A Life, Well Lived

I was asked recently what a well-lived life looks like to me now, and it’s not the kind of question that invites a quick answer or a clever response. It’s one of those questions that forces you to stop and actually think, especially when you realise that whatever answer you give probably won’t stay the same forever. When I really sat with it, what surprised me most was the realisation that I’ve already lived a well-lived life. Looking back over the last fifty-two years, the places I’ve been, the people I’ve met, the experiences I’ve had and the things I’ve learned along the way, I don’t feel like I’ve missed out. But at the same time, that doesn’t mean the version of a well-lived life I’m moving towards now looks anything like the one I once imagined.

What’s changed isn’t the desire to live fully, it’s the understanding of what that actually means.

For a long time, living well felt tied to momentum and output, to progress and movement, to doing more and pushing harder. That mindset shaped a huge part of who I am, and I don’t regret it, but it’s no longer the whole picture. These days, living well feels far more connected to intention than achievement, to presence rather than accumulation, and to making choices that support the life I want rather than constantly chasing the next thing.

Lou and I know what we want, and we also know that we can’t have all of it immediately. That’s the reality of loving someone whose life includes children who need stability, routine and time, and it’s something we both understood from the beginning. There will be a point where geography changes and our lives fully merge, but this isn’t that moment yet, and that’s okay. Right now, a well-lived life looks like being present with each other even when we’re apart, and making the most of the time we do have together when we’re in the same place.

When we are together, it’s about living properly. Laughing, finding lightness where we can, and embracing the noise, chaos and energy that comes with two boys in the mix. It’s not always easy, and it’s not always calm, but it’s real, and it matters. Those moments don’t need refining or optimising, they just need showing up for.

When we’re apart, life looks different, but it isn’t on pause. That time is about building, about my work, my fitness, my ideas, and spending as much time outside as possible because that’s where I feel most grounded. Riding, running, being in the mountains, training for things that scare me just enough to remind me I’m alive. Not because I need to prove anything, but because challenge has always been part of how I stay connected to myself.

Leaving agency life gave me something I hadn’t fully realised I was missing. Space. Space to think, to breathe, to notice when something excites me rather than drains me. Space to design with care instead of urgency, and space to imagine projects that would never have fitted into my life before, not because I didn’t have ideas, but because my life and my mind were too full to hold them.

Work still matters to me deeply. Design is still who I am and always will be, but it no longer gets to dominate everything else. I work to live now, not the other way around, and that shift has changed how I feel about my days, my energy and my future. If I can work less and earn the same, that feels like success. If I can work less and earn more, even better. What matters most is that the work feels considered, satisfying and aligned with the life I’m trying to build.

Loss changed my relationship with time in ways I didn’t fully understand at first. Losing my mum, watching people I loved lose parents far too young, and seeing how quickly life can redraw itself without warning has left me with a quiet but persistent clarity. Don’t put off living. Don’t save joy for later. Tomorrow isn’t guaranteed, but that doesn’t need to be frightening, it can simply be clarifying.

I don’t feel like I’m racing against the clock, but I am more conscious of it now. Conscious enough to choose how I spend my energy and who I spend it with, conscious enough to say yes to the things that matter and no to the things that don’t, and conscious enough to understand that a well-lived life doesn’t require constant motion, just honest attention.

Writing this series has helped me see that more clearly than I expected. Opening up old memories, tracing patterns and sitting with things I’d previously moved past too quickly has created a deeper understanding of how I became who I am. Sharing it has been part of that process too, not for validation, but for connection. Knowing that these reflections have resonated with others has been a quiet reminder that none of us are as separate as we sometimes feel.

So what does a well-lived life look like to me now? It looks like balance that shifts rather than settles, presence instead of pressure, and choosing joy where I can find it while putting effort where it actually counts. It looks like building a future without rushing it, and living fully inside the present while it unfolds, knowing that this version won’t last forever either.

Not perfect. Not finished. But intentional.

And for now, that feels like enough.