There’s a beach near where I grew up in Donegal — Narin and Portnoo.
No towering cliffs. No drama.
Just miles of golden sand, the Atlantic rolling in steady and cold, and Inishkeel island sitting just offshore — close enough to walk to when the tide pulls back.
It’s not loud beauty.
It’s open. Wide. Honest.
When I go back now, I walk it.
At first it was practical. Stretch the legs after a flight. Get air into the lungs. Shake off the travel.
But somewhere along the way, it became something else.
It became the place where I couldn’t hide behind pace.
For most of my career — Scotland for 26 years, the US for 12, and a lot of airports in between — I’ve operated at speed.
Decisions with consequences. Targets that mattered. Teams relying on clarity. You don’t survive in that environment by hesitating. You survive by leaning forward. By anticipating. By acting early.
That rhythm shapes you.
It becomes normal to move.
Then you stand on a stretch of sand that doesn’t move for you.
The tide comes in.
The tide goes out.
Inishkeel appears. Then disappears again.
No urgency. No reaction to you.
And you realise something.
Not that you’re obsessed with control.
But that you’re deeply wired for momentum.
When my calendar emptied after moving home, I wasn’t anxious.
I was unsettled.
There was no friction. No immediate demand.
My instinct wasn’t to rest.
It was to create movement.
What’s next?
What can I build?
Where’s the edge?
That instinct built my career. It helped me lead. It helped me grow businesses. I’m not disowning it.
But standing on that beach, with nothing requiring anything from me, I felt how constant forward motion can narrow you.
When you’re always pushing ahead, you can miss what’s already there.
You miss the pause in someone’s voice.
You miss the quiet disagreement.
You miss the moment because you’re already shaping the outcome.
The ocean doesn’t shape outcomes.
It just moves in its own time.
And walking there, tide out, crossing to Inishkeel on wet sand that will disappear in a few hours, I’m reminded of something I’m still learning:
Not everything needs accelerating.
Not everything needs improving.
Some things just need noticing.
Strip away the targets. The meetings. The noise.
Who are you then?
I’m still answering that.
But I know this — standing on that beach, with nothing to optimise, feels different.
And different, at this stage of life, might be exactly what I need.