It’s been three months since I last wrote about this journey.

Three months that felt like walking along a winding mountain path — with steep climbs, loose stones, and moments of doubt — but also with clearer skies and glimpses of calm.

I now feel I’m slowly coming out of the darkness. But I’ve also understood something essential: this isn’t a linear road. There will still be difficult days, times of fatigue, questions that come back. But I now know they don’t erase the progress made. They’re part of the climb.

What’s different today is that I’ve come closer — step by step — to my own needs, my own pace, and my own desires. And I’ve come to deeply believe that taking care of oneself is not a luxury we allow ourselves when there’s time. It’s a vital act. A necessity. A foundation.

In that spirit, I’ve started living differently.
More simply. More consciously.

I’ve gradually embraced a minimalist mindset — not in an extreme or trendy way, but in a thoughtful, intentional one. I now ask myself before buying: Do I really need this? Will it serve me long-term?
I avoid duplicating what I already have. Owning less also means maintaining less, which in turn gives more time — time for myself, time for others, time for what truly matters.

The more we accumulate, the more we risk being owned by our things, rather than the other way around.
And I’ve realized this is just as true in our digital lives — with endless notifications, accounts, and digital clutter that pull us away from presence.

But this change hasn’t made me love my work any less.
Quite the opposite.

I still deeply love my profession.
I love building, supporting, solving, sharing. I love being part of teams, guiding projects, and contributing to a vision.
But I want to do it differently now. At a human rhythm. With respect for myself — and for others.

Burnout didn’t take away my passion. But it redefined my limits. And I’m grateful for that.

Above all, I’m not the same person anymore. And I won’t be again.
And strangely enough… I’m happy about that.

This experience, as painful as it was, opened my eyes to what I no longer want — and to what truly nourishes me.
To the importance of silence, of rest, of joy without performance.
To the beauty of a walk, a shared meal, a page of a book that shifts something in us.

Speaking of books — reading has become a lifeline again.
A passion I had set aside for too long, and that I’ve joyfully reclaimed.
Some books were like flashlights in the fog. Others didn’t offer answers, but they gave space to feel, to think, to breathe.

I’ll share a few of those titles in a future post. If they helped me, maybe they’ll help someone else too.

Along this path, I haven’t walked alone. And that’s perhaps the most important part.

So many people have shown care, presence, attention — in gestures both small and large.
Some simply listened, others offered silence without judgment.
Some helped me laugh again when I thought I’d forgotten how.
To all of them — colleagues, friends, family — I want to say this, clearly and simply:
Thank you. You helped me hold on. You reminded me who I was — and who I could become.

Today, I’ve chosen to work less. And I won’t go back to the frantic pace I once thought was normal.
I’ve reduced my activities. I’ve made space to breathe.
And in doing so, something unexpected happened: the idea of retirement at 65 suddenly feels… less relevant.
Why rush now, just to maybe enjoy life later?
What if I’m not here by then? What if my body or mind can’t follow?

Of course, working less today means I’ll have less money tomorrow.
But I’m no longer afraid of that. I know what I truly need.
And I believe — no, I know — that it will be enough.

Because for the first time in a long time, I feel aligned.
With who I am, with what I value, and with how I want to live.

And that, to me, is more than enough.