The simple feeling of being is the fundamental basis of every momentary perception. What's happening right now is the only starting point there could ever be. The simple feeling of being is without border or boundary. The simple feeling of being is inescapable. It is not something that needs to be created or generated or sustained or practiced. It is what is here already.
Neuroscience and sports psychology (for example, acceptance and commitment therapy) show that anxiety, perfectionism, and fear of mistakes shrink cognitive flexibility and creativity. The more we obsess over results, the more our attention collapses into the future. This focus makes us less present with what is happening now. As mental performance coach Graham Betchart puts it: "Stress is the absence of presence."
The other morning, I was on a Zoom call with a CEO, trying to sound composed, when my four-year-old burst into the room demanding to know where her princess dress was. I glanced down at my to-do list - which never seems to get shorter - and noticed I still needed to book a trip to San Francisco. In that moment, surrounded by chaos, I thought: I write a column called The Long Game.
When we slow down enough to truly notice, everyday life reveals quiet moments of wonder. A child's gleeful laughter, the rhythm of a shared meal, or the gleam of sunlight on a playground fountain-these are the small, unfiltered joys of being alive. But in this technological age, these moments are often interrupted. We reach instinctively for our phones, eager to capture or share rather than simply feel.
It looks effortless when done well: hips swaying, bodies gliding in sync-the kind of chemistry that makes onlookers swoon. But take one class, and you'll quickly realize: Oh...this is a masterclass in feeling inadequate. First, there's the proximity issue. You're asked to step into a stranger's arms, chest to chest, and breathe normally. Easier said than done. You become hyper-aware of everything: your posture, your scent, whether your hips are doing that figure-8 thing, up-back-and-down, or more of a "confused washing machine" motion. It's like mindfulness with a side of mortification.
We sat in our living room, on the off-white tweed couch. I ran my fingers along the seam, slowly, as if trying to memorize its texture. In that quiet room, dimly lit and strangely alive, I felt the shape of time itself. It wasn't abstract. It wasn't a number on a screen or the sweep of a clock's hand. It felt real - like a second skin, like air thickening into water. I wasn't counting the hours anymore; I was living inside them.
