I’m on holiday. Actually, on my honeymoon.

Halfway around the world with a round-the-world ticket in hand. Rooftop bars in Bangkok. A spritz by the pool in Tuscany. A spliff in a café in Amsterdam. And now, in the Cotswolds, laying in bed listening to morning birdsong cut through the stillness.

It’s about 3:30am and I’ve just moving through the house as every step creeks the floorboards of this old farm house as I move to my laptop charging in the kitchen.

I’ve been fortunate to travel for work before. But there’s always that point in a trip when the sleepless night hits. Guilt creeps in. The to-do list loops in your head. The weight of the brakes starts to press down. You feel momentum slipping, knowing the reality you’re trying to build is 18,000 kilometres away.

But this time feels different. It could be the fact that Tuscany and Amsterdam were exercises in hedonism as my mind and body adapts the steady diet of alcohol, caffeine, pasta and nicotine.

But fortunately it’s not.

Work continues. Meetings happen. Projects move forward. Things get finished. There’s still time to laugh, to create, to design. Space to breathe without letting go of the wheel.

I feels grounded when in the past I’ve only calculated the opportunity cost.

When you’re building something, time away usually feels like sabotage. Every day “off” registers as a day lost, every slow morning a threat to momentum. You count the emails unread, the tasks unfinished, the calls you might be missing. The ledger never balances. Rest feels like debt. This isn’t an ode to hustle culture, this is just my truth, theres never not something to do.

But right now, it doesn’t. Maybe because the systems are working. Maybe because the right people are in the right seats. Maybe because momentum isn’t a fragile flame anymore. For the first time since starting my own business I can start to see an engine that can run without me pressing the pedal every second.

Earlier today I scrolled back through my own writing, drafted in the same place I’m writing this now, inside a single Notion document that’s quietly grown into years of notes, ideas and fragments. Futures and fears.

A piece titled the Treadmill, something I openly discuss as my biggest entrepreneurial fear.

—

You’re working hard, taking action, pushing forward. But momentum hasn’t caught you yet. You’re still waiting for that shift, that moment when effort transforms into flow. Right now, it’s just hard. Every step forward takes more energy, more perseverance.

The results? Not quite there yet and thats okay.

You still believe. Mostly. But doubt creeps in. You’re too far in to turn back, yet all that lies ahead is uncertainty. You’re just craving a sign, a some small win, some reassurance that if you keep going, success is inevitable.

You might even hear the voice of your old self—whispering, tempting. Telling you that retreating to what’s familiar, what’s safe, might be easier than forging ahead into the unknown.

But you know the truth.

You had to dismantle your old life to take this journey. Going back isn’t an option, it’s an illusion. You’re not that person anymore. Trying to return to who you once were would only bring frustration, stagnation, and regret.

And so, you find yourself stuck in the tug-of-war between faith and fear.

Stopped.
Frozen.
Paralysed.

But then you remember.

You remember the other times, the ones where uncertainty turned into momentum, where effort turned into mastery. You remember the moments when trust and enthusiasm carried you past the doubt, into something greater.

And so, you take a deep breath.

A small step.

And then another.

Because at any moment, everything can change.

But only if you keep moving.

—

And if you’re a creative, or building anything, you know the danger that waits: running on the treadmill. You sweat, you push, you burn energy, but the scenery never changes. Busy without breakthrough. Effort without expansion. Procrastination sharpens into anxiety. Perfectionism wraps itself around you like chains disguised as discipline.It all looks and feels like progress, while the horizon stays fixed, taunting you with its stillness.

Stepping off the treadmill feels like breaking through a wall you didn’t know was there. Suddenly the ground moves beneath you. Each stride carries you closer to something real. The noise drops away. Work becomes sharper, lighter. Actions compound, building pressure instead of burning it. Anxiety dissolves into focus. Perfectionism gives way to execution. You stop measuring days by exhaustion, and start measuring them by what actually moved forward. That’s momentum—the point where input finally becomes output, where effort turns into visible progress.

Maybe that’s the difference. Not the place, not the miles, not even the sleepless nights. Just the shift from motion to momentum.

From running on the spot to actually moving forward.