THE JOURNAL  •  DISTILLATION II

"Unpacing" Is a Luxury. 

Creating Space for Yourself is a Gift.
[AUGUST 2026]
A reflection from the Atlantic coast of Ireland.

Iknow, I know. The word unpacing doesn't exist. And yet, it is the exact word that came to mind every time I found myself accompanying partners who felt frustrated by the feverish rhythm of their lives.

For years, I have had the privilege of working with brilliant leaders, entrepreneurs and professionals, and I have witnessed their extraordinary transformations unfold before my eyes. This remains one of the greatest honours of my work.

Yet over the past couple of years I began noticing something that had little to do with the quality of our conversations and everything to do with the architecture of modern life.

Again and again, my partners found themselves trying to carve out their time for our journey together within days overflowing with responsibilities. They would rearrange friendly meetings, shorten lunch breaks, or sacrifice a gym session simply to show up on Zoom and honour the commitment they had made to themselves.

I have always seen these gestures as acts of profound self-respect: they were saying, in the quietest possible way, I matter too. And yet, while our conversations were taking place, the rural corner of Ireland I call home would teach me an entirely different relationship with time.

Nature here never hurries.
The Atlantic does not rush towards the cliffs, even in its fiercest storms it never mistakes strength for haste. And the cliffs do not resist the sea... together, they shape one another with a patience that almost feels impossible to grasp until you have stood there yourself.

Ireland is not a country to be consumed. It reveals itself step by step, breath by breath, gaze by gaze. The same landscape transforms from dawn to dusk, under rain, mist or sunlight, inviting you to realise that beauty is not something to rush through but to remain with.

Little by little, I realised that this island was gently reshaping my own way of accompanying people. 

I began wondering whether transformation, too, deserved more spaciousness, not because coaching sessions were lacking depth, but because life itself often need more space to land. A place where thoughts could ripen instead of being summoned on demand, where silence does not feel awkward because nobody is waiting for the next answer. 

A place where a question could accompany someone throughout the day, perhaps during a walk, over a quiet cup of tea with a friend, or while listening to the wind against the windows, before asking to be answered.

That reflection eventually led me back to something I have loved for much of my life.

Letters.

Long before I became a coach, I spent years immersed in words as an editor and translator. Looking back, I realise that I have always trusted writing to reveal what conversation sometimes hides.

Writing slows us down. It allows us to witness ourselves while we are thinking, not only after we have reached a conclusion.

That is why I gradually began accompanying a couple of my partners through Guided Correspondence, not as a substitute for presence, but as another form of it for those it suits.

There is something deeply beautiful about receiving and writing a letter, living with it for a while, allowing it to echo through ordinary moments, and then responding only when the thoughts (and words) feel ready. Unexpectedly, I have found that this way of working can create an even stronger intimacy.

In many ways, Guided Correspondence resembles the Atlantic itself: never hurried, faithfully present.

Maybe we cannot always choose a slower life. 
But we can choose, every now and then, to become slower than the life around us, leaving a little space between a question and its answer, an experience and the meaning we give it. 

Between who we have been and who we are slowly coming back to.





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