Without the Noise

The only thing you’re rushing towards is the end of your life. And yet we live as if speed is success.

As if urgency means importance. As if movement guarantees meaning. As if the faster we pivot, the more alive we are.

But no matter how quickly you run, how many flights you book, how many chapters you start and abandon — there is only one finish line. And you are heading towards it whether you rush or not.

So why are you in such a hurry?

Who taught you that stillness equals failure?

I’ve spent years building entire chapters of my life on temporary highs — chasing whatever opportunity someone else placed in front of me. If it sounded exciting enough, convincing enough, impressive enough, I ran towards it. Even when it didn’t align with my values. Even when it didn’t resemble the person I actually wanted to become.

It didn’t get me into trouble. But it definitely sent me down paths that weren’t mine. And it’s taken a long time to gently untangle myself from decisions that were made in adrenaline rather than alignment.

All because someone made a life choice look glamorous. All because I thought movement meant evolution.

Sometimes it just meant distraction.

So try not to get caught up in what everyone else is doing — when they’ve moved overseas, when they’re buying houses, when they’re climbing career ladders or falling in love. It’s inevitable to compare. Whether we admit it or not, we’re always quietly measuring our progress against someone else’s timeline.

And because of that, we lose track of our own.

We start wanting things not because we truly want them, but because someone else’s life looks better. More extravagant. More exciting. More certain. So we shift. We pivot. We drift from the path we once felt sure about and head down one that simply looks shinier.

But what do you actually want?

Strip it back.

Remove the expectations.

The Instagram aesthetics.

The thrill of someone else’s approval.

The idea of a “perfect” life.

Who are you when no one is watching?

Before I flew back to Australia, I was having a conversation with my brother-in-law about my next steps. About where I saw myself. About what the next few months were meant to look like.

Truthfully? I didn’t know.

I didn’t know if Australia was somewhere I saw myself staying long-term. So I decided to give myself six months — until March — to figure it out. No pressure. Just space.

That’s when he asked me a question that has followed me ever since.

“Are you Type A or Type B?”

Type A: You make a plan and you stick to it. No matter what distractions appear, no matter how enticing a different path seems. You don’t abandon the original vision just because something sparkles. You commit.

Type B: You go with the flow. You follow what feels good in the moment. You say yes to spontaneity. To opportunity. To whatever feels alive — even if it rewrites the plan entirely.

And if those options sound familiar, it’s because most of us are a mixture of both.

But me?

I’m Type B.

I romanticise momentum. I get intoxicated by possibility. I sometimes confuse motion with meaning. If something feels exciting enough, I can convince myself it’s aligned.

I’ve built part of my identity around being the girl who moves. New city. New chapter. New reinvention. I’ve rarely stayed still long enough to fully integrate who I’ve become before shifting again.

So when life feels calm, something in me panics.

I get this overwhelming sense of urgency — like something needs to change immediately. It feels like an itch I can’t quite scratch. For a few days, sometimes weeks, I convince myself my entire life needs rearranging. That I’m behind. That I’m stagnant. That if I don’t act now, I’ll waste time.

And then it passes.

Only to resurface again the next time life slows down enough for me to think.

I expect clarity to be dramatic. I expect growth to feel electric. I expect movement to equal progress.

But alignment is quieter than excitement. Alignment doesn’t shout. It doesn’t sparkle. It doesn’t rush you. It expands you.

For me, it almost feels underwhelming. It doesn’t make my heart race. It makes my shoulders drop. And after a life of very high highs and very real lows, calm can feel unfamiliar. Almost suspicious.

My plans since moving back have changed almost every month. One week I’m content staying. The next I’m ready to pack my bags. I’ve felt the pull to throw the original plan out the window more than once.

Especially because going back to the UK feels impressive. It fits the narrative. It sounds bold.

Australia feels quieter. More peaceful on the surface. But it challenges me more mentally. It asks me to build something steady instead of something cinematic.

But I caught myself.

Because that wasn’t clarity — it was noise.

March is around the corner. The six-month mark. The time I promised myself I would decide with intention, not impulse. Not based on external validation. Not based on what sounds impressive. Just based on what genuinely feels aligned.

I’ve made rushed decisions before. I’ve followed excitement. I’ve chosen movement over meaning.

And this time, I want to do it differently.

This time, I’m not asking: “What sounds good?”

I’m asking: “What feels grounded?”

This time, I’m not chasing applause.

I’m chasing peace.

And here’s what I’m learning — maybe you need this too.

If you want to stay on the right path, you have to create friction between the urge and the decision.

Not every itch needs scratching.

Not every wave of urgency means you’re in the wrong place.

Pause longer than feels comfortable.

Journal before acting.

Ask yourself if this choice still feels right when no one knows about it.

Notice whether your body contracts or expands.

Excitement is fast. Alignment is steady.

So what can you do?

Before making your next move:

– Write down what you want without telling anyone.

– Sit with it for 30 days. Does it still feel true?

– Ask yourself who you’re trying to impress.

– Ask yourself what you’re trying to avoid.

– Remove the audience from the equation.

Because if no one could see your decision…

Would you choose differently?

And for me?

I’m committing to stillness before change.

To asking my body before my ego.

To following what feels internally calm, not externally impressive.

If I leave, it won’t be to escape discomfort.

If I stay, it won’t be out of fear.

It will be because it feels steady.

Because in the end, this isn’t about Australia. Or the UK. Or geography at all.

It’s about integrity.

Living in a way that feels honest when you’re alone at night.

So I’ll leave you with this — and I want you to sit with it properly, not just read it and scroll:

Without comparison…

Without pressure…

Without the need to prove…

What does your quiet life look like?

And more importantly —

Are you brave enough to choose it?