The ritual of doing less, better

I grew up with a very clear message: work hard.

It wasn’t something that was spoken about as a choice. It was simply the way life was.

My parents installed a strong work ethic in me — the kind that showed up in the small things. Clean car. Ironed shirts. Turning up. Doing things properly. Taking pride in what you put into the world.

I was part of a generation that learned early. At 14, I was working in a jeans shop in Croydon. By college, I was balancing studying with weekend work. The idea was simple: you worked hard, you earned your way, you built something.

And I did.

Adulthood became a familiar rhythm: work, exercise, socialising, achieving, moving forward.

At 24, I set up my own company — and I loved it. I thrived. I was teaching visual merchandising, running town regeneration projects, designing stores, creating ideas and, for the first time, being paid for something that felt uniquely mine: my imagination.

It felt like freedom.

But somewhere along the way, “working hard” quietly became “working more”.

More responsibility. More expectations. More pushing.

Then, at 40, life changed in a way I could never have imagined.

My husband of 15 years and I were in an accident. He was killed. I broke my pelvis.

Three months in bed followed, in a house that still needed renovating, with a life that had been completely rearranged.

And somehow, I survived.

One of the strangest things about grief is realising that the world keeps moving. The sun still rises. The post still arrives. People still go to work. Life continues — even when yours has stopped.

Through grief and circumstance, I was offered shares in a company I had supported. The path ahead became employment.

A strange concept for someone who had always created her own path.

But I accepted it.

I didn’t have the energy I once had to “sell myself”. The confidence, the drive, the endless momentum — it had all been shaken. So I simply kept going.

No questions.

For a while, that was enough.

Until slowly, without noticing, I forgot parts of who I was.

I forgot why I was here.

I lost my appreciation for life — not because I wasn’t grateful, but because I had become disconnected from the person I used to be.

Then came a moment of clarity.

A moment where I caught myself — in my work, in my choices, in a situation that no one deserves to feel trapped in.

And it made me realise something much bigger.

How many people quietly trade pieces of themselves for security?
How many people sacrifice their creativity, their joy, their time, even their soul, in exchange for the things they think they need?

A salary. A title. Approval. Stability.

Not because they don’t care about themselves, but because life teaches us that this is what we’re supposed to do.

Keep going. Push harder. Achieve more.

But somewhere along the way, we can lose the very thing we were working so hard to protect — ourselves.

I remembered something important: