Almost exactly a year ago, as our family holiday in Spain was drawing to a close, I did what I always seem to do: I pondered the future. Where would I be in twelve months? Would things look or feel any different? Classic overthinker move.

It’s such a human thing—this compulsion to squint into the distance rather than shift our gaze to what’s around us right now. Maybe it’s hope. Maybe it’s anxiety. Maybe both in equal measure, like mild milky tea and slightly stale biscuits. But I’ve noticed this constant peering forwards makes the present feel like something to be endured, not enjoyed. There’s always a “when”: when I get that promotion, drive the “right” car, travel Business Class, move to a neighbourhood with more trees, or track down the mythical ‘perfect’ job. The list goes on, limited only by how creative my inner critic feels that day/week/month.

Here’s the thing: I am my own biggest critic. Forget any external competition—the real Olympic-level opponent lives rent-free in my own head, commenting on every late start, missed gym session, or slightly limp packed lunch. The voice never stops. “This isn’t enough.” “You should be further along.” “Why haven’t you figured it all out yet?” I’ve got a lifetime subscription to this inner radio station, and it’s missing the off switch.

What I’m slowly learning—emphasis on slowly—is that I can’t outpace that voice by achieving more, ticking more boxes, or finding the right self-help book to buy (and not finish reading). There will never be a magic upgrade, no matter how many times I swap phones, cars, or life goals.

So, where does that leave me at 43? Strangely, somewhere far more honest. A little frayed around the edges, maybe, but real. My so-called “progress” might sometimes feel glacial, but at least it’s moving. The harder I am on myself, the more I miss life as it is—messy, funny, surprising, peppered with small victories and unexpected details. Like the time the car wouldn’t start and somehow that’s the memory that will stick from last summer, not the perfect Instagram sunset. We are flying out to Spain on Monday morning, to the same resort we visited last year albeit a week later. The only other difference is the departure airport switching to the logistically better placed LHR rather than LGW.

Here’s what I’m working on (slowly): letting go. Letting go of the endless scoreboard, the imaginary timeline, the “should have by now.” Letting go, bit by bit, of the pressure to optimise every moment as if life is a spreadsheet in need of more formulas.

Maybe life isn’t something to win. Maybe okay really is… more than enough. Then you stumble across a random Instagram story reel on your feed, and it knocks you for six. This got me thinking about several things, but most importantly, making sure I connect with those nearest and dearest while they are still with u,s and not to live with the burden of regret in my heart.