At a party once, a woman by the fridge asked what I do, and I gave her my job title and ten minutes on warehouse software. At a barbecue in June a man asked the same thing, and I said tomatoes. We talked about blight for twenty minutes.
These essays are about wanting a smaller life on purpose, with a job that pays the rent and stays a job. Nobody here is short of ambition. Mine is eleven tomato plants by the shed.
Nine free guides in my downloads folder, not one of them read. Nobody was ever changed by a guide they didn't open, so my guide to doing less is twelve pages.
One email sat bold in my inbox from June to October, a favour I was never going to do. An email you've ignored for months is already a no. Say it in one line.
At a party someone asked what I do, and I handed over my job title like a passport. Your job is what you do for money. It doesn't have to be your answer.
Rediscover the lost art of unhurried mornings. Simple ways to create moments of calm before work, without the pressure of perfect routines or productivity hacks.