Somewhere between qualification frameworks, learning outcomes, policy documents, stakeholder engagements, and airport lounges, life became a carefully managed calendar invitation.

Then, in January 2026, I stepped back from regular work.

Not dramatically. No Himalayan retreat. Just a stepping back, a quieter diary, and the terrifying realisation that I no longer needed to answer emails marked "urgent" by people who clearly had no understanding of the word.

And something unexpected happened.

I began to notice birds.

Now let me clarify: I have always known birds existed. I simply regarded them as background administration for trees. But slow living does strange things to you. One morning, while drinking coffee at an offensively leisurely pace, I found myself observing a hadeda negotiating with a piece of bread as though it were involved in international diplomacy. A hadeda is essentially South Africa's unofficial alarm clock with wings. Officially, it is a large ibis native to Southern Africa.

It struck me then: perhaps life was never meant to be consumed at the speed of institutional reporting cycles.

We live in a culture deeply suspicious of slowness. If you are not exhausted, overbooked, multitasking, optimising, networking or monetising your hobbies, society begins to look at you with concern. "What exactly do you do all day?" people ask, with the same tone used for missing luggage.

The truth is, I now do many things, just more slowly.

I read entire articles without scrolling halfway through. I cook proper meals instead of assembling edible emergencies. I have conversations that are not interrupted by notifications. And I write because I want to think, not because there is a deadline.

Ironically, I may now be doing my most meaningful work.

Since stepping back from regular full time work, I have become more engaged with writing, reflective projects, and collaborations around international education and social development. But the difference is profound: I no longer operate from permanent urgency. I operate from curiosity.

Slow living is thus not laziness. It is intentionality. It is understanding that productivity and worth are not the same thing.

For years, many of us wore busyness like a medal of honour. We compared stress levels competitively, as though burnout were an Olympic event.

But eventually the body, mind and spirit submit a formal complaint.

Slowness allows neglected parts of ourselves to return from exile. Humour returns. Attention returns. Compassion returns. Even memory improves when your brain is not functioning like an overcrowded airport terminal.

And relationships deepen too. People can feel when you are fully present instead of merely waiting for your next obligation.

The great irony is that slowing down has made me more observant, more creative and arguably more human.

I suspect many of us are not actually tired from hard work alone. We are tired from speed. From constant acceleration. From the relentless pressure to convert every waking moment into measurable output.

Slow living does not mean abandoning ambition. It means refusing to sacrifice your entire existence at the altar of perpetual motion.

I still care deeply about ideas, education, collaboration and social impact. But I am increasingly convinced that some of the best thinking emerges not in urgency, but in spaciousness.

A society obsessed with speed often mistakes movement for meaning.

Sometimes the most radical thing you can do is walk slowly, think deeply, and leave a message unanswered long enough to finish your cup of tea. Preferably while watching a hadeda conduct complex bread negotiations on your lawn.

*Image courtesy of Canva