Or more specifically, what walking allows to unfold and bring into my life.

Last year, I shared my experience of hiking up to Slovenia’s second most prominent peak, Grintovec.

That trip reminded me of the obsession we tend to have on climbing tall mountains.

When walking becomes a vector for achievement or competition.

Now, I don’t wish to judge anyone who wants to climb tall mountains — I get it. All I’m saying is that the experience got me thinking on my actual motivations.

What was actually calling me to go out and walk?

To find out, a few weeks ago, I asked my friend Martin if he was up to doing another multi-day hike with me.

Only this time, rather than try to go high, we’d go long.

It didn’t really matter where. I just wanted to cover enough ground that I really felt like I’d transported myself through a landscape.

And so, last weekend, that’s exactly what we did:

On Friday after work, we took a bus from Ljubljana to Idrija, a town in Inner Carniola in western Slovenia.

From there, we then made our way over the weekend to Ajdovšina in the Slovene Littoral region — just under 50km and 2500m elevation away.

Reflecting on the trip a week later, the top things that stand out to me now are:

• Walking through the change of two different climate zones (continental to Mediterranean) and seeing the gradual change in vegetation along the way.

• The mixture of isolation during the day (we barely saw anyone on the trails) to the social activity of meeting strangers at mountain huts in the evening.

• Coming across an array of wildlife, as if we had just stumbled into their world.

• Experiencing the joy of eating when depleted and drinking when parched.

• The intoxicating smell of the Mediteranean pines on top of Mali Golak (picture above).

• Talking with my friend about nothing and everything for hours on end.

The thing I loved above all though was the complete unpredictability of it.

I found myself multiple times wondering, amusedly, when would the next eventful moment take place.

And what would it be?

Because, sure enough, new unpredictable things would happen, like pieces of a puzzle falling into place.

And it was never boring because I felt so present.

It taught me that walking (or maybe hiking is a better term here) is ultimately about movement.

It’s about going out into the unknown and embracing the unfolding adventure.

And adventure doesn’t need the highest mountain or the most extreme conditions.

An adventure just needs a willingness to actually do it and an openness to experience it, fully.

Till next time!

Ben

ps. Here are some photos of the trip, should you need inspiration for your next adventure!

But — because those low-cost flights departed from airports far away from where I’d actually be going — I ended up traveling for hours.

I’d get bored and then invariably open to the strangers sitting next to me.

And often I’d end up having a meaningful conversations with them.

I loved that window of time in which I’d get to discover something about another person’s experiences and points of view.

Once, I remember sitting next to a middle-aged man. We got to talking and I found out that he was on his way home from a business trip.

I remember him feeling reluctant to talk at first but, eventually, he opened up — as if he was freed by the fact that I was a complete stranger and that we would never see each other again.

Anyway, I don’t recall the ins and outs of our conversation except for one thing.

At some point, when we were high in the sky, he began to tell me about the troubles he was having in his relationship with his wife.

He told me how his wife was having an affair with another man.

She had started seeing a man, he told me, who was involved with some theatre (a random detail I remember all these years later).

His wife had told him how this man was filling a spiritual hole in her, which, it seemed, her husband was unable to give her.

I felt the pain in his voice when he told me this.

And I remember thinking — utterly naively as a young 20 something year old — that I wouldn’t end up in a similar situation to him.

Now, a couple of decades on and I see that things are never that simple.

Life gets complicated and relationships get messy.

Talking to that man on the plane helped me see that.

So my point is this.

Talking to strangers is an opportunity for us to share our experiences, stories and points of view.

To absorb glimpses of life that are real because the anonymity and intimacy act as catalysts for vulnerability and truth.

That’s why, I think, these moments have the power to stay with us for years.

They remind us of our shared humanity.

Till next time,

Ben

The man she got married to already had two older daughters from a previous marriage. I didn’t see them much when I was growing up; they were much older than me.

But in our new blended family, there was still a clear demarkation line. On one side, them and, on the other, my two siblings and me.

Fast-forward to years later and I was a teenager, the last remaining child in the house.

During this time, one of my step-sisters would often visit the house to see her father. She was going through a tough time; she was battling alcoholism and had had a child with an abusive man.

I stayed out of this situation but I could see what was happening.

Anyway, during one of these visits, my step-sister must have had an argument with her father because she came upstairs to where I was watching TV.

She was clearly troubled enough that I joined her on the terrace where she was smoking a cigarette.

It was night out but not cold.

We must have spent a good hour or two there, my step-sister who I had never really spoken to, and me.

I don’t recall what we spoke about but I do remember one thing she said to me at the end.

“Ben, you’re a good listener. Thank you for listening to me.”

That moment has stayed with me all these years later. It was the first time someone had told me that I was good at something when I was just being myself.

I wasn’t trying to do anything. To be anyone.

I just was there with her during what, I suspect, was a difficult moment.

And she felt that.

In many ways, what I’m building now is a continuation of that journey — of discovering my essence — that my step-sister helped me start all those years ago.

I feel what I have within, even if I can’t (yet, at least) put it into clear words. I know it’s there.

Maybe you know what I’m talking about.

Maybe you feel your essence too. Maybe you know it intimately or maybe you’ve only felt it ever so slightly.

But it’s there.

It’s your power, your vital energy that you can choose to let radiate into the lives of those around you.

And I, for one, really hope you do.

Till next time,

Ben

P.S. If this resonated with you, write back to me and let me know. I’d love to hear from you!

Especially at times of juncture — such as leaving home for the first time, ending a close relationship, moving to a new city or changing careers — there will be stretches of time when you will have to figure things out for yourself.

And these moments are not easy.

It feels like walking through a darkening tunnel where the sunlight is fading behind you and you’re still to see the light peering in at the other end.

There’s a period when you will be walking in almost complete darkness.

And I’m here to tell you that, as scary as those moments can be, you will be okay.

You will be more than okay because you’re growing, on a process of becoming.

You’re shedding parts of you you no longer need but still haven’t built up the new skills and perspectives you now need. But you will find them.

For now, you’re naked and vulnerable.

You want to stop and go back to the safety you’ve left behind.

But you can’t.

Even if you did turn back, that part of your life is over. You wouldn’t be able to find it again.

And so you must continue.

Step by step.

Your mind filled with doubt and insecurity.

No one will give you the validation you so desperately crave because no one else is walking this path but you. It’s yours, and can only ever be yours.

So look inside yourself.

Find that validation from within. Find that nugget of self-belief that put you on this path in the first place and protect it.

Care for it.

Nurture it with actions that it can take to mean, “yes, this is me. This is who I am.”

Then keep going.

Keep feeding your belief as it grows, slowly, day by day.

Then, eventually, you will make it to the end of the tunnel.

And out of the darkness.

Till next time,

Ben

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As I was leaving the building, one I’ve been in countless times over the past several years, a thought occurred to me:

This is one of the last times I will be here, doing this.

Next September, my daughter will be starting school and, an activity I started with eldest daughter back in 2021, will come to an end.

I will no longer will be dropping my children off at kindergarten.

As a parent, that thought hits hard.

I find that my children’s milestones are always bittersweet moments.

On the one hand, I am so happy to see them grow and flourish.

On the other, I am painfully aware that the page has firmly been turned on a period of life, one that will only live on in my memory.

(A good example of this was when, a couple of weeks ago, my youngest front tooth started wobbling. She was so excited — ‘the tooth fairy will come!’ — but part of my heart sank at the thought that I will soon never see her baby smile again).

My point is, as banal or trivial as things may seem, there will always, without fail, be a last time something happens.

There will be a last time you will get to eat your favorite take-out.

There will be a last time you will get to talk with that close friend.

There will be a last time you will get to feel the sun’s warmth on your face.

Whatever it is, this realisation is profound because it has the power to completely alter your perception.

For example, there will also be a last time you will have to wait for the bus in the rain.

Or deal with that difficult co-worker.

Whether positive or negative, knowing that this will be your last time experiencing something, how might you view it differently?

What is there to notice in that moment that you didn’t previously notice?

What is there to savor and be grateful for?

Life is fleeting.

And in it’s fleetingness, it’s so worth pausing for a moment and notice it for what it is.

Till next time,

Ben

Is this thought relatable? Can you share a moment you experienced in which this thought taught you to look at the moment a little differently?

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I wake up, drink a glass of water, go out for a 30 minute run, shower, eat breakfast, then sit down to write.

Through trial and error, I’ve noticed that if I don’t drink that glass of water, I’ll feel it on my run. And if I don’t go for a run, I’ll find it significantly harder to sit down and write.

That’s why I’ve been guarding this routine very closely.

The day can take me where it wants to once I’ve finished writing, but — please — not before.

But, as much as we try, there will be times when the simplest plans will get slapped in the face by reality.

Today was such a day.

My wife woke up feeling a little ill, and as she normally takes our daughter to kindergarten on her way to work, I had to do it instead.

Of course I was more than willing to do so but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel some frustration bubbling up — ‘what about my run? What about my writing?’

By the time I had dropped my daughter off, I no longer had time to go for a run and write.

I had a choice: to say ‘ah, f*** it, I won’t write because I didn’t run’ or to just sit down and try to write.

I’m not telling you about this banal, everyday, anecdote because it’s particularly meaningful. Rather, it reminded me of the importance of being adaptable.

Adaptability is the skill of dealing with what actually happens in front of you, not what you wish was happening. It’s about integrating what you wanted with what is.

When your plans change, and they will, there’s not much point cursing the piece of reality that’s to blame.

The important thing is, how are you going to react?

It’s so easy to use these interruptions as excuses to stop what you committed to. (‘If I can’t do this perfectly, I might as well not do it.’)

Your intent to continue though, your willingness to adapt to unexpected obstacles, is key.

Yes, you might have to take a detour and yes it might take you a little longer. You might not do or finish what you wanted to today, but you will have proven something to yourself.

You will have shown up.

That you are who you say you are.

Till next time,

Ben

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Everyone seems to be talking all the time, sharing their opinions, impressions, ideas, complaints or solutions.

And we don’t just do it with our voices.

We post, we text, we comment (or, in my case, we write emails!).

But are you actually being heard?

Is someone on the other end listening to you?

Because that’s what ultimately matters. Behind our need to talk, to express, is our deep human need to be heard.

To be seen and acknowledged.

And, in spite of the media-driven ease with which we can communicate, I have a hunch that we are being listened to less and less.

It’s never been easier to have — or at least have the illusion — of having a platform on which you can stand and share your point of view.

One of Facebook’s early taglines was “Facebook helps you connect and share with the people in your life.”

But did it, and all the other platforms that came after it, really fulfill our need for connection?

For being heard — and for being genuinely seen for who we are?

Interactions become performative, everyone conscious of the image they’re carrying. I hear younger generations are more reluctant to do stupid stuff in front of their friends for fear of being filmed and forever judged.

It reminds me of the Panopticon.

Real feelings are muted, real human energies constrained to hide behind our complex, muddy, stuttering, and unsure selves.

What we need are spaces of listening.

Spaces where we give nonjudgmental attention to another being who is yearning to share something deep within.

To allow them to get it out into the open.

To let it go.

Listening is the ultimate act of love.

Till next time,

Ben

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I turned down a stable teaching position and I started my own business, one with zero revenue and zero clients.

It’s been just over six months since I made that decision and, today, I want to share with you where I’m at. Or, more specifically, how I’m feeling about it.

Part of me is still scared.

What if I run out of money before I figure out how to provide something valuable enough that it can financially sustain me?

If I don’t, what happens then? Will I be a failure and, if so, how will I deal with that? Who will I be?

I’m scared about what will happen.

You probably recognize this voice: the voice of doubt, worry and fear. I often want it to shut up but, I now realize, it’s only looking out for my survival.

But another part of me is feeling like my fearmonger’s fun-loving and exciting twin:

I’m also feeling super excited.

I’m super excited that, after years of dreaming about it, I’m actually trying to build my own business. Not only am I trying, but I’m actually doing it.

I’m excited to be writing like I have nothing to lose.

I’m excited to be meeting new people, people who see value in what I have to offer.

I’m excited to be creating ideas that only existed in my mind and witness their imperfect materialization.

I’m excited to see what will happen.

The thing is, my voice of fear and my voice of excitement come from the same source. They are just different manifestations of that same energy.

I cannot have one without the other.

And so I’m learning to sit with both, to listen to what they each have to teach me. I don’t have to believe them in everything they say but they are both there to help me, to guide me.

I see that now.

Our emotions are not to be run away from. They’re our friends, trying in their own idiosyncratic ways to tell us what’s important to them.

It’s up to us to invite them in and to listen to them with compassion and curiosity.

What do they have to teach us?

Till next time,

Ben

I’m curious, what emotions are you currently feeling? What are they teaching you?

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Anyway, I quickly learnt that I wasn’t musical, that playing music wasn’t for me.

“I’m not a music guy, I’m a sports guy!” I told myself.

And so it was until the age of 40 (but more on that in a bit).

The thing is, during those decades, music was actually such an important pillar in my life.

Some of my most formative experiences I had had music at their core: listening to Millencolin as a teenager in the darkness of my bedroom, to Daft Punk on a bus somewhere in Spain on my first trip alone, to Sigur Rós live with my friends while the whole audience sat on festival floor-boards.

And I could name so, so many more.

My point is, throughout that time, I loved music but I didn’t play it, or even attempt to play it, because that simply ‘was not me’.

Now, fast-forward to late last year and a friend asks me if I want to jam with him. In his basement, he has an electric drum set, and a couple of amps and guitars.

With assurances that I’m terrible and it won’t amount to much, I go.

And it turned out to be so… much …fun. I couldn’t believe it.

Making noise with others was fun!

This spurred me to learn as much about music theory as I could (mind-blown, by the way) and to practice almost daily.

And now, I’m still not great by any means and I have absolutely zero aspirations — except to continue having fun.

But one thing has become absolutely clear:

I no longer hold onto my old label that music is not for me.

I see now that that label wasn’t truth, even though it felt like it. I just wasn’t good enough yet and hadn’t studied music in a way that I understood.

I hadn’t put in the effort.

And this is so true for so many parts of our lives.

We impose labels onto ourselves thinking that they are fact. “I’m not good at this,” or “I shouldn’t even try that.”

And so I ask you:

What if your labels are achieving nothing more than limiting your ability to explore something that might hold real significance?

How might we show up if we stopped taking them at face-value?

Till next time,

Ben

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Yet many of us approach our days in a desperate frenzy to solve problem after problem. It’s as if we’re playing that fair-ground game, whack-a-mole.

Once we strike one down, another pops up somewhere else.

My point here isn’t to pessimistically say that life is just an unending series of problems, it’s to simply say that they’re unavoidable.

Whichever position we find ourselves — whether rich or poor — we will find ourselves confronted with problems. (Granted, the size of the problems will differ significantly, but they’ll still be there and, crucially, bearing a weight upon us).

Whatever job we do, no matter how happy we are to have it, we will experience times when we just don’t want to go to it.

The same is true with our family and friends. No matter how much we love them, there will be times when the relationship gets frayed and complicated.

My point is this.

If ever someone promises you a life without problems, a life of calm seas and smooth sailing, they’re selling you an illusion.

You will always be moments away from your next problem.

That’s why the solution isn’t to pick a path that looks like it might be easy.

The solution is to pick a path that you really want to go down, knowing full well that problems await you along the way.

Because, isn’t it much better to be confronted with problems that are on a path you actually want to be on, rather than dealing with ones that leave you empty?

So, next time you’re facing a decision, make sure to choose the right poison for you.

Till next time,

Ben

I’m curious, do you feel content with the problems you face? Why or why not?

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Projects at work, projects at home. Tasks here, chores there.

The endless ‘I have to do…’s. And all this too easily leads to overwhelm.

You’ve been there, I’ve been there.

And it isn’t fun.

It’s stress-inducing and it leaves us with the feeling that we haven’t done enough — that we’re not enough.

So whatever you currently have on your plate, no matter how many deadlines you have coming up, I want to ask you this:

Which project is your most important?

I’m here to tell you it should be you.

Whatever shape it takes, it should be something to do with your health or wellbeing.

Sleep.

Movement.

Food.

Relationships.

Personal flourishing.

Your body and your wellbeing are your engines, your sources of energy and vitality. Without them, you are nothing but a shell going through the motions.

And the thing is, it’s nobody’s responsibility to take care of yourself but your own. Nobody will give you a deadline to get into shape or a list of tasks on how to get better sleep.

Only you care enough to make sure you get what you need.

So, before any other priorities take hold, I invite you to invest in yourself first.

Go for that morning run.

Spend that extra on quality food.

Forego the evening Netflix binge.

Spend time with those you love.

Pick up that hobby you always wanted to do.

I’m not telling to do them all, or any of these; whatever you need, you know yourself best.

But I am saying this.

When I ask ‘what’s your most important project?,’ you will answer one word:

“Me.”

Till next time,

Ben

I’m curious, what do you most need to invest in for yourself right now?

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Looking out at a mountain, he was pointing out a line to the summit and said something to the effect of:

“Doing an alpine climb is a work of art. The climber traces an imaginary line up the face of the mountain in the same way that a painter does on a canvas.”

That line, he went on, although invisible, remains after the climb is done.

I found that such a beautiful thought.

I’ve shared a similar sentiment with regards to runs and hikes I’ve done over years.

Granted, they’ve been nothing compared to Messner’s feats but, looking at all my GPS tracks criss-crossing landscapes around where I’ve lived or visited, I’ve always been reminded of Messner’s words.

The act of movement through space captured a moment in time and place, one which would never be replicated.

An invisible line that would remain forever.

Then I realized.

This idea is applicable to life itself.

From the moment we are born to the moment we die, we are tracing invisible lines across our physical world but also through each others’ emotional lives.

The places we go, the people we meet; the things we do and the people we inspire.

That’s a pretty accurate description of what a life is.

An invisible, beautiful, line.

Your work of art.

Till next time,

Ben

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I’d read all the latest books, underlining passage after passage and scribbling notes in the margins.

I’d get a high reading through the first couple of pages of a new book and feeling that I was about to uncover some powerful secret. I’d rip through the pages and then — inevitably finish it and place the book back on my bookshelf.

Now, I am not one to disparage you from reading. I genuinely think it’s a key that unlocks nearly limitless knowledge.

But, when it came to my personal growth, I noticed that reading more books was not helping me grow. It just loaded me with more information.

And I’m willing to bet you’re the same.

You’ve read the books, you’ve watched the videos and you’ve listened to the podcasts. You already know more than you need to get started on whatever it is you wish for yourself.

More information isn’t what you need.

Personal growth doesn’t happen from accumulating more information; it comes from action.

• From looking at the world around you with fresh eyes.

• From trying something new.

• From changing how you perceive yourself.

And taking action starts by believing that you can do it.

That the way you are — and where you are today — don’t define who you know you can be and where you want to go.

In my experience, that belief is the missing piece.

Belief in yourself.

And I know full well how hard it is to nurture it when all the evidence points in other directions.

But belief is not a switch. It’s not on or off.

It’s something you build, action upon action, day after day.

It comes from repeatedly doing things that mean something to you until you start changing how you view yourself. And then building up from there.

Belief is a process.

That doesn’t mean it’s easy. It’s a real challenge of persistence, but one you don’t have to go through alone. It’s so much easier to keep going with the support of people who are rooting for you.

That’s why I’m starting my private community here called The Circle.

For $8 USD a month or $80 USD a year, you’ll get access to a private community chat where — every week — I’ll prompt you with questions designed to make you reflect on where you’re at.

I will be there to read your replies, chat with you and give you the support you deserve.

If that sounds like something you want to be a part of, you can join by upgrading to a paid subscription, whenever you’re ready.

(To celebrate this launch, I’m offering you a 30-day free trial via the link below).

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Till next time,

Ben

P.S. If you enjoyed this post, here are three more ways I can support you:

1. From the Archives: Read one of my popular posts.

• Getting Comfortable with Uncertainty

• You Days are Like Rain on the Landscape of Your Life

• On Starting from Zero

2. Join my private community.

Belief is a process. Join The Circle and get the support you need on the challenging journey of change.

3. Get 1-on-1 Support.

Need somebody to talk to, to gain clarity or figure someone out? Reply to this email and I’ll send you the info to book a call.

I’d post regularly for a few months, then run out of steam and stop.

And, every time, it would be because of the pressure I’d put on myself. I’d be trying to write the best possible thing every time.

Another way of saying that is I didn’t want to make mistakes, or look foolish.

So my perfectionism was making the writing process painful.

Arduous.

Tedious.

Frustrating.

I’d write a sentence, immediately reread it, edit it five times over and only then go to the next one. Editing often felt like going around in circles.

The act of writing became synonymous with self-inflicted torment.

Under those conditions, I don’t think anything can be practiced for any degree of time without burning out.

But, the thing is, I do love to write.

I find a great deal of satisfaction writing down my thinking. And sharing it with you gives it an extra dimension of vulnerability, which is helping me grow.

So, what to do?

How can I overcome my perfectionism and retrain my mind to just do things in spite of fear?

I’ve adopted a very simple approach:

Every day, I pick something I want to say, I open a new draft and start a timer for 25 minutes.

Then I write down the first sentence, and then the next.

My only rule?

I cannot go back and change anything while I’m still writing.

Then, when I’m done, I reread the text once, correct any glaring mistakes — and then I hit publish.

No analyzing, no second guessing.

Perfectionism is nothing more than a protection against our own fears.

Fears that are stopping us from doing the things we actually want to do.

Till next time,

Ben

I’m curious, can you relate to this? What has your experience with perfectionism been?

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They were like being given god-like powers of hovering over expanses of land and exploring what was just beyond.

Maps empowered me to know what my eyes couldn’t possibly see.

And later on, this applied to other types of visually represented data, such as graphs and charts. I’d study them intently, deconstructing what the information was saying and what that meant.

These artifacts of information became the puzzle pieces with which I constructed my abstract picture of the world.

So far, so good.

But what if I pointed to the very obvious (but largely ignored) fact that a map is just a representation of a territory? A graph/chart is just a representation of data.

A map is not the territory itself.

It contains information that was chosen by someone at some point to be there. A deliberate choice — whether political, practical or other — was made to include certain elements, and exclude others.

My point isn’t that mapmakers have agendas, only that a map can never be the exact equivalent to the landscape it portrays.

If it did, it would be the same size, texture and smell as the landscape it represents. And, needless to say, that would be impossible.

So, why am I telling you this?

I’m guessing you might not care about the accuracies of a map.

But what if I asked you: what pieces of information are building your understanding of the world?

If you’re like me, you’ll say things like social media posts, news reports or podcast interviews.

But these are all just versions of the map. They convey information about a representation of reality, never reality itself.

I guess my point is this:

It’s one thing to experience the world mediated through flickering light of a device. It’s another thing entirely to experience it first-hand.

To be a human again, devoid of god-like powers, walking on our own two feet across the landscapes of our lives.

Till next time,

Ben

P.S. If you enjoyed this post, you can:

1. From the Archives: Read one of my most popular posts.

• Getting Comfortable with Uncertainty

• You Days are Like Rain on the Landscape of Your Life

• On Starting from Zero

2. Get 1-on-1 Support.

   Need somebody to talk to, to gain clarity or figure someone out? Reply to this email and I’ll send you the info to book a call.

What I mean by that is everyone talks about finding work that you’re good at, that confers status or makes good money.

Those are legitimate perspectives to take, but what about the other side of that coin?

What about finding work that is good to you, for you?

It’s a two-way street.

I’ve learned this from personal experience.

I’ve worked in the corporate world, I’ve worked as a teacher and I’ve worked for myself.

Each job put me in drastically different environments and some were better suited to my personality and needs than others.

As someone who is highly curious, analytical and on the introverted side, each work environment fed me in different ways:

• The corporate world fed my analytical mind and the regular salary gave me stability but the office politics drained me.

• Teaching fed my need to do meaningful work but managing large groups of students and class dynamics left me too little time to breath.

• Working for myself (in the form of a business or freelancing), which I have done repeatedly, puts pressure on the financial side (will I make enough to pay the bills?) but feeds my need for independence.

So, even though my professional life looks disjointed from the outside, it’s actually been a process of me trying to figure out what suits me. What works for me.

And one thing I’ve learned is to not discount the need to find work that is in sync with who you are. Your nature, your personality, your being.

Yes, money is important. Yes, so too is meaning.

But it’s so much more grounding to wake up each morning and flow through the day from a place of strength.

It’s the difference between forcing yourself into someone else’s version of success and, instead, honoring you’re own.

You have tremendous value within you already.

But are the environments you find yourself in feeding who you are?

Till next time,

Ben

P.S. If you enjoyed this post, you can:

1. From the Archives: Read one of my most popular posts.

• Getting Comfortable with Uncertainty

• You Days are Like Rain on the Landscape of Your Life

• On Starting from Zero

2. Get 1-on-1 Support.

Need somebody to talk to, to gain clarity or figure something out? Reply to this email and I’ll send you the info to book a call.

Like, it forced me to stop what I was doing and take the time to understand it.

Here it is:

What jumped out at me wasn't the huge unequal distribution of renewable energy in relation to fossil fuel consumption (while that’s worth going into, let's leave it as a topic for another day).

What truly stood out to me was the massive upward trend in total global energy consumption per year, especially since the 1950s.

And to make this spike even more striking, keep in mind that total energy consumption prior to the graph’s beginning has been estimated to be less than 1800 levels.1

So, if we zoom out and look at the entirety of human history, we’re left with a flat-line of global energy consumption followed by an extremely recent exponential spike.

We’re looking at the most hockey-stick growth graphs imaginable.

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My immediate conclusion to this was maybe what you’re thinking — “this is completely crazy” and “this cannot be sustainable.”

We cannot ignore that global energy consumption has increased 30-fold in just 200 years.

And so I looked into it.

My first step was to take into account population growth over the same time period:

As you can see, population growth has gone from 1 billion in 1800 to 8 billion today. So it’s little wonder our global energy consumption has increased over the same period.

But has it still increased, even if we take a per capita perspective?

The chart below shows that it does. The average person in 1800 spent 5.8 MWh of energy per year; in 2023? 20.3 MWh.

So, even taking population growth into account, we’re still looking at 4x increase of the average global energy consumption per capita over the last 200 years. (And this isn’t even taking into account regional differences!)

This got me wondering what the outcome of all this energy consumption growth has been. As in, what, ultimately, have we been using all this energy for?

My immediate answer was to say: to make life better.

(To me, it should be a given that everything we have done or are currently doing should be in the service of making life better in some way, shape or form).

I’m curious, do you agree with this statement? Or would you say there is another purpose?

For example, what’s your personal energy consumption enabling in your life?

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So I wondered if more energy consumption always led to better life outcomes. But how could I see ‘making like better’ in data?

There are many qualitative metrics to choose from but, for the sake of simplicity, I chose to look at life expectancy (as it’s impossible to argue that a life lived to 70 is worse than one ending at 30).

Here’s that chart:

As you can see, even though the charts I’ve shared so far show two vastly different things —global energy consumption and life expectancy — they both follow a similar pattern: a flatline throughout much of history, followed by a sharp upward trend.

So the next logical question: are they correlated?

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Given I was looking to compare apples and oranges here, I decided to compare their relative growths from the first year on record, namely 1800.

So I indexed 1800 values to 100 and then plotted both growth curves on the same chart.

Here’s what I got:

To keep this short, I’m not going to comment in detail on this chart but what I do want to point this out:

As energy consumption has increased through time, there has also been an increase in life expectancy.

And it makes intuitive sense.

Starting in the 1850s, we’ve been using energy to improve things like infrastructure and education, which then improved technological innovation, which consequently improved life expectancy.

This created a virtuous cycle.

Indeed, global life expectancy in 2023 has more than doubled from its 1800 level. And, in the same period, global energy consumption per capita has more than tripled.

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Looking at this, my initial assumptions were that we’re seeing diminishing returns on energy consumption when it comes to longevity.

It would make sense that, once the low-hanging fruit of access to clean water, heating, food production and basic healthcare are assured, it becomes harder to increase longevity in proportion to energy consumption.

But using my rudimentary statistical skills, I’m not so sure. Indeed, plotting longevity and energy consumption per capita on a scatter plot returns this:

Other than showing there’s very strong correlation between per-capita energy consumption and life expectancy over the observed period (r=0.95), I don’t believe there is statistical proof of diminishing returns on energy consumption with regards to longevity.

If you’re willing to help me out with this particular analysis, do get in touch!

But I digress.

I don’t want to lose sight of my fundamental point:

As shocking as the first chart I showed of global energy consumption is, it carries a lot of hidden implications.

All that growth in energy consumption has served us — for example, by enabling us to live longer.

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But, as we approach what must be close to the limits of our biological bodies and the finitude of planetary resources, I’m left with this question:

How is this level of energy consumption serving us today?

What do we get in exchange for it, and, is it still worth consuming more than 160,000 TWh (and growing) of energy per year?

I believe we need to ask ourselves — and I’m talking about the western world here2 — what’s the purpose behind this ever growing energy consumption?

As in, what’s our goal?

Is it still to make our lives better (longer, healthier, happier)?

Or is something else going on?

What you think? Is this something you think about and, if so, what conclusions have you come to?

I’m genuinely curious to hear your perspectives on this so please do share below.

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The dark winter days are slowly lengthening here and I feel like I’m emerging from hibernation.

The other day, I went down to my small allotment garden to see how it was doing after the snow had melted. I hadn’t been there since before the end-of-year holidays and I didn’t know what to expect.

When I got there, I was pleasantly surprised to see the onions and garlic I had planted in the autumn were peeking out of the ground, their green shoots ready for the warmer days.

As I walked through the cold crisp air, listening to birds singing in the bushes close to me, I was filled with that unmistakable feeling:

Spring is around the corner!

And so, I thought it suitable to share with you my outlook on the importance of being in a garden and on how I use it as a pedagogical tool.

Even though I mainly work with children now, I think the lessons are as applicable to us adults (hell, maybe they’re even more important for us!).

So, have a read and let me know what you think.

One of the children had found something hidden amongst the lettuce.

With shouts of excitement, the other children ran over and looked in awe as the boy picked up a snail and watched it slither across his hand. Before I could say anything, the rest of the children had begun to rummage through the beds to find more.

It turns out children are very effective snail hunters.

So, although they are very effective pest-control, that’s not why I had a group of 10 year olds in my small allotment garden.

We were here because of a belief I have come to see as my fundamental pedagogical approach: trust that, when sparked, a child’s curiosity will fuel their desire to learn.

Children are natural learners

Children don’t need to be taught how to learn. All they need are environments and the support that encourage them to interact with the world around them.

They need time to observe and deconstruct patterns before them; the freedom to connect the relationships between cause and effect.

Driven by their curiosity, the learning will happen.

That’s why my pitch to parents was simple: your children will learn — not by sitting and thinking — but by doing, by experiencing, and by noticing.

That’s how, once a week, I pick up small groups of children from school and proceed to let their curiosity guide their learning.

The garden as a classroom

Most often, we go for walks through a local forested park, by the river that cuts through Ljubljana — or we go to my small allotment garden.

There, we do whatever — depending on the season and the weather — needs to be done. We weed, we plant, we water, we cut and we collect biomass for the compost.

I let the children decide what they want to do and, so far, I’ve never had a situation where a child didn’t want to do anything.

The group gets to work and everyone finds their place in it.

The children learn to communicate. They also learn about the rhythms of the garden and, most importantly, they get to witness.

Being outside, exposed to the elements and watching the seasons change, is not something that is taught on an intellectual level; it’s something that is felt.

Being in the garden helps to connect the dots.

A tiny speck of a seed grows into a vibrant green plant, out of which a flower, fruit or vegetable emerges.

It then turns brown and shrivels as it decomposes on the compost pile; a compost pile that becomes organic matter in which the following spring’s seeds are sown.

But it isn’t only about plants.

The rain gauge shows how many liters of water have fallen per square meter; the small flag atop a pole shows wind strength and direction; and the thermometer, hygrometer and barometer paint the invisible atmospheric picture.

And the presence of wildlife is everywhere, if only attention is paid to it.

The field mice nesting at the bottom of the compost bin. The bees buzzing in and out of flowers. The birds of prey circling high overhead.

But there is also something else: the tiger mosquitos that seem to be more numerous year upon year.

Their invasive presence in Europe, on the scale of human history, is extremely recent (only within the past three decades). Their long-term impact on our ecosystems remains to be seen.

But they are a reminder of the globalized world beyond this small garden and the container ships that brought them here.

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Touch soil with your bare hands

Now, I cannot speak for the children but I trust that they’re taking something valuable from being in the garden. Something that will inform their intellectual growth and understanding of the world they live in.

In time, they will learn about climate change and the problems that face us. They will learn about the carbon cycle imbalance, about warming temperatures and extreme weather events.

But being in this garden is setting the foundations upon which that knowledge can make sense.

By touching the soil with their bare hands, a vital bond is created — one that goes beyond the intellect.

It’s showing them that they too are part of the natural world.

For all its benefits, our modern world has separated us from our natural environments, to the point that we no longer see ourselves part of them.

This is simply not true.

We are all an integral part of the complex and fragile systems that regulate Earth. We are not, in spite of our delusions, above them.

That’s why the first step in addressing the problem of climate change is to rediscover our emotional, physical — and dare I say — spiritual connection to the ecosystems we are a part of.

Planting a seed and eating its fruit can be a transformative way to do that.

Looking to Spring

Once the days start to lengthen again and slowly warm up the hardened ground, I will once again spend more time in the garden.

We will prepare the beds for sowing and will plan out which seeds to plant where. But we will continue to bear witness to the transformations happening around us and at the end of our fingertips.

The blackbird chirping in the bushes.

The delicate primrose flower blooming in small clusters.

These experiences will continue to shine an awareness on the fact that we are not separate from the earth.

We are part of it.

Till next time, I wish you all the very best! ☀️🚶‍➡️🌲

Ben

ps. Did you enjoy reading this?

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The story was compelling — almost too compelling.

He spoke about how he had worked hard, climbed the corporate ladder and, as a result, had spent too little time with his children. Then, in his 50s, he suffered a heart attack, barely survived, and vowed to completely change his life.

It was a familiar story. And it worked.

The video was well made but — having worked in video production before — I was struck by how every single anecdote in his story had perfect footage to go along with it.

Intrigued, I clicked on the channel’s about page. At the very bottom, I read this:

DISCLAIMER: Individuals in our videos are AI-generated for storytelling. Advice is compiled from real-life experiences. Content is for educational purposes only and should not replace professional guidance.

I read it again.

First confused then angry.

The story I had just heard shattered and I was left with an after-taste of distrust.

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Thinking about it, the problem wasn’t that AI was involved — it was that I’d emotionally invested in something that had not been lived. It felt like a perversion of why we tell stories in the first place.

So, even though I’ve no interest to jump on the AI-hate bandwagon, this moment did force me to question my relationship with content altogether.

Like you probably are too, I’m tired of the flood of information that never stops. It’s endless and soulless.

The infinite scroll, the emotional slot machine.

So I’m taking action.

Blocking addictive sites. Curating my feeds. Unsubscribing to things I don’t value highly enough.

The information flood is happening — and I want out.

What I crave is fewer inputs but more presence.

Less reactivity. More reflection.

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If this resonates with you, I’d genuinely like to hear from you. How are you dealing with this problem in your life?

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And if what I write doesn’t add value to you, feel free to unsubscribe. I’m trying to build something quieter here, not necessarily bigger.

Till next time, I wish you well!

Ben

At the age of 14, needing a physical outlet, I began to play rugby. (If you don’t know, it’s that sport played with an oval-shaped ball but without the helmets of American football).

I ended up playing until I was in my early 20s, when a couple of injuries and university life (a.k.a. too much temptation not to train) brought an end to my playing.

But, in the period I did play, the game left a deep impression and love within me, one that I carry to this day.

Because, beyond the brutish and dangerous perception of the sport (which, I admit, is at times valid), rugby did teach me fundamental lessons that I think are worth sharing.

Being on a rugby pitch, you’re surrounded by 29 other people, 15 of which are using their physical might to try and bring the ball over to your end of the pitch.

You and your teammates are trying to stop them and, instead, bring the ball to their side of the pitch.

On one level, the game is very simple. It’s an attritional affair, a face-to-face tug-of-war, but in reverse.

So — and you cannot avoid this lesson — the nature of the game means that, without your teammates, you are nothing.

This feeling hits you the first time you play.

You get given the ball and your experience your first tackle — the physicality hits you. Then your teammates rush in and push the opponent players in order to secure the ball.

You could be the best player on the pitch but, without the support of those people on your side, you’d be crushed.

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As a result, more than any other sport I’ve played or any professional situation I’ve been in, your reliance on your teammates in rugby is on another level.

And it’s been my experience that these moments of adversity builds deep trust with them. I recall playing with people from different walks of life, speaking different languages and playing in the knowledge that they’d back me up.

That’s a powerful feeling.

And it went the other way too: being ready to support a teammate, regardless of any personal sense of fear or physical tiredness.

This instilled a sense of selflessness.

Within the 80 minutes of the game, it wasn’t about the “me” in my head; it was about dealing with the particular situations of the game, as a team.

I may have come across as competitive back then but I actually didn’t care much if we won or lost. All I cared about was that we played as well as we could have.

I remember one of my coaches always saying: “Make sure you leave everything you can on the pitch.”

That idea rings a little differently after all these years but it still means something to me.

Pride in one’s self, maybe.

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Now, for the first time in 20 years, I’m thinking of playing again.

I’m apprehensive though: rugby has been linked with Chronic traumatic encephalopathy (CTE), which is a brain disease linked to repeated head injuries.

I also have to question whether the very real risk of any injuries is worth it at a time when I’m firmly entering middle-age.

Regardless, rugby has — by far — been the closest I’ve felt to being part of a band of brothers.

Of being part of something bigger than myself.

I didn’t always like all my teammates, I didn’t love every second of being in such a tight social group, which was, at times, complex to navigate.

But it felt real and raw.

Tribal, almost.

Writing this out, I’m left wondering: what kind of environments still foster that level of bonds with strangers? And this, especially as a middle-aged man?

And so, will I play again? I don’t know.

But I do know this: rugby is more than mud and beer.

It’s about connection.

I’m curious, does this feeling of belonging and connection through a shared activity resonate with you?

How do you fill this need in your life right now?

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Till next week, I wish you all my best! 🏉

Ben