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 tomatoes, scribble poems 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; it’s about 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 noise on top of something ancient and quiet, something I can still feel deep in my bones. That urge to plant, to write, to just be—it’s 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 build. 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, sometimes a half-formed poem—but it helps. I wrote a few lines the other day about the herbs I wish I were growing, and it felt like breathing again. When my mind goes blank, like it’s been drained dry by too many emails, I pick up a book. Last week, I reread a dog-eared copy of a novel I loved as a teenager, and it was like filling a cup I didn’t know was empty. I’m not trying to produce anything for anyone else; I’m just trying to feel like myself again.

There are days when my mind races, when the pressure to keep up with everything—work, social media, life—feels like a storm I can’t outrun. That’s when I walk. I’ve got a little park near my flat, and I’ll go there, leave my phone in my pocket, 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. And 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 come back to myself.

Then there are those rare moments when my mind feels sharp, clear, like the fog has lifted. That’s when I build. Last month, I started sketching out a little garden plot I might actually plant one day. I’m not a gardener, not really, but drawing those rows of tomatoes and imagining them growing felt like creating something real. These rituals—writing, reading, walking, sleeping, building—they’re 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, Nick, and he told me he dreams of retiring to a cabin in the woods, near a stream where he can hear nothing but the wind and the water, chopping firewood without a care for titles or metrics. Another friend, Huy, said he feels the same pull—to live a life measured by the crackle of that firewood, the rhythm of water against stone, not by likes or career ladders. Hearing their dreams makes my own ache feel less lonely, like we’re all reaching for the same stillness, the same freedom to exist without proving it to anyone.

Here’s where I get a bit stubborn about it: 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 I’m falling behind. But what if falling behind is the whole point? Growing a tomato takes months—I looked it up, and it’s about 60 to 80 days from planting to harvest. A poem 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 on Saturday mornings to sit with my tea and watch the light shift. I’ve been writing more, not for anyone else, but for me—little notes, poems, dreams of that garden I might have one day. I’m walking more, sleeping when I need to, 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 tomato I grew myself, or a poem no one else ever reads, 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, to write, to 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, a good night’s sleep, and the dream of a garden I’ll tend one day, on my own terms.