For years now, I’ve had a habit that feels both a little indulgent and completely necessary.
When I need to think, I leave home.
Not because I don’t love working from home. I do.
But after a while, the walls begin to think the same thoughts I do.
So I take my laptop and go to the Four Seasons lobby.
I’ve been doing this for years.
Especially in the summer.
There’s something about the lobby that immediately changes my energy. The conversations humming in the background. The fresh flowers. The piano. The feeling that time stretches a little differently there.
No one rushes you.
No one wonders why you’ve been sitting at the same table for three hours with one coffee and a laptop.
I write.
I think.
I plan trips. Lots of trips.
I outline podcasts.
Lately, I’ve been dreaming up this Substack there.
It’s become one of my favorite places to work because I always leave with more ideas than I arrived with.
It’s one of the few places where, for a few hours, I don’t have to take care of anyone else.
I don’t think we talk enough about how restorative it can be to spend a few hours somewhere beautiful.
Not necessarily extravagant.
Just beautiful.
There’s a difference.
Lately, I’ve been ordering the same thing every time I go.
A Niçoise salad.
Not because it’s the most exciting thing on the menu. Surrounded by burgers, pasta, warm bread, and desserts, it’s simply one of the healthiest choices I can make.
I ordered it once.
Then twice.
And somehow it became my lunch.
The first time I ordered it, it arrived looking nothing like what I expected...
So unexpected, I wrote a Substack note on the spot to share my feelings about it:
I was sitting in the Four Seasons lobby today, working and writing. I ordered a Niçoise salad. But it didn’t look like a Niçoise salad. It was… deconstructed. Nothing was put together. Everything was separate. The tuna. The olives. The anchovies. The onions. At first, I had that quick thought, “This is a bit much, even for a place like this. Just give me a normal salad.” But then I stopped…Because…You had to choose. What goes with what? How much. In what order? One bite could be everything. The next… just anchovy and onion. And then something else entirely. And I realized I don’t do that. Not really. Most things come already decided. Combined. Finished. Done for you. And you just… go with it. This felt different. Each bite needed a decision before it became anything. And somehow that changed the whole experience.
I’ve been thinking about that salad ever since.
Which is ridiculous.
It was just lunch.
Not life-changing.
Yes, it’s probably one of the best Niçoise salads I’ve ever had.
But it wasn’t that…
Weeks later...
I was still thinking about the onions.
And I finally realized why.
That salad had more confidence in my ability to make decisions than I did.
Everything was waiting.
Patiently.
Nothing had already decided where it belonged.
The tuna wasn’t insisting on sitting next to the egg.
The anchovies weren’t already tangled up with the tomatoes.
Every ingredient waited for me to assemble the next bite.
And somewhere between the olives and the potatoes, I had the strangest thought.
This salad is my life.
Not because my life is complicated.
Because so much of it has already been assembled.
Marriage.
Children.
Work.
Family.
Friendships.
Traditions.
Holidays.
Responsibilities.
Deadlines.
School calendars.
Phone calls.
Birthdays.
Dinner.
Travel.
The washing machine.
The Amazon delivery.
Someone who can’t find their charger.
Someone who forgot they had a dentist appointment.
Someone who needs to vent.
Someone who doesn’t.
Life has a funny way of tossing everything into one enormous bowl.
And for years, I’ve become exceptionally good at eating whatever lands on my fork.
Not resentfully.
Quite happily, actually.
It’s called having a family.
It’s called building a business.
It’s called being needed.
It’s called being alive.
But sitting there that afternoon, looking at that deconstructed salad, I wondered something I don’t think I’ve ever wondered before.
What would it feel like to choose the variables for a while?
Not because I suddenly want to control life.
Quite the opposite.
I think I’m tired of reacting to it.
There’s a difference.
What would it feel like to wake up and know the shape of my own day?
To know that the things on my plate are there because I put them there?
To choose what belongs together.
To choose what doesn’t.
To decide that today is a tuna-and-tomato day.
Tomorrow, olives and potatoes.
And maybe the anchovies don’t need to come along every single time.
I don’t think I’ve been looking for freedom.
I think I’ve been looking for stewardship.
For years, I thought stewardship meant taking care of everything entrusted to me.
My children.
My home.
My work.
My marriage.
My clients.
My family.
Now I’m beginning to wonder if stewardship also means taking care of the life that has been entrusted to me.
Not perfectly.
Not selfishly.
Just intentionally.
One decision at a time.
One bite at a time.
When I left the Four Seasons that afternoon, I wasn’t thinking about the salad anymore.
I was thinking about the possibility that this next season of life might look different.
Not because the ingredients have changed.
But because, for the first time in a very long time...
I’m the one assembling the plate…
What would I put on my fork today if nobody had decided it for me first?
Everything below this line is where I stop polishing my thoughts.
This week, I’m writing about the reframes that changed my life... and why I’m starting to question whether paying someone to beat up my cellulite every week is really the path to inner peace.
Welcome to INSIDE.