On staying upright in a noisy world

One of the most useful ideas I learned came from a group of people I met nearly two decades ago, people who’ve remained central to my life ever since. They talked about life as a beam.

The beam sits in the centre and only ever moves forward. The aim isn’t to suppress emotion or avoid difficulty, but to walk along it without veering too far up or down. Not getting carried away when things go well, and not collapsing when they don’t. Staying upright enough to keep moving.

What struck me then, and still does now, is how practical the idea is. It isn’t moral or aspirational, and it doesn’t demand perfection. It just asks for awareness. Notice when you’ve drifted, gently return to centre, and carry on. One step, one day at a time.

Noise, space and regulation

That way of thinking has stayed with me because the world has only grown noisier. Louder in opinions, expectations, comparisons and calendars. Louder in how quickly you’re meant to react, decide and move on. Extremes are encouraged. Moderation rarely is. That feels even more pronounced now, with two young children and a growing preference for simplicity, a combination that sounds neat on paper but is anything but in practice.

I’ve learned the hard way that staying too high makes you careless, while staying too low makes everything heavier than it needs to be. Neither is especially useful. What is useful is staying regulated enough to keep moving, even when things feel messy or unresolved, and reminding myself that whatever state I’m in right now isn’t permanent.

For me, staying on the beam isn’t a philosophy so much as a practice, and most of it looks painfully ordinary. Walking into the woods when I can. Letting a podcast play instead of filling every silence. Watching the same familiar shows each week because they ground me. Five quiet minutes in the morning before the inbox starts asking questions I’m not ready to answer yet. None of this is impressive, but all of it helps keep me upright today.

I’ve also become far more protective of space. I’ve looked at other people’s calendars, packed back to back with meetings, and genuinely wondered how that could possibly work. That level of compression would drive me mad. Thought needs room. Creativity needs air. Without gaps, everything becomes reactive. You’re busy, but not necessarily moving in a direction that makes sense.

The irony is that the most useful ideas rarely arrive when you’re trying to be productive. They turn up halfway down a street, staring out of a train window, or while making a cup of tea you didn’t really need. You don’t summon them. You leave room for them.

Letting life arrive

As I’ve got older, comparison has started to loosen its grip. I used to measure myself against other people without even noticing I was doing it. Their pace, their certainty, their version of progress. These days it mostly feels irrelevant. We’re not on the same beam. We never were. And there’s a growing acceptance that I’m exactly where I need to be right now, however untidy that might look from the outside.

The harder lesson has been accepting that life arrives on its own terms. You can plan carefully, choose well, do your best, and still be surprised. Sometimes kindly, sometimes not. When things feel overwhelming, it helps to remember that this too will pass, even if it doesn’t feel like it in the moment.

Some days feel steady. Some days don’t, and both count. You deal with what’s in front of you, today, and trust that tomorrow will look slightly different again.

Staying upright, for me, isn’t about control or optimisation. It’s about noticing when I’ve drifted too far in either direction and gently returning to centre. No announcements, no drama, just a small correction and the next step.

That, these days, feels like enough.