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A birthday dispatch from someone who just turned 55 and isn’t quite sure how that happened.

“He who has a why to live for can bear almost any how.”

Friedrich Nietzsche

So here it is. Another birthday.

I’ve now reached the curious milestone of 55, and frankly, it’s come as a bit of a shock.

Some part of me is still waiting to feel like a proper grown-up. I remember when I used to think 55 was ancient. You’d have a caravan, knee problems, and opinions about curtain fabric. That version of 55 wasn’t wearing Converse or trying to start a podcast from a walk across Spain. And yet… here we are.

Even more surreal: I’ll be 60 in five years. Sixty. SIXTY. That number used to belong to grandparents and old-school policemen with moustaches and proper trousers. Now it belongs to me in five years.

So yes, I’m having the traditional birthday spiral: What have I done? What am I doing? How did I get here? And is it too late to sort it all out?

The External Cheerleader, The Internal Critic

I’ve always been excellent at pumping other people up. Genuinely, I’m Olympic-level when it comes to encouraging friends. You’ve got a plan? I’ll build you a logo, write your launch copy, and make you believe you were destined for greatness.

But for myself? That same energy vanishes. I become hyper-sceptical, suddenly obsessed with evidence and outcomes.

It’s maddening. Especially today. Birthdays pull focus like that.

You start to tally up what hasn’t stuck. All the things that nearly took off, the projects that flickered and faded, the doors that opened just enough to show you what was inside before slamming shut.

That’s the pattern I know too well. And the voice that narrates it? That voice is me. Calm, quiet, persistent. Telling me: “Don’t bother. You’ve done this before. Nothing sticks.”

But here’s the twist: I know that voice is lying. It’s fear dressed up as insight. And the only thing keeping it alive… is me.

The Nietzsche Problem

Nietzsche once wrote, “He who has a why to live for can bear almost any how.”

He wasn’t talking about midlife self-employment blues, or navigating YouTube algorithms, or trying to pitch a podcast about sacred storytelling to a world drunk on viral nonsense, but still. It lands.

The ‘why’ behind what I do: walking, writing, talking, connecting, that’s still real. Still intact. It just gets buried under all the perceived expectations.

The ones that say:

• You should be further along by now.
• You should have figured it out.
• You should be more successful.

But who said that? Some ghost version of 55-year-old me I dreamt up when I was 28 and living off service station pasties? That guy had no idea what life would look like now.

The problem is never the mountain ahead. It’s always the pebble in your shoe. That small, persistent narrative that tells you not to bother — because you’ve already run out of time.

But if you’re still walking, you haven’t.

So What Now?

Maybe I stop trying to convince myself that optimism has to feel like certainty. Maybe it’s softer than that. Maybe it’s just willingness. A bit of breath in the lungs. Enough belief to get up and try again.

Not because this time will be different. But because this time is still worth doing.

And when I catch myself spiralling about age, and time, and that fact I’ll soon be closer to 60 than 50, I’ll remind myself: everything I’ve loved, built, and learned… I did after 30. Much of it after 40. So who says 55 is the epilogue?

Maybe it’s just Part Three.

So yes. I’m 55. I’m bewildered by that. But I’m here. Still walking. Still wondering.
Still trying to find a voice that’s kind enough to speak inward, not just outward.

If you’re doing the same, keep going. You’re not behind. You’re just between chapters.

Buen Camino,
Darren

“The only thing of which one can be guilty is of having given ground relative to one’s desire.”

Slavoj Žižek

There’s something quietly profound about looking back and realising how far you’ve come—not just in distance, but in understanding. When I left home at nineteen, camera in hand, and stepped aboard a cruise ship for the first time, I had no idea what kind of life I was beginning. I thought I was just going to work, to see the world a bit. But that journey didn’t end when I stepped off a different ship two years later. It hasn’t ended yet.

Since that first job, I’ve lived in America, Cyprus, Wales, and England. I’ve had addresses and attachments in more places than most people collect fridge magnets. Even now, working as cabin crew, I continue to criss-cross the globe. I sleep in hotels more often than in my own bed. The itch to move has never quite gone away—and maybe it never should.

But here’s the truth that’s taken me years to see: travel doesn’t change who you are. It reveals you.

Travel Isn’t a Fix—It’s a Mirror

There’s a romantic idea we’re sold about travel, that it “broadens the mind.” And it does. But it also exposes things. It shines a light on how you respond to stress, to isolation, to unfamiliarity. It shows you who you are when no one’s watching and you’re a long way from anything that feels like home.

I’ve made some remarkable choices. I’ve also made some truly awful ones. I’ve fallen in love on different continents and fallen apart in places I couldn’t even point out on a map now. I’ve been married. Divorced. Twice. My career has been a mix of high points and quiet stretches that tested my confidence and my nerve.

And yet—I’m happy.

Because the further I’ve travelled, the more I’ve come to realise that growth doesn’t look like success. It doesn’t move in a straight line. It stumbles. It learns. It sometimes goes back to the beginning and starts over.

Blackpool to the World

Every now and then I think of that kid from Blackpool, suitcase packed, boarding a ship with a camera and a vague sense of ambition. What would he say if he saw the life I’ve built? The places I’ve been? The cultures I’ve encountered?

He’d probably say, Really? Me?

And I’d say, Yeah. You made it happen.

That’s the thing. There’s luck, sure. Timing. Opportunities. But you still have to choose. You still have to say yes. You still have to get on the plane, take the job, walk into the unknown.

Žižek’s words stay with me: “The only thing of which one can be guilty is of having given ground relative to one’s desire.”

I’ve done a lot of things wrong. But I never gave up on my desire—to see more, know more, connect more deeply. That desire is still with me, whether I’m walking the Camino, working 38,000 feet in the air, or telling stories through the story pilgrim.

Final Thoughts

Personal growth doesn’t come from ticking off destinations. It comes from being present in those places—from listening, observing, sometimes failing, and always moving forward.

Travel has shaped me. But I shaped my life by continuing to move. And somewhere along the way, I stopped chasing the perfect path and started embracing the journey.

And I’m still on it.

“Be patient and tough; someday this pain will be useful to you.”

Ovid

There are times in life that feel like motion, like momentum. And then there are times that feel like a waiting room—static, uncertain, caught between where you were and where you want to be. These moments, though quiet, can be the loudest of all.

I find myself thinking about the way time bends in these spaces. When you’re moving forward, time accelerates, days pass in a blur of action and purpose. But when you are in between—between jobs, between relationships, between clarity and confusion—time slows, thickens, holds you in place.

Waiting is an uncomfortable thing. It forces introspection. It invites doubt. It tests patience. But maybe it also serves a purpose.

The Illusion of Control

We are raised to believe that life is a cause-and-effect equation: work hard, make connections, do the right things, and success will follow. But anyone who has pursued a creative career—or any passion that depends on factors outside of their control—knows this is not always true.

You can send the emails. Make the calls. Put yourself out there. And sometimes, nothing happens. No rejection, no acceptance. Just silence.

This is where the real challenge begins. Because while rejection is painful, uncertainty is maddening. It leaves space for overthinking, for self-doubt to take root. Am I doing enough? Am I too much? Did I miss my moment?

And yet, if we take a step back, we see that every great story—every journey worth telling—has a moment of waiting. The in-between is part of the structure. The hero doesn’t always know what to do next. The road forward is often unclear. The moment of pause is not failure; it is a necessary beat in the rhythm of progress.

What Can Be Done in the Waiting?

If waiting is inevitable, the question becomes: how do we use it?

1. Shift the Perspective

Instead of seeing stillness as stagnation, what if we reframed it as preparation? As Marcus Aurelius wrote, “You have power over your mind—not outside events. Realise this, and you will find strength.”

The work we do when no one is watching is often what determines how ready we are when the opportunity comes.

2. Focus on the Craft, Not the Outcome

It’s tempting to measure success by external validation—jobs booked, money earned, recognition gained. But those things are unpredictable. What is within our control is how we use the time we have.

• A writer writes, even when no one reads.
• An actor prepares, even when no role is in sight.
• A storyteller listens, even when there’s no audience yet.

3. Find the Small Wins

When the big goal feels too distant, look for the smaller ones: a skill improved, a connection strengthened, a personal insight gained. These may not feel like milestones at the time, but they are the stepping stones that lead forward.

The Road Always Moves Again

Heraclitus said, “Everything flows, nothing stands still.”  The hardest thing to believe when you are in the middle of waiting is that the wait will end. It will.

One day, something will shift—a message will come through, an opportunity will appear, a door will open. And in that moment, you’ll realise that the waiting wasn’t wasted time. It was part of the story.

Wherever you are right now—whether moving forward or stuck in place—remember: stillness is temporary. The road will move again. And so will you.

“We are what we repeatedly do. Excellence, then, is not an act, but a habit.”

Aristotle

“No man ever steps in the same river twice, for it is not the same river and he is not the same man.”

Heraclitus

There are moments in life when we find ourselves in unfamiliar places, both physically and emotionally. We wake up in a different city, a hotel room that could be anywhere, in a space that feels suspended between reality and dream. Outside, the world continues its tireless movement—cars weave through crowded streets, voices rise and fall in rhythms we do not fully understand, the pulse of existence beats on. And yet, internally, we feel still. Too still.

But what is this stillness? Is it rest, or is it paralysis? Is it a moment of contemplation, or is it inertia? The mind, left unchecked in these moments, can become a labyrinth, turning endlessly in on itself, trying to find meaning in the silence.

This is the paradox of stillness. Ancient Greek philosophers understood it well. Heraclitus reminds us that life is always in motion, that even as we stand still, everything around us shifts. And yet, to stand apart from the current for too long is to risk disconnection, to feel adrift rather than grounded.

The Struggle Between Action and Waiting

Modern existence is relentless in its demand for action. Productivity is the altar at which we are all expected to worship—move faster, do more, achieve, accumulate, conquer. To sit still, even for a moment, feels like falling behind, like relinquishing control. But is that true? Or is stillness a form of wisdom?

Plato wrote of the nous, the rational mind, the ability to reflect and gain wisdom from contemplation. He would argue that in moments of stillness, we are not failing but preparing. Preparing for the next step, the next move, the next great act. But waiting can feel unbearable when the world seems indifferent to our movement. When doors remain shut and voices do not answer back.

So, what does one do in the waiting?

The Anxiety of the Unwritten Chapter

There is a peculiar form of dread that comes with feeling untethered—when the road ahead seems obscured, and every attempt at forward motion feels uncertain. The mind races ahead, predicting failure, rejection, irrelevance. The weight of potential presses heavily on the shoulders.

Socrates famously stated, “The unexamined life is not worth living.” But what happens when we examine life too much? When self-reflection turns into self-doubt? When the sheer number of choices available leaves us paralyzed rather than liberated?

There is a temptation in these moments to retreat, to wait for clarity to arrive like some divine revelation. But clarity is rarely given freely. It must be sought, unearthed through movement—through being in the world rather than observing it from the sidelines.

The Danger of Prolonged Stillness

If stillness is necessary for wisdom, then movement is necessary for survival. The ancient Stoics believed that virtue was not found in retreat but in engagement with the world. Marcus Aurelius, one of the last great Stoic philosophers, wrote, “Waste no more time arguing about what a good man should be. Be one.”

To wait for motivation, for the right moment, for external validation—this is to surrender to fate rather than shape it. The reality is, there is no perfect moment. No divine sign. No absolute certainty that guarantees a path forward. There is only the choice to act or to remain stagnant.

But action does not always mean grand gestures. Sometimes, it is a small step: sending an email, making a phone call, writing one sentence, stepping outside. Small movements that defy the weight of inertia.

Finding Meaning in the Unfinished Story

If Heraclitus is right, then we are never the same person from one moment to the next. The version of ourselves that sits in stillness today is not the same as the one who will move tomorrow. This is both liberating and terrifying. It means we are not defined by what we haven’t done, by the doors that have not yet opened.

It means that each moment holds the potential for transformation.

Perhaps the greatest lesson of stillness is that it is temporary. That no moment of uncertainty lasts forever. That waiting is not inaction, and stillness is not defeat. The river moves forward, whether we resist it or not. And eventually, we move with it.

“To him who is in fear, everything rustles.”

Sophocles

Fear magnifies the unknown, but motion diminishes fear. So, what is the next step? Perhaps it is simply rising from the chair. Opening the door. Taking a breath and stepping into the day. The future is not waiting to be discovered. It is waiting to be made.

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Photo by Jordan Whitt on Unsplash