Staying By The Sea

On guilt, creative longing, and the quiet courage of choosing your own path

I made a decision a few years ago that turned out to be one of the simplest and most powerful changes in my professional life.

I stopped scheduling meetings during school holidays.

The rule is disarmingly simple: I’m not available. It’s school vacation.

What began as a practical boundary gradually became something else.

It created space.

Not only in my calendar,

but in my mind.

Space for the work that rarely fits between meetings.

Space for reading.

Space for thinking.

Space for making.

Because creation does not happen in the margins of a busy day.

It asks for time.

And even more than time, it asks for presence.

This week, I went a step further.

I packed my bags and came to the sea.

Someone I know generously offered me the use of their studio for a few days.

It felt like the perfect setting to withdraw from daily life and reconnect with the creative energy I had been sensing for months.

No children asking for snacks.

No dogs needing attention.

No house quietly reminding me it needed cleaning.

Just the rhythm of the waves,

long walks along the shore,

and uninterrupted stretches of time.

It sounded almost idyllic.

And yet, almost as soon as I arrived, something else arrived with me.

Pressure.

A heavy, persistent sense that I needed to succeed this week.

Because the truth is, I did not come here empty-handed.

I came with ideas.

Too many ideas.

Books I want to read.

Research frameworks I want to understand more deeply.

New teaching materials waiting to be developed.

A podcast that continues to call for care and creativity.

A pitch for competition I very much want to win.

Each of these projects feels deeply aligned with who I am and what I hope to contribute.

They are not obligations imposed from the outside.

They come from somewhere much quieter — and much closer to the soul.

Which is precisely why choosing between them feels almost impossible.

So I notice myself moving from one task to another.

Six books open at once.

More tabs on my laptop than I care to admit.

If you could look inside my head right now,

it might resemble a browser with far too many windows open.

And underneath that restless movement, another voice begins to speak.

What exactly are you doing? Is any of this truly important? Shouldn’t you focus on your “real” work? Was it responsible to take a week away from your family for this? Who is even waiting for what you are trying to create?

Doubt has a way of sounding remarkably reasonable.

And when doubt enters, something else follows close behind.

Guilt.

There are moments this week when I have felt an almost physical pull to return home.

To make myself useful again in familiar ways.

Cook dinner.

Tidy the house.

Sit behind my well-equipped desk with its two screens and efficient setup.

Usefulness is comforting.

It is visible.

Measurable.

Creative work, by contrast, can feel intangible — even self-indulgent.

What does it mean to step away from what others might recognize as valuable, and instead give your time to something that simply… calls you?

I am beginning to see that this is the real discomfort.

Not the workload.

Not the complexity of the ideas.

But the quiet audacity of choosing your own path.

So I try, gently, to stay with what is present.

To notice the restlessness without immediately trying to resolve it.

To acknowledge the guilt without obeying it.

And also — this is important — to allow the other feelings to exist alongside it.

The creative energy moving through me.

The excitement of ideas not yet formed.

The deep, almost wordless knowing that these things matter.

If not to the world just yet, then at least to me.

And perhaps that is reason enough.

I am learning that it is allowed to step out of the constant doing.

Allowed to prioritize what gives energy rather than only what produces visible results.

Because when I create space to breathe, something shifts.

I return more present — to my children, my family, my work, my students, my colleagues.

But also to myself.

Writing these words now, I notice something else happening.

A softness that was not there before I began.

As if putting thoughts onto paper creates just enough distance to meet them with a little more kindness.

Maybe this is what self-care sometimes looks like.

Not grand gestures.

Just staying.

Perhaps you recognize this feeling.

The pressure to always be productive.

To justify your time.

To prove your relevance.

To remain, somehow, available to everyone.

If you do, I want to say something to you — even if I am still learning to believe these words myself.

It is okay to want a life that feels true to you.

Even when it diverges from what others might expect.

It is okay to follow the quiet pull toward something you feel called to make

— even when no one seems to be waiting for it.

It matters.

If not immediately to others, then first to yourself.

And from there, who knows what might grow?

Do I fully believe this yet?

Not always.

But writing it feels like a first step.

Because self-care, I am beginning to understand, is less a decision than a muscle.

One that strengthens only through practice.

So I am staying by the sea for the next few days.

Even when the waves of doubt rise.

Even when guilt visits again.

I will stay.

And, as best I can, follow the quieter rhythm of intuition.

Not as a grand declaration.

Simply as practice.

If these words resonate with you, know that you are not alone.

Perhaps more of us are navigating this tension than we openly admit.

I would love to hear your experience — whether through LinkedIn, email, or a message.

There is comfort in discovering that what feels deeply personal is often quietly shared.

And if you recognize yourself somewhere in these lines, let this be a gentle reminder:

You are allowed to choose the life that calls you.

Even when it asks for courage.

Even when it feels unfamiliar.

Even when no one is applauding yet.

Stay.