At gate 54…

I’m sitting at Gate C54 in Geneva Airport. I’ve dropped my bags, gone through security and customs, and now I’m surrounded by people waiting to leave one place and arrive somewhere else.

There is something about an airport that exposes the pace of modern life.

Hundreds of people are sitting side by side, yet almost nobody is talking. Heads are tilted down. Eyes fixed on phones, tablets, laptops. Messages, emails, news, notifications.

Everyone looks busy.

Everyone looks connected.

But I’m not sure we are.

Sometimes I think we confuse stimulation with connection and activity with meaning. Our attention is constantly being pulled somewhere else.

And sitting here, tired enough that I no longer have the energy to distract myself from what I’m feeling, I realize how much I am part of this.

The last two weeks have been extraordinary. Riding through the Alps for six hours a day was exhausting and exhilarating. Long climbs, beautiful landscapes, speed, physical effort, endorphins, adrenaline. The kind of experience that makes me feel intensely alive.

But now I can feel the price of it in my body.

My muscles are tired. My bones feel tired. My mind feels tired. Every morning my watch tells me that my resting heart rate is roughly nine beats above baseline.

My body is asking for rest.

Part of me wants to believe this is simple. Sleep more. Recover. Take a few days off. Let my heart rate settle. Then get going again.

But I know that is not the whole story.

I have wanted to slow down for a long time.

This is not a new realization.

I’ve told myself before that I need more balance. More quiet. More intention. Less rushing. Less reacting.

And then I recover.

My energy comes back.

Another idea appears. Another project. Another trip. Another challenge.

And somehow I’m running again.

That is the part I don’t want to pretend away.

Speed is not just something that happens to me.

I like it.

I like the intensity. I like the race. I like the feeling of squeezing everything out of a day. I like ambitious projects. I like learning. I like the burn of a hard workout. I like the feeling that something is happening.

There is a reward in all of it.

Adrenaline. Endorphins. Momentum. Purpose.

Maybe even identity.

I have spent a large part of my life being the person who pushes.

Push harder.

Train harder.

Work harder.

Learn more.

Build more.

And a lot of good things have come from that.

Adventure. Strength. Discipline. Confidence. Accomplishment.

So slowing down is difficult because I’m not simply trying to abandon something unhealthy.

I’m trying to loosen my grip on something I genuinely love.

I want to slow down.

And I don’t.

Both are true.

Part of me wants quiet.

Another part wants stimulation.

Part of me wants a simpler life.

Another part is already thinking about the next project.

I want peace.

I also want intensity.

I don’t yet know how to hold both.

Maybe that is where I have been fooling myself.

I have often treated slowing down as if it were a decision.

As if one day I would understand it clearly enough and simply choose differently.

But insight has not been enough.

I have understood this before.

I have promised myself this before.

And I have returned to the same pace.

Maybe speed has become a kind of addiction.

Not in a dramatic sense. Just in the sense that intensity has become rewarding enough that stillness can feel uncomfortable.

When things get quiet, I reach for something.

A screen.

An idea.

A workout.

A task.

A plan.

Maybe I have trained myself so well to move that I’ve forgotten how to stop without feeling like something is missing.

I keep coming back to one sentence:

More intention. Less reaction.

I don’t want every empty moment to become screen time.

I don’t want every burst of energy to become another workout.

I don’t want every interesting idea to become another project.

I want to create a little space between impulse and action.

To ask myself:

Do I actually want this?

Is this good for me?

Is this meaningful?

Or am I simply reacting to the discomfort of slowing down?

Because slowing down leaves room to notice things.

Fatigue.

Age.

Time.

Love.

Mortality.

I’m 51.

I’m not old, but I’m no longer young enough to believe that time is unlimited.

I watch my parents getting older, and suddenly time with them feels countable.

I see my son growing up too.

Life moves quietly while we are busy doing other things.

And this is where my ambition becomes complicated.

Part of me still wants to build.

I want to succeed with my projects.

I want to create, teach, learn, explore.

I don’t want to become passive.

But I also don’t want accomplishment to consume the years I still have.

Maybe there is a difference between ambition and acceleration.

Maybe I can still build without constantly rushing.

Maybe slowing down does not mean becoming less alive.

Maybe it means actually being present for more of my life.

Stop pushing and start caring.

I like that sentence.

But even that can become another slogan.

Another thing I say and fail to live.

So maybe the next chapter is not about becoming less driven.

Maybe it is about becoming more selective about what deserves that drive.

I want to care for my body instead of constantly asking more from it.

I want to care for my mind instead of filling every quiet moment with stimulation.

I want to care for the people I love instead of assuming there will always be another opportunity.

A coffee without a phone.

A meal without rushing.

A conversation without thinking about what comes next.

A walk without measuring distance or pace.

A book without checking messages.

An ordinary afternoon with my parents.

An evening with my son where there is nowhere else I need to be.

Maybe that is a kind of wealth I have underestimated.

Not more experiences.

More presence inside the experiences I already have.

Sitting here at Gate C54, I can feel all of this with unusual clarity.

But there is something else I have to admit.

I might forget.

A few good nights of sleep.

My resting heart rate comes back down.

My legs feel strong again.

I get home.

Work starts.

An exciting idea appears.

Someone proposes an adventure.

And I know myself.

I might start running again.

That scares me more than the fatigue.

Because slowing down is easy to want when I’m exhausted.

The real question is whether I will still choose it when I feel strong.

Maybe this isn’t a declaration that I’m going to change.

Maybe it is simply a moment when I can see the contradiction clearly.

I love speed.

And speed is exhausting me.

I want intensity.

And I want peace.

I don’t yet know how to hold both.

So perhaps I shouldn’t leave Gate C54 with another promise.

Maybe I should leave with a question.

When I have the strength to run again, will I remember that I wanted to walk?