I’ve been feeling this ache lately, a deep, nagging pull to step away from the world’s noise. Not to die, or even to give up, but to log off properly. I fantasise about disappearing into a life where I can grow herbs, play and write tunes, scribble poems, doodle in the margins of a notebook no one will ever read, and work a job so ordinary it doesn’t consume me. It’s not about failing but finding a kind of freedom I can’t seem to grasp amidst the constant hum of notifications and deadlines. I miss slow things, slow mornings where I can sip tea without checking my phone, slow friendships that grow over long, meandering chats, slow art that doesn’t need to be shared, slow romance that unfolds in shy glances rather than swipes. Everything in my life feels like it needs a deadline, but I’ve come to realise the best parts of being alive take time to bloom, more time than I’ve been willing to admit.

I feel like we’ve built towers of distraction, mental noise on top of something ancient and quiet, something I can still feel deep in my bones. That urge to plant, write, and just be is still there, but it’s buried under the endless scroll of my screen. I’ve found a way to cope, though, a sort of quiet ritual that helps me reclaim those slower rhythms: when my mind is loud, I write; when it’s empty, I read; when it’s racing, I walk; when it’s tired, I sleep; and when it’s sharp, I create. These small acts have become my way of pushing back against a world that demands I keep running, even when I’m desperate to slow down.

When my mind gets loud, all those thoughts crashing into each other, I grab a pen and let them spill onto the page. It’s messy; sometimes it’s just a list of worries, and sometimes it’s a half-formed tune, idea, revelation, reflection or a doodle, an exorcism of sorts, and it helps. The other day, I wrote a few lines about the herbs I wish I were growing. If only the local ruminants weren’t such constant hungry visitors to my garden, it felt like breathing again.

When my mind goes blank, after it’s been drained dry by too many emails, notifications or the desperate attention-seeking, catastrophising news cycle, I read a book or pick up an instrument to relax and play.

Last week, Anna, my very recent wife of 10 days, picked up a book at ‘Waste Not Want Not’ in Torrin, a free community recycling site under the mountain Blà Bheinn’s watchful gaze. I read the dog-eared, well thumbed copy of a now defunct magazine called ‘Perdiz’ and it was like filling a cup I didn’t know was empty, I entered a world full of humanity, joy and whimsy, a world that celebrated roller derby arse bruises, death, cannabis smoking nuns and a profound pleasure in simple existence. I’m not trying to produce anything for anyone else; I’m just trying to feel like myself again in the face of a tsunami of data and dopamine-fueled digital compulsions.

There are days when my mind races, when the pressure to keep up with everything- work, social media, and life- feels like a storm I can’t outrun. That’s when I walk. The road from Broadford to Elgol (B8083) runs past my house, it’s very hilly and demanding but commands some of the finest views on Skye, and I’ll go there, leave my phone at home and just let my feet move. I read somewhere that walking in nature can lower your stress. I think it was in some psychology journal, but I don’t need the science to tell me it works. I can feel my heartbeat slow, my thoughts settle, as I watch the leaves shift in the breeze. My perspective shifts to the world from the confines of the digitally proscribed tyrannic fiefdom of the screens.

When I’m knackered, when my mind is too tired to keep going, I let myself sleep. Not just a quick nap, but proper sleep, without the guilt of “wasting time.” I’ve learned it’s not wasting time at all, it’s how I return to myself. I’m not afraid to hit the sack at 7pm or 3pm if that’s what I need to make myself whole again.

Then there are those rare moments when my mind feels sharp, clear, like the fog has lifted. That’s when I create. Last month, I started sketching a little herb garden I might plant someday. I’m not a great gardener, but drawing those beds of herbs and imagining them growing felt like creating something real. These rituals are writing, playing music, taking photos, drawing, reading, walking, sleeping, and building, not just habits. They’re my way of holding onto the slow, quiet things I crave, even when the world around me won’t stop shouting.

I’m not alone in this longing, and that’s been a comfort. I shared my thoughts with a mate, our postman, Declan, and he told me he dreams of retiring to a cabin in the woods, near a stream where he can grow vegetables and hear nothing but the wind and the water, chopping firewood without a care for status or metrics. Another friend, Chill, said he feels the same pull to live a life measured by the crackle of that firewood, the rhythm of water against stone, and his drumming in his own space, motivated by joy in the moment, not by likes or career ladders. Hearing their dreams makes my ache feel less lonely, like we’re all reaching for the same stillness and freedom to exist without proving it to anyone.

Here’s where I get a bit stubborn: I think we need to stop letting the world dictate our pace. I’m tired of feeling like I have to sprint through life, like pausing means falling behind. But what if falling behind is the whole point? Growing a herbs takes months, I looked it up, and it’s about 30 to 80 days from planting to harvest. A tune can take years to get right; I’ve got one I’ve been tinkering with since 2023, and it’s still not finished. Friendships, the real ones, need long, lazy afternoons, not just quick texts between meetings. The world tells me this slowness is inefficient, but I’m starting to think it’s the only way to live deeply.

I’m trying to reclaim those slow things, bit by bit. I’ve started leaving my phone in another room most mornings to sit with my tea and watch the light shift. I’ve been writing more, not for anyone else, but for me, essays mostly, but also little notes, tunes, riffs, poems, and dreams of that garden without invasive ruminants I might have one day. I’m walking more, sleeping when needed, and building small things that make me feel alive. It’s not a grand escape yet, but it’s a start. I keep thinking about what success could look like if I measured it differently, if a single herb plant I grew myself, or a tune no one ever heard, was enough.

This ache for slowness isn’t about giving up on life; it’s about remembering what makes me feel human. It’s about listening to that quiet urge to plant, play, write, and be, even when the noise tries to drown it out. I’m not alone in this, and neither are you. Maybe we can all find our own small rebellions, our own ways to slow down, to live deeply, to make space for the things that take time to bloom. For me, that starts with a notebook, a walk, an instrument, a good night’s sleep, and the dream of a garden I’ll tend one day, all on my own terms.