Today I caught myself wondering when I last experienced genuine joy. Not the satisfaction of crossing another task off my list. Not the relief that comes after solving yet another problem. I mean real joy. The kind that comes from simply being present. Somewhere along the way, I realised I had become three different versions of myself. At times, I felt like a laying hen — constantly producing new ideas, projects, meetings and solutions, without ever giving myself the space to appreciate what had already been created. Then I became a woodpecker, pecking at the same tree every single day. Another phone call. Another document. Another email. Another problem to solve. Again. And again. And again. And then I thought about Irish sport horses. After a demanding session, they are allowed to recover. No one expects them to perform a second round simply because there is more work to be done. Their strength is protected because everyone understands that performance depends on recovery. So why do we expect something different from ourselves? At what point do we stop noticing the difference between what we genuinely want to do and what we simply feel obliged to do? When our boundaries slowly disappear, life can become an endless checklist. Day after day. Week after week. Until one day, you realise you've stopped tasting life. You're no longer living. You're simply functioning. Perhaps the most dangerous part is that this becomes normal. We get so used to carrying the weight that we forget who we are beneath the responsibility. Recently, I found myself remembering an evening from several years ago. A sunset. A yacht. Simple cocktails. Cheap snacks. Music. Laughter. My friend and I needed nothing more than that. We weren't trying to prove anything. We weren't solving problems. We weren't planning tomorrow. We were simply there. And what stays with me isn't the yacht or the cocktails. It's the feeling. Those moments leave an aftertaste that lasts for years.