We’re in this shit together. And that’s why it might actually work. 😏 Most of our systems are built on a quiet assumption: that we should have things under control. That we should be coping. That we should be fine. That struggle is a personal failure. So we perform. We optimise. We hide the cracks. And the moment something really goes wrong, people don’t ask for help — they disappear. They burn out. They break down. Sometimes they literally die alone rather than say: “I can’t do this by myself.” ...

An elderly man was taken to the emergency department. Over the course of the night, the entire right side of his body froze. So severely that doctors said his hand may need to be amputated. This didn’t happen because help wasn’t available. It happened because he didn’t ask for it. Today, people would rather suffer — even die — than ask for help. And this isn’t an individual tragedy. It’s a systemic outcome. ...

More and more, I see that the Human Growth Model is not pushing against capitalism. It’s a natural consequence of it. Mental health entered the conversation back in the 1970s. At first on an individual level — mostly through symptoms: burnout, stress, breakdowns. Later, it appeared on a social level: charities, grassroots initiatives, support projects. Important steps — but largely symptom-focused. Then something else began to emerge: awareness. First in individuals. Then in communities. And eventually in organizations. ...

Most companies are powered by the collective. Yet they optimise individuals in isolation. Performance is rarely created by one person. It emerges from interaction, timing, trust, and shared context. Yet most organisations focus on: boxed roles individual KPIs responsibility matrices optimisation in silos Instead of optimising connection. When the system doesn’t support natural collaboration, something predictable happens: People get stuck. They feel exposed. They start scheduling meetings — not out of curiosity, but out of fear. ...

Not because people would be lazy. But because there’d be nothing to run from. Most of today’s speed isn’t driven by ambition. It’s driven by internal pressure: – proving – performing – not falling behind When mental wellbeing becomes the baseline, that mode simply stops activating. If it’s good where you are, you don’t need to escape elsewhere. Travel stops being avoidance and becomes curiosity. Work stops being pressure and becomes creation. Performance stops being the goal and turns into a side effect. ...

Somehow, everything connected. I walked into a disagreement with a friend. He brought up the “witch-hunting” parallel. I didn’t react immediately. I just said that, to me, it looked like a classic pattern of enemy-making: “I’ll protect you from the enemy” — only back then, with far more brutal tools. Same mechanism as today. We paused. A shared silence. Then he explained the logic behind his view. I listened. He had to rush, so we didn’t close it — I just said: we’ll come back to this. And that felt right. ...

It doesn’t happen overnight. It starts with small frictions. With thoughts that feel familiar: “Why am I tired when, on paper, everything is fine?” “Why is it hard to ask for help, even when there is someone to ask?” “When did work turn into survival?” “Why do I constantly feel like I have to prove myself?” These are not personal failures. They are collisions. A collision between an old system of functioning and the human nervous system. ...

Lately, I’ve realised something. I’m not waiting for people to “wake up.” I’m waiting for their normal self to finally have room to breathe. I don’t believe people are inherently lazy, broken, or uninterested. I think they’re overwhelmed. Pulled apart. Disconnected from themselves. And when someone is finally given a bit of space — not pressure, not motivation, not expectations — but presence… something very different happens. The human shows up. Not aggressive. Not defensive. But curious. Connected. Alive. ...

There’s a sentence that keeps coming back to me. “I’ll handle it on my own.” For a long time, I thought this was strength. Independence. Maturity. Lately, I see it more as a learned pattern. As if somewhere early on we absorbed the idea that asking for help is awkward, leaning on others is uncomfortable, and a “proper” adult doesn’t bother people with their needs. But there’s a quiet twist in this story. ...

Today I found myself wondering why driving can’t be an experience. Not racing. Not speeding. But presence. Why do we design roads as if humans were a flaw in the system? As if joy were dangerous. As if attention could only be maintained through restriction. And yet, when a person enters flow — even while driving — they don’t fall apart. They come together. They don’t become aggressive. They become present. ...