this, however, were the practical realities of daily life: learning about recycling and garbage collection; navigating a somewhat gritty town to find the grocery store; figuring out cell phone plans; and simply establishing a routine of sleeping, eating, and dog walking in a new—and very hilly—place.
None of this is to say that dreams don’t live up to their promise. They certainly can. So far, this one is doing pretty well.
A few days ago we took a day trip to San Gimignano, a truly spectacular medieval hilltop walled city. As we walked up the main street toward the piazza, I felt as if I were experiencing exactly the visions I’d imagined from my armchair back in Branford—almost to the point of déjà vu. The city was storybook beautiful and gave the strong impression of transporting us back in time.
This morning we took Koji for a walk down a hill and along a babbling stream in the woods. The air was fresh and the early morning was filled with birdsong.
But I do think that when we dream about something, we exclude the mundane in favor of the sublime. Part of making a dream real involves blending the best of what we’d hoped for with the humdrum elements of everyday life. So far, it’s a heady mix.
So what have we seen and done that has matched—or even exceeded—expectations?
First, Tuscany is truly spectacular in a way that photographs simply can’t capture. The hills are dotted with towns and farms and covered with olive groves and vineyards. The sun and clouds of early spring create an ever-changing play of light and color that transforms the landscape from moment to moment.
Tuscan buildings are colorful—hues of yellow, orange, and brown—highlighted by dark green or brown shutters and brick arches.
The towns themselves are gorgeous. Perched on hilltops and often enclosed by ancient stone walls, each one centers around a piazza with a church and a bell tower that rings out the hours. Everything feels ancient, but beautiful. There is even a slight shabbiness that adds character to the scene. Laundry hanging from windows reminds you that these are not tourist theme parks but real towns where real people live their lives.
And the food really is better.
Whether from the local farmers’ market or the grocery store, everything tastes fresher. I had assumed this might prove to be a cliché, but it’s absolutely true. Yesterday we shopped at a local market and bought fresh onions, artichokes, and tomatoes, along with cheese from a small cheese shop. Even the meat and produce from the grocery store are noticeably more flavorful than what we typically find back in the United States.
We’ve done a lot in two weeks. We are approaching each new day with excitement, grateful for the chance to watch this chapter unfold. We’ll walk the dog, exercise, and cook oatmeal. And we’ll take in the vistas, admire Renaissance art, and enjoy fresh pasta. Perhaps that’s what it really means to live a dream—not escaping ordinary life but discovering that even the ordinary moments are part of it.
Back in 2010, when Daren and I first got together, I remember my brother Mario talking about a theory he had about slowing down life. At the time I was only 34 and thought I was so old, and of course—like all of us—I thought slowing life down sounded important. I won’t go into Mario’s really cool theory here, but it does involve shaking things up and changing your baseline.
Why am I saying this? Because as I sit down this Saturday morning to write about our experience in Italy, I’m floored that it’s only been a week. It feels like so much longer—and that, my friends, is a good thing. It feels like a month has gone by in a week, and at least for this week my life has slowed down.
One truly amazing thing for me that began this week was my sleep. For nearly the past year—ever since I first started thinking early retirement might be possible—I’ve been waking in the middle of the night and struggling for at least an hour or two to fall back asleep. At first it was the possibility that early retirement could happen. Then it was waiting for the VA’s interpretation of early retirement rules. Then the paperwork finally came out. I applied. I was approved. I had two weeks left of work.
Then my father-in-law got into a bike accident. There were issues with one of the kids. My father had his last hospital visit and subsequently passed away. And then we realized that with my retirement, Daren could also retire—and we decided that we wanted to move to Italy so I could pursue Italian citizenship and we could experience at least a year living in another country.
Daren’s retirement. Kid issues. Turning 50. All the excitement, setbacks, and obstacles had me waking up around 2:30 every night.
Until this week.
It’s been at least five nights now that I’ve slept soundly. I cannot tell you how refreshing this is. I feel like a new person.
Slower time—and a good night’s sleep—will do that to you.
So what have we been up to?
Saturday, March 7
We last blogged last Saturday.
That afternoon, after sending the link to our blog out to friends, loved ones, and social media, we went for a hike. Daren had been exploring more on foot than I had, so we took the dog, donned the hiking boots, and set out to walk.
There are multiple hiking trails right off our property—some literally starting on the property and others just down the street. The day was absolutely gorgeous. Spring is blooming here: daffodils, flowering trees, and tons of tiny wildflowers everywhere—on the walls, alongside roads, in the grass. It’s so pretty. Everything feels new to us and new to the season. It almost feels like providence that we arrived just as the season is opening up for a new experience.
Side note: Last week we ended up shopping every single day. While still in the U.S. I made a really good list of what we’d need to purchase upon arrival (a lot more than you’d think). Right before we left I placed a large Amazon order for items we knew we needed immediately—dog food, a dog bed, vitamins—things for which we wouldn’t want to spend much time comparison-shopping.
After that, though, we wanted to shop locally as much as possible.
We both love to cook, and when you start from scratch with spices, ingredients, and kitchen implements—bowls, measuring cups, a hand mixer, rubber spatulas, just to name a few—you end up needing an obscene amount of things. Cooking, health, and baking are important to us, so it was worth the trips and expense, but it definitely took some doing.
Back to Saturday… after hiking and feeling refreshed, we (not surprisingly) needed to shop again. We left the dog at home this time and decided we’d like to go out for gelato for the first time before shopping.
It was about 2 p.m., and we hadn’t really explored our own town yet, so we headed toward the town square. What we’ve been repeatedly surprised by is how everything closes in the middle of the afternoon. This is no joke. Even the gelato shop was closed!
Everything opens again around 3:30 or 4, but there is truly almost nothing open in the middle of the day. There are certain assumptions in the U.S. about how Europeans—and Italians in particular—live. Some of them are absolutely true. This midday closure, at least outside tourist areas, is definitely one of them.
We ended up at a pasticceria instead and had coffee (mini coffees—the norm here) and pastries before heading to the grocery store.
And whoa—the grocery store was a madhouse. A true scene. This must be when all the locals who work during the day do their shopping. There was no parking where we had parked before, but we eventually found an underground parking area we didn’t know existed.
It was chaotic and kind of fun to be in the middle of the bustle of a Saturday early evening in Italy. By this point we’d been in enough stores to know the lay of the land, so we grabbed what we needed without too much fuss and headed home.
From Daren:
That evening we went out to dinner for the first time right up the street at a place that serves pizza just once a week, and by up the street we mean up a very steep hill. We had learned from our landlord that about a quarter of a mile from our home there is a small community hall or meeting room on the second floor above a small store. Apparently, many of the local “nonnas” (grandmothers), come together every Saturday to make and serve pizza in the community room. We were somewhat suspicious and uncertain how this might work. But after parking the lot across the street we found things exactly as described: a large community room filled with local Italian families, a squad of elderly men serving tables, and a large kitchen with a team of elderly women making pizza. There was a menu, a range of drink and pizza options, and after about a 30 minute wait after ordering, two tasty pizzas to eat. We are still sorting out what “pizza” means in Italy. It’s not clear how much regional variation there is, but so far “pizza” has meant something round with cheese, tomatoes and toppings. While this sounds a lot like home, the similarities end with the shape and the components. What has been strikingly different has been the width of the crust. This pizza, and others we’ve had since, are incredibly thin. More like flatbread. And no Italian pizza is ever cut into slices, so you tackle it with a knife and fork and later use your hands after working it down into smaller sections. Whether similar or not, the pizza is delicious. We most enjoyed being surrounded by local Italians talking, laughing, gesticulating, and clearly enjoying a shared meal in their community. Notably, there were very few phones visible. Conversation and camaraderie were preferred over scrolling!
Hiking
Sunday, March 8
Now that the house and shopping basics were set up, we were ready to venture outside of town and see what was around us.
I’ll let the photos speak for themselves.
We went to Greve in Chianti first, and then right down the road to a small hilltop town that was ridiculously picturesque. These two small towns in the heart of Chianti were packed with Tuscan/Medieval charm and we felt like we’d taken a trip back in time as we surveyed the city walls and walked through the central piazza.
March 8 was International Women’s Day, and it’s a much bigger deal here than in the U.S. Mimosa flowers were everywhere. There were free drinks for women and all kinds of celebrations happening wherever we went.
On the way home we (yet again) needed to grab a few things from the grocery store. We stopped at Lidl—the only store open past about 1 p.m. on Sundays. We had gone there the previous week and vowed never to shop there again, but this time we were pleasantly surprised at how easy it was to find things and how inexpensive everything was. It takes some time getting the lay of the land in a new grocery store and a new country!
We will be back. Both to Greve and Lidls that is!
Take a close look at Amazon box on the door, truly up a hill in the middle of no where! haha
Monday, March 9
We had so much fun visiting a new town on Sunday that we decided to do it again. This time the destination was Arezzo, by train.
Again, I’ll let the photos speak for themselves.
I was tired—just beat. I’m not sure if it was the Zyrtec I’m taking for allergies or if I’m finally unwinding now that we’re here and settled, but I was too tired to really enjoy the city. Because of that, I had no interest in exploring the art or churches. Daren enjoyed it very, very much.
I found the city a little “meh.” The lunch we had was terrible. It wasn’t my favorite day or my favorite place—but to be fair, I didn’t really give it a chance either. I was just spent.
And just like that – Womens Day is over…
Tuesday, March 10
We needed to be home Tuesday (blessedly) for our washer and dryer delivery and a conference call related to our new consulting LLC.
I headed out on my first solo run. I jogged and walked (lots of hills!) for 5.6 miles and oh my gosh it was exhilarating. I hadn’t exercised in well over a week and it felt amazing. And the scenery!
I was out for 75 minutes and honestly didn’t want to come back.
When I got home the washer and dryer had arrived—yay! Laundry again.
From past Airbnb experiences in Europe I remembered that laundry machines were not the same as in the U.S., so I was prepared for very low-functioning machines that would take forever, especially since we bought inexpensive models. But we were pleasantly surprised! Nowhere near as large or powerful as what we had back home, but much better than I expected. Daren was worried that without 220 voltage electricity as we have in the US for dryers, we’d never get the clothes dry. But much to our surprise, after about 1.5 hours, we had a fully dry load of laundry.
Overall—a great surprise.
Wednesday, March 11
This was a day of work and figuring out how we want our life here to look.
Since I stopped working last June, I’d developed a routine that loosely mirrored Daren’s workday—exercise, showering, and daily activities earlier in the day while he worked. He worked right up until the day before we left, so now that we’re here and somewhat settled, we needed to build a new kind of day where we’re both home.
At first we kind of assumed we’d each keep doing our same routines. But it quickly became clear that wasn’t really going to work.
So like the two weird geeks we are, we grabbed paper, pens, and a computer and headed to a little café with Wi-Fi to try to level-set our expectations about what a typical day might look like.
I’d love to tell you we figured it all out.
But instead we got very jazzed about traveling and spent most of the time talking about all the places we want to visit while we’re on this side of the pond. We started mapping out what times of year would be best to visit certain places when we suddenly realized the time.
Another conference call was coming up, so we headed home. We need to revisit the conversation about a daily routine and still figure out the travel. No rush, we have time! It’s hard to get used to the concept, I’m sure we will but for now the idea of “no rush” is still incredibly novel.
Thursday, March 12
Another day at home. No meetings. Lots of computer work.
And another long run for me.
I thought the first run might have been the magical one—the “first time back” effect—but this run was even better. I took a slightly different route and tried to dodge some inevitable rain. It wasn’t the sunniest day, but I was completely in the moment and in awe of the scenery.
I took a ton of photos.
Which inspired me to come home and start playing around with editing them. After a warm shower and the need to rest my legs from the hills, that’s exactly what I did.
Daren also went for a run, and in the mid-afternoon we both ended up parked on the couch doing our own things. He read and I edited photos. It felt so nice to just be and to be creative that we abandoned the swordfish we had defrosting on the counter and decided instead to stay right where we were, order a pizza, and watch a movie.
Our first pizza delivery in Italy using “Deliveroo”, a European version of Uber eats delivered by scooter—smooth process and really different, but delicious.
Friday, March 13
And then yesterday—oh my.
We woke up leisurely, had breakfast and coffee, and then packed a day bag, ushered the dog into the back seat of the car, and headed out to San Gimignano.
The day was perfectly sunny and warm—about 15–16°C (in the 60s°F)—and the town was adorable. The walled city was full of tourists, but as I texted my friends back home, there’s a reason some places are touristy.
Lunch was phenomenal—exactly how I remember food in Tuscany from our first trip here ten years ago.
Afterward we stopped at a nature preserve. It honestly wasn’t the prettiest hike and probably not somewhere I’d recommend, but it was exhilarating to be out in nature after the bustle of tourists, a great lunch, and browsing through shops full of seriously beautiful things.
San Gimignano is just over an hour away. The drive there and back was just as beautiful as being there. I drove there and Daren drove back. We took different routes and each got the experience of navigating the hills and simply looking out the window.
The ride home was magical. The sun was setting while spring showers came and went, so the lighting was gorgeous. We played an 80s music mix and sang along, jokingly trying to translate lyrics into Italy, while driving through the hills, just feeling alive.
Dinner was simple—some appetizers with delicious local cheeses we had picked up earlier. Then we collapsed onto the sofa for another movie before heading to bed, truly satisfied and grateful for the experiences we’re lucky enough to be having.
We miss everyone back home. Feel free to comment here. Feel free to text us. Keep in touch please!
Nothing feels different, but everything feels different.
Chapter 2 is what I am calling this.
I sit across the breakfast table from my husband, but my personal laptop is in place of my work one. There still feels like there are a million things to do. But honestly, not a single one of them really needs to be done.
Was it always like this? Meaning, did anything really ever need to get done?
My heart is beating and I’m racing against the clock—stuff to do… I have to remind myself that there is nothing to actually really do. Today, there will be no sound of bings and chimes to notify me of new emails, Teams messages, or upcoming meetings.
Each of those bings is accompanied (was accompanied—gosh, this will take getting used to) by a spike in alertness and heart rate. At this time of the morning (6:15—YES, Six Flipping Fifteen), my heart rate and anxiety were probably elevated a handful of times.
Whoa, writing that out sounds so unhealthy. It is unhealthy. But I’ve been doing this for years.
Even when I was physically going into the office, I’d wake up around 5 a.m., and just thinking about the day ahead would spike my anxiety. Sometimes in a productive way, but often in a storm of worry about how to plan the day to squeeze the most out of it—for both home and work.
The drive in would be filled with thoughts, worry, plans, more plans. And once I had two kids—then suddenly four—that planning hit a whole new level: kazillion mode.
Things have been quieter in recent years with the kids out of the house and me working remotely. But the anxious habit stuck around. And so did the bings, dings, and mounting pressure of the average workday.
Not that long ago in a land not faraway
I remember back in 2002, my boss gave me access to her email because she found it overwhelming—she got up to 50 emails a day. I was floored. Fifty! I was getting maybe 10, mostly forwarded from her.
Now that number sounds almost quaint. If you get only 50 work emails a day in this era, you’re lucky. Managing email has become its own professional skill.
Most of it? Nonsense. But stressful nonetheless.
I felt like I had to walk into each day in full armor, machete in hand, clearing the overgrown weeds before they even had a chance to stop growing. 90% of emails went straight to Trash. Of those, maybe 10% were actually important—but wading through the digital clutter? A waste. So I created workarounds, tasks, and filters.
OK—seriously, I’ve digressed. But wow. It’s all so absurd.
Getting Anyone’s Attention
You can’t count on someone seeing your email. Depending on how someone organizes their inbox (and I’ve seen some truly wild systems), they may never even notice your message.
Urgent? Tag it with an @? Add the exclamation point? All overused. All part of the noise.
So we escalate: Teams. Work phone. Personal phone. Desk phone. And all of it—every single one of those tools—comes with a sound, a vibration, a ding that makes your chest tighten and your focus scatter.
But Now…
I closed the door. I shut the laptop. I walked away.
That’s why I’m sitting here this morning, coffee in hand, at a different computer.
And now I ask myself: How long will this feeling of impending doom last? (Not actual doom, of course—nothing I ever did was life-or-death. But that tight-chested feeling… it’s real.)
How long until I can simply be present?
I Want to Be Present
I want to be present in my life. I only get one. And I’ve spent 49 years rushing through it.
I’m safe now. I don’t need to stress myself out daily. If I live to be 100, I’m only halfway through. How lucky is that?
I feel so grateful. So blessed. And I don’t want to recreate the stressful life I just stepped away from.
It’s funny—I only found out a week ago that yesterday would be my last day of work. I didn’t dare dream about what’s next, out of fear I’d jinx it.
And now? The urge to plan the “what’s next” is already kicking in. But… I don’t have to figure that out right now, do I?
There’s no rush.
I have the rest of my life—whether that’s a few hours or another 50 years.
