I blinked and eleven years had passed

On busyness and what it takes from you

I remember sitting in a Starbucks near Farringdon station in London, watching people hurry past the window on their way to work.

I had my usual chai tea latte. Non-fat milk. Extra hot. Half a pump of chai, because the normal version was too sweet.

Normally, I’d be rushing too. I liked getting into the office before everyone else. It made me feel like I was easing into the day rather than being thrown into it. But something made me stop that morning. I didn’t want to rush. I wanted to pause.

So I sat by the window.

Outside, people streamed past. Just focused on getting where they needed to go. The sky was grey. Most of the coats were grey too. What struck me most wasn’t the clothes or the weather. It was the faces.

Expressionless. Not miserable, exactly. But not particularly alive either.

As I watched them, I felt a heaviness in my gut. I recognised what I was seeing. That was me most mornings. Moving quickly from one thing to the next. Not quite present. Just getting to the next thing.

And somewhere in that moment, sitting behind the glass with my chai tea latte, I did the maths.

Eleven years.

Where the hell had they gone?

I’d had some hard times in London and some exciting ones. I’d built a career. Worked on interesting projects. Travelled. Met incredible people. Built a life. But sitting there watching the world rush past, it felt like I’d stepped outside my own life and was watching it from a distance. Like a TV show. One I recognised, but hadn’t quite been present for.

That scared me.

I’d let the busyness of life rob me of my presence within it.

At the time, I blamed London. It has a fast-paced energy that just seems to swallow you up. I was already making trips back and forth to Cape Town by then, and something in me had started to stir. I figured if I could just get out, leave London in the rearview mirror, life could calm down.

But here’s the thing about rearview mirrors: when you look in them, you still see yourself.

I left London for Cape Town. Two totally different environments. It didn’t take long before I was consumed by busyness yet again. At least this time the weather was better.

But I couldn’t blame London anymore. I was the common denominator.

I created busyness. Or I allowed it.

There was always something. A goal to achieve, a problem to solve, a deadline to meet, an event to attend. And the list goes on. It becomes your norm. A certain level of stimulation your mind and body almost need.

Even now, living in the hills of Spain, the busyness still creeps in. I still have weeks where I don’t have time to breathe. Giant to-do lists that can’t possibly be finished. When I let it take over, time moves faster.

I’m so focused on getting things done and what comes next that I’m not truly present. Living my life, but not fully experiencing it.

For a long time, I didn’t think much about what it cost me. And if I did, I’m not sure I would have cared.

Age and experience have changed that. I now do the maths looking forward instead of backward.

One day my sweet, silly dog Bella won’t be here anymore. I want time to walk her and play her favourite game of tug-of-war. One day Chris and I won’t be able to do all the things we want to do together. My parents won’t always be around, and I want to make the most of every moment they are.

Time is finite, for everyone I love and for me.

And that’s something I’m no longer willing to let busyness take away from me.