Dear Reader,

There’s a quiet moment when we stop recognising ourselves. It doesn’t arrive with a bang, but like a compass losing a degree a day: at first, you don’t notice, then you’re miles off course.

It’s the Monday you accept one meeting too many, the Tuesday you skip your small morning ritual “just for today”, the Wednesday you respond to everything except yourself, the Thursday you take one more chocolate bar. In a week, the actions that defined you — the screws holding the boat together — have loosened a quarter turn.

The gradual loss of what makes us “us” isn’t an unsubstantial detail: it’s a direct assault on identity. Our sense of self is the autopilot, the short phrase that whispers at crossroads: “I’m a person who does/doesn’t do X.” It’s the filter that keeps out the noise and keeps you on track.

Lose it, and you no longer ponder and decide: you react. Instead of listening to your inner compass, you align with what seems “appropriate” to others, to the social norms, or the moment. This alignment breeds a string of micro-errors — nothing dramatic, but drip by drip they stain and corrode. Without other anchors, those repeated failures will stitch you into a new identity: “I’m the one who procrastinates”, “I’m the one who never finishes”—a tight-fitting suit you quickly get used to.

Here, the vicious cycle must be broken. It needs a shock — not a shout, but the right jolt. Think of it as a “course-defibrillator”: small, sharp, reversible. Something to halt inertia and hand you back the needle. An example? A “Reset-30”: 30 protected minutes (phone in a drawer, door ajar, mechanical timer) to restore your core ritual. Once the time’s up, you return to the world, but with your own voice audible again.

Then there are identity-phrases. Simple, actionable, verifiable. Three will do:

  • “I’m a person who opens my notebook before my email.”
  • “I’m a person who doesn’t decide in a rush: three breaths, then choose.”
  • “I’m a person who switches off notifications at 9 p.m.”

They’re not slogans; they’re gears. If a phrase stays vague, make it concrete: “at 9 p.m.” is different from “in the evening”. “Three breaths” is distinct from “calmly”. The brain loves clarity and closure, not wishes.

Without space, though, the needle won’t move. The Romans called it otium: unoccupied time that aligns you. Seneca defended it because it makes the mind capable of itself. It isn’t “doing nothing”, it’s “making space” to become legible to yourself again. Where to find it? In the walk without headphones, the quarter-hour after lunch with a blank page, the cold shower that resets the nervous system better than many apps.

Want a concrete example of reversal? Those who answer messages late into the night often think they’re “responsible”. They feed the story “I’m always available” and lose the script “I’m the one who protects my energy for tomorrow”. Seven days with the 9 p.m. switch can change the narrative: the messages are still there, but you’re back in charge — not the other way round.

Don’t wait for “the right time” to return. The right time begins when you pick up the needle and set it to North. As in a Caravaggio painting, a single well-aimed shaft of light can redraw the whole scene: the subject was already you — you just needed to switch the source back on.

Like a shock to the system

I feel good, well alright

Like a shock to the system

Say yeah, ain’t it irie

Billy Idol – Shock To The System (album: Cyberpunk)

I took notes for this post when I needed a much bigger shock to my system; the reset I was looking for was of a different order of magnitude. I was able to get the one I needed. Still, unfortunately, I did not come up with a simple repeatable process. Let’s hope that I no longer need something like that again.

Until next time, keep an eye on your compass.

P.s.: This song has an interesting backstory, I suggest that you go check it out.