What Happens When You Stop

When I said I was going on a metaphorical, metaphysical lunch, I meant it. I needed space away from plans, projects and pixels to remember who I really am beneath all the doing. So, I stopped.

And in the silence that followed, something remarkable happened.

At first, I felt restless. The mind, left without its usual busyness, starts rummaging around like a child who’s lost its favourite toy. Thoughts came thick and fast: What am I doing? Why am I wasting time? Shouldn’t I be using this silence productively?

Then something shifted.

Somewhere between the breath and the birdsong, the noise began to fade. I realised that silence isn’t empty at all, it’s full of everything we forget to notice. Stillness is not the absence of life but its essence. Beneath the chatter of thought, something ancient was waiting to be remembered.

It wasn’t dramatic. No celestial lights, no cosmic choirs. Just a subtle, unmistakable awareness of being awake not to ideas about life, but to life itself. I’d call it a reawakening, because this wasn’t the first time it had happened. But it was the first time I truly understood what it meant.

You see, I’d been trying to teach “From the Heart” as a framework for living and leading, but somewhere along the way, I’d been teaching from the head. I’d been explaining, structuring, refining — all good things — yet the living current behind the teaching had dimmed a little.

In the stillness, that current returned.

What I experienced in that one quiet day was less about finding something new and more about remembering something timeless. The work I’ve done — the books, the workshops, the coaching — they’re all expressions of one truth: that life makes sense only when lived from the heart. But I had to stop in order to feel that truth again.

Once I did, it became blindingly obvious that the “From the Heart” path isn’t just about personal growth, leadership, or coaching. At its core, it’s spiritual teaching, not in a religious sense, but in the simplest possible way: as a direct experience of presence, awareness and connection.

That’s what I need to be doing now.

It’s funny how clarity arrives only after confusion has done its work. I had to lose my way before I could see the path again. Maybe that’s how it always happens; we keep moving until the noise of our own momentum drowns out the signal, then life brings us to a halt so we can listen again.

And when you stop long enough to listen, life speaks. Not in words, but in silence.

For a few days after my reawakening, I wandered around in a slightly dazed state. Everyday things looked different, lighter somehow, as if they’d been washed clean. I found myself smiling at nothing in particular. The world hadn’t changed, but my way of seeing it had.

There was a quiet certainty in me that didn’t need explaining. I didn’t need to plan or justify anything. I just knew: this is the work. This is what I’m here to do.

Teaching the “From the Heart” path from a spiritual base feels like coming home. It’s the integration of everything I’ve written, taught, and lived so far. It’s what all the reflection, exploration and writing have been pointing to.

When I teach from this place, it isn’t about imparting knowledge. It’s about creating space; space for others to meet themselves, just as I did when I stopped. The role of the teacher, I realise now, isn’t to provide answers but to hold silence long enough for the student’s own wisdom to speak.

Stopping reminded me that silence is the teaching.

So, I’m back, grounded, peaceful and carrying a deeper sense of purpose. I can’t promise I won’t get lost again (in fact, I probably will), but this time I’ll recognise the signs sooner. I’ll remember that when life brings me to a halt, it’s not a failure of direction but a call to return to stillness.

Because when you stop, you don’t lose your way, you rediscover it.

And from there, the path unfolds by itself.