Reflections

Sometimes the day feels heavier than it needs to.

Epictetus taught that we suffer when we cling to what is not ours to control.

The outcome. The timing. The way others see us.

Your work is simpler than that.

Choose your response. Guard your character. Stay with what you can actually shape.

Sometimes we make choices that feel like they walk us back a few chapters.
Old scenes. Old habits. Pages we thought were finished.

It’s tempting to think the progress didn’t hold.

But healing has never been a straight line.
It loops. It circles. It brings us back to what still needs work.

A step back isn’t a collapse.
It’s a pause to steady yourself.

Some chapters return only to help you move forward.

It’s Saturday. I’m darting through the shopping centre like it’s a game. Dodging trolleys. Sliding past people. Half-smiling at my own speed.

Then I’m back in the car, watching others rush across crossings with that same fixed stare. Everyone chasing something invisible.

We say we’re short on time, but most of the rush comes from clocks we set ourselves.

Maybe it’s not the world that’s moving too fast. Maybe we’re forgetting to slow down.

Every child arrives with a spark of spiritual awareness. One third of it is built in. The rest depends on what the world nurtures.

But we trained it out. We built systems that reward logic and suppress wonder. Classrooms that shape sharp minds but quiet souls.

Now we call the result progress while people grow more anxious, lonely and unsure of themselves.

Maybe the next evolution of education is remembering what we already knew.

I’ve been so caught up in thinking this change will push me backwards.
Like everything I’ve built might unravel.

But what if it’s the thing that frees me?
The thing that makes old goals possible again.

Maybe the fear of failing is just the sound of the door unlocking.

I wanted it to unfold neatly. The timing to line up. The path to open.

It didn’t.

At first I called it bad luck. Then I noticed the pattern.
Every time I try to grip harder, life slips through my fingers.

Maybe the point isn’t to force what’s closed, but to stay open to what’s next.

The universe is still conspiring.

We just don’t always know where it’s taking us.

A magpie and a rosella sharing an apple.
Two birds you’d never expect side by side.

One all sound and shadow.
The other colour and light.
Different notes, same song.

Maybe harmony isn’t about sameness.
It’s about knowing there’s space for contrast too.

A car pulled out in front of me.
Reflexes took over. A quick swerve. Tyres caught. Silence.

For a moment I waited for the crash that never came.
Then I breathed.

Usually, my mind would loop the what-ifs.
Replay the fear. Build a story that never happened.

But this time felt different.
For once, I didn’t hold on to the fear.
Just the relief.

It’s easy to obsess over what could’ve gone wrong.
Harder to stay grateful for what didn’t.

Some mornings, the bed feels heavier than it is. Not because you need more rest, but because starting feels harder than staying still.

Rest repairs you. But sometimes rest turns into hiding.

The trick is remembering that momentum comes after movement.

Energy follows action.

You don’t need to feel ready to begin.

You just need to get up.

When AI first arrived, it felt like magic. It could draw from centuries of books, journals, and science. The best of what we’d written down.

Now it’s trained on itself. On our posts, our prompts, our throwaway comments. Each new layer built from the noise of the crowd.

That raises a question: are we making it smarter or dumber?

Human progress came from the sharp edges of knowledge. From people who pushed fields forward, not from a blend of everyone’s chatter.

If AI is going to change the world for the better, maybe the real work isn’t scale.

Maybe it’s not about how much AI learns, but where the lessons come from.