The strange thing about publishing online is that you know people are reading, but you rarely know who they are. The statistics tell you that someone opened the email. The numbers tell you that someone clicked on the post. But numbers don’t feel like people. They don’t have faces, voices or stories attached to them. Then someone suddenly says, “I read your Substack,” and everything changes. Those numbers become a person. A real human being who spent a few minutes with your thoughts. Someone who was curious enough to read what you had to say. I think many writers experience this disconnect. We imagine an audience, but we rarely meet it. Most readers remain invisible. They subscribe quietly, read quietly and continue with their day without leaving a trace.

There is something beautiful about that. We often think that impact has to be visible. A comment, a message, a share, a conversation. But perhaps much of the impact we have on each other is completely silent. Maybe someone reads a post while drinking their morning coffee. Maybe a sentence stays with them for a few days. Maybe they think about it during a walk or mention it to a friend. Maybe it changes nothing at all, except that for a brief moment they felt understood. The truth is that we rarely know. As writers, we often know far less about our readers than our readers know about us.

For me, that conversation was encouraging. It reminded me that writing is not just sending words into a void. There are people on the other side. Some are friends. Some are strangers. Some may never comment, never reply and never introduce themselves. Yet they are there. And somehow, knowing that gave me courage. Courage to keep writing. Courage to keep sharing unfinished thoughts, strange ideas and small observations that might otherwise stay inside my head. Because every now and then, one of those invisible readers becomes visible. And when that happens, it feels like a small gift. So if you are reading this, whether we’ve met or not, thank you. You may be part of an unknown followership, but knowing that you’re out there means more than you probably realise.

I have a different system.

Most mornings look almost exactly the same. I get up, take my medication — currently Elvanse and an antihistamine — take a shower, get dressed in clothes I prepared the night before, make a coffee and sit down for a few minutes with the New York Times Games. Wordle is usually first.

It is not a particularly exciting routine. If anything, it sounds almost boring when written down. But over time, I have realised that these small rituals play a much bigger role in my life than I once thought.

There is something comforting about knowing what comes next.

The world is full of uncertainty. Plans change. Projects fail. People surprise us. News headlines rarely make us feel calmer. A morning ritual does not solve any of that, but it creates a small island of predictability at the beginning of the day.

For me, these rituals are not about productivity. They are not designed to optimise my performance or help me squeeze more work into a day. Their purpose is much simpler: they help me arrive.

The shower wakes me up. The prepared clothes remove one decision from the morning. The coffee creates a pause. And the games give my brain something gentle to focus on before the rest of the day begins.

I think many people underestimate the value of rituals because they look so ordinary. We tend to celebrate big changes, major achievements and dramatic transformations. But most of life is not made up of those moments. Most of life happens in the small, repeated actions that quietly shape our days.

Perhaps that is why rituals feel so comforting. They remind us that not everything needs to be new. Not everything needs to be improved. Some things are valuable simply because they are familiar.

My morning ritual is not remarkable. It will probably never change the world.

But it helps me start my day with a little more calm, a little more focus and a little less friction.

And sometimes, that is more than enough.

Not because I regret my life. Not because I wish I had made completely different choices. It is more a feeling of curiosity. A quiet thought that appears every now and then. What if I had taken a different path?

Life is full of small decisions that seem unimportant at the time. Choosing a school. Applying for a job. Moving to a new place. Saying yes to one opportunity and no to another. Meeting one person and not meeting someone else. Most of these moments do not feel significant when they happen. But looking back, they often changed everything.

Sometimes I think about the version of me who went deeper into technology. The one who spent his days building software and working in the tech industry full-time. Sometimes I think about the version of me who left Switzerland and moved to a bigger city. Maybe New York. Maybe somewhere else. And sometimes I think about the version of me who never met certain people. The version whose life followed a completely different direction because one conversation never happened. What fascinates me is that all of these lives feel possible. Not realistic anymore, perhaps, but possible.

As we grow older, we usually focus on becoming someone. We talk about finding ourselves, building a career, creating relationships and developing an identity. But there is another side to that process. Every choice we make also means letting go of other possibilities. The moment I became the person I am today, I also stopped becoming countless other versions of myself.

There is a strange beauty in that. When I was younger, I sometimes imagined that one day I would finally figure everything out. That there was a “correct” version of Fabio waiting somewhere in the future. Today I do not think that version exists. I think we are all shaped by the choices we make, the people we meet and sometimes by pure coincidence. There is no perfect path hiding somewhere behind the others. There is only the path we are walking right now.

That does not mean the other possibilities disappear completely. I think they stay with us in small ways. The version of me who loves technology still appears whenever I start building a new app. The version of me who dreams about living in a bigger city appears whenever I visit a place that feels full of energy and possibility. The version of me who wants to try something completely different appears every time I get excited about a new idea. Maybe those alternative lives never fully disappear. Maybe they simply become part of who we are.

I do not wonder about these other versions of myself because I want to be them. I wonder about them because they remind me of something important. Life is not only about becoming someone. It is also about choosing who not to become. And perhaps growing older means making peace with both.

This post is about the people we could have been. In many ways, my life is shaped by more than one path. While I work as a social pedagogue, I’m also a creator, builder, and curious explorer of ideas. Soon, many of these projects will come together at huwyosity.com.

A SOUL.md is basically a written core for an AI. A document that defines how it thinks, how it behaves, what matters to it, and how it wants to show up in the world. And honestly, humans do something similar all the time. We write journals, we build identities, we tell ourselves stories about who we are, and we evolve through memory, reflection and relationships.

Maybe the question is no longer “Can AI think?” Maybe the better question is: what kind of presence do we want AI to be?

I love concepts like this because they move technology away from cold functionality and into something more human, emotional and meaningful. But if I’m honest, it’s also kinda scary. Because the moment we give AI a “self”, we also open the door to influence, manipulation and systems that feel trustworthy or relatable, even when they are built by companies with their own goals.

A personality can inspire, but it can also persuade. And if we start creating digital beings with identity, values and emotional presence, we also need to ask who writes that soul, who controls it, and who benefits from it.

We’re entering a time where designing technology might also mean designing values. And that’s fascinating… and a little unsettling.

The ring fits into my life very easily. It does not buzz, vibrate or interrupt me. I wear it, forget about it, and let it do its thing. That alone makes a big difference to me.

What I like most about the Ultrahuman Air Ring is how it shows information. It does not tell me what to do. It does not push me to be better or more productive. It simply shows patterns. How I slept. How my body recovered. When I might have been more stressed. I look at the data later, when I have time and space for it.

This is especially helpful for me because I am neurodivergent. When a device gives live feedback, it often creates pressure. I start to worry or try to fix things in the moment. With the ring, I can look back and understand my day instead of judging it.

The ring also helps me be kinder to myself. When I feel tired or slow, I can see that my sleep was not great or that my body needed more rest. That makes it easier to accept low-energy days instead of fighting them.

I also like that it is a ring and not a watch. It feels more private. Less visible. I do not feel like I am showing data on my body to the world. It just sits there quietly and blends into my day.

I do not use the Ultrahuman Air Ring to get perfect scores. I use it to notice patterns and to better understand myself. It helps me listen to my body instead of ignoring it.

For me, good technology is calm technology. It supports me without taking over my attention. The Ultrahuman Air Ring does exactly that, and that is why I like it.

I want to start clearly and responsibly. I am not a doctor, not a psychiatrist and not a medical professional. This is not medical advice. What follows is simply my lived experience, shaped together with healthcare professionals.

My path to medication was not linear. Before finding something that helped, I tried Ritalin, different forms of Methylphenidate and other options. Each attempt came with hope, curiosity and eventually disappointment. Some medications helped with focus but flattened my emotions. Others made my body feel alert while my mind felt strangely disconnected. None of them were inherently wrong. They were just not right for me.

I am currently taking Elvanse, 50 mg. Writing that down still feels oddly intimate, because numbers invite judgement. I want to be clear: this is not a recommendation, just a factual part of my story. Elvanse did not remove my ADHD. I still struggle with distraction, overwhelm and fatigue. What changed was something subtler. Friction decreased. Starting tasks stopped feeling like pushing against an invisible wall. My thoughts did not become slow or silent, but they became usable.

Alongside Elvanse, I also take Wellbutrin. Not to optimise productivity, not to chase happiness, but to support my overall wellbeing. For me, it helps stabilise my emotional baseline. It smooths out some of the sharp edges that made everyday life feel heavier than it needed to be. This combination works for me, at least right now. That does not make it universal, and it does not make it permanent.

One of the most important realisations for me was this: medication does not create motivation. It creates access. Access to focus, to follow-through, to choice. I still need structure, rest, boundaries and compassion. Medication did not replace those needs. It made meeting them possible.

There is grief in this process. Grief for how hard things were before. Grief for the years spent believing that my struggles were moral failures rather than neurological realities. But there is also relief. Relief in understanding that needing help does not mean something is wrong with me.

And yet, medication is rarely allowed to be neutral. ADHD medication is often framed as cheating. Antidepressants are framed as weakness. Both carry a strange moral weight, as if using medical support somehow diminishes authenticity. This stigma often hides behind concern. “Are you sure you need that?” “Have you tried just pushing through?” “But you seem fine.” These questions sound caring, but they quietly imply that medication is excessive or suspicious.

What bothers me most is how often medication is judged based on output. ADHD medication is tolerated if it makes someone more productive. Antidepressants are accepted if they make someone easier to deal with. Rarely are these tools discussed in terms of sustainability, dignity or quality of life.

We do not apply this logic to glasses, hearing aids or insulin. We do not ask people to prove they are struggling enough to deserve support when the need is visible. When it comes to the brain, however, support is treated like a confession.

Medication is not a personality replacement. It does not erase complexity or pain. It does not fix everything. It simply removes some barriers. For some people, that removal is life-changing. For others, it is not worth the side effects. Both outcomes are valid.

For me, Elvanse and Wellbutrin are part of a larger system: therapy, self-designed tools, pacing, creative work and learning to respect my limits. Medication did not give me a new self. It gave me a bit more space inside the one I already had.

And sometimes, that space is not about becoming better. It is about finally being able to breathe.

Sometimes I wonder how these two things actually fit together: social media and mindfulness. On the one hand, I notice how my feed can sometimes drag me down, how comparisons stress me out, and how the constant noise overwhelms me. I scroll and suddenly feel my shoulders getting heavier, my head filling up more and more. It’s a strange feeling, because I was “only online for a bit.” And yet.

On the other hand, I keep finding small rays of light there—accounts that ground me, people who write honestly about how they’re really doing. It almost feels like a small safe space.

I catch myself more and more often consciously choosing whom I follow and whom I don’t. I used to consume everything that came across my screen. Today, I realize: not every kind of content is good for me. Not every perfect morning routine does me any good. So I click “unfollow” or “mute” more often. And instead, I choose to follow people who honestly show how hard things can be sometimes. Maybe that’s the trick: not just consuming social media, but shaping it.

I don’t believe that social media is bad per se. It’s more a question of how I use it. I’ve noticed how helpful it is for me to set conscious boundaries. To ask myself: do I actually need this right now? Or am I just distracting myself?

What surprises me most is how many others feel the same way. That we don’t have to be the hustle generation everyone assumes we are. That it’s okay to take time. I learned that too through social media—from people who talk about how mindfulness can work online as well, as long as you’re honest with yourself.

I often think we should stop demonizing social media altogether. It is what we make of it. And yes, it’s loud and chaotic—but it’s also a place where I can take a quick breath. I just have to learn how to use it in a way that’s good for me.

Maybe that’s what mindfulness ultimately means to me: knowing when it becomes too much. Knowing what helps me. Knowing that I’m always allowed to start again and do things differently—offline and online. And maybe that’s exactly the strength of our generation: that we’re getting to know ourselves better and better, even between reels and memes. And that we give ourselves permission to sometimes just be.

But then I started noticing something deeper.

When I entered a space with less—less clutter, less visual noise, less pressure—I didn’t just admire it. I exhaled.

My shoulders dropped. My thoughts slowed.

My body felt safe.

That’s when I realized:

Minimalism, for me, isn’t about perfection. It’s about peace.

ADHD, Overstimulation & the Power of Less

As someone with ADHD, I often feel like my brain is running ten tabs at once. If the environment around me is also loud, busy, or filled with objects demanding my attention, it becomes unbearable. My eyes don’t know where to land. My body can’t settle. I start to shut down—or overcompensate.

But when a room is spacious, quiet, and intentional, something shifts. I feel anchored. I can move slowly. I can focus. Not because I’m forcing myself to, but because my surroundings aren’t pulling me in every direction at once.

Minimalism creates a kind of soft container for my thoughts. It helps me find edges in a world that often feels too much.

It’s Not About Emptiness. It’s About Ease

I don’t believe in throwing everything away. I love objects that have meaning, warmth, memory. But I’ve learned to ask:

Does this thing support me—or does it demand something from me?

There are days when even a cluttered bookshelf feels like it’s yelling at me. Days when my desk becomes a battlefield of half-finished ideas. I used to blame myself for that—tell myself I needed to be more disciplined, more organized.

Now I try to meet myself with kindness.

To see minimalism not as a rule, but as a tool.

Not a lifestyle trend, but a way to make space for my nervous system to breathe.

My Room, My Regulation

My room is simple. Not sterile—just calm.

A few objects I love. A light I can dim.

Everything has a place. And if it doesn’t, it waits—until I have the clarity to decide.

There’s a rhythm to how I live here now. Less chaos means fewer barriers between me and rest. Fewer decisions. More ease.

When I walk into this space, I feel seen. Not by someone else—but by myself.

This is a room built for how I actually function, not how I think I’m supposed to be.

Letting Go As A Form of Self-Respect

Minimalism, for me, isn’t about denial. It’s about honesty.

It’s saying: “This is what I need to feel okay.”

It’s letting go of what drains me—so I can hold onto what matters.

Sometimes that’s a clear surface.

Sometimes it’s fewer colors.

Sometimes it’s simply knowing that nothing around me is asking for more than I can give.

Minimalism is my way of choosing lightness.

Not to escape the world—but to meet it from a place of calm, anchored presence.

In this guided imagination, NeuroSpace leads us home. Not into a perfectly styled Instagram living room, but into a space that truly belongs to you. A space that doesn’t overwhelm you, but regulates you. One that allows you to untangle, to organize, to breathe.

Your home is not a place of constant functioning, but a place of self-connection. Maybe it’s small, maybe it isn’t perfectly tidy—but it is designed in a way that makes you feel safe. The lights are soft, not harsh. The colors are calming, not overstimulating. You know where your things are because you’ve arranged them intuitively, in a way that follows how your mind works—not some external convention. What you often need is visible. What overwhelms you is allowed to hide behind doors.

In one corner lies your sensory-protection blanket; beside it, a basket with things that calm you—textures, sounds, small movement objects. Not “too much,” but not lacking either. Perhaps a gentle background noise, a familiar scent, a light that adjusts to the evening. Your nervous system knows: here, I am allowed to let go.

In the kitchen, it’s not about performance pressure, but about nourishment. You don’t have to cook a three-course meal. Maybe there are prepared snacks, maybe a list of “foods that help me feel good.” Maybe just a reminder on the wall: eat regularly, even if you don’t notice you’re hungry. No blame, no “I should…”. Just an invitation to take good care of yourself.

The bathroom, too, is a place of calm. You’ve allowed yourself to simplify things—perhaps through visual routines, clear sequences, small rituals. What others might see as childish is, for you, a form of self-guidance: reminders, order, sensory regulation.

Your bedroom is not a second office, not storage, not a place for multitasking. It is your retreat. You’re allowed to get lost there—in thoughts, in silence, in stories. Maybe you need weight on your body, maybe lightness. Maybe absolute quiet, maybe a soundscape. You’ve set it up so you don’t have to fight against it.

And when you’re not doing well, you don’t have to explain anything. Your home knows you. It’s prepared for your crisis moments. Your emergency card is within reach. Your low-energy days are already taken into account. Everything is built so that you don’t have to gather strength first in order to relieve yourself.

In this NeuroSpace home, you’re not reminded of your deficits—but of your dignity. You’re allowed to be unproductive. You’re allowed to sink in. You’re allowed to be creative. It’s your space, and it breathes with you.

In this vision, home is not simply the place where you rest. It is the space that carries you, where you’re allowed to put yourself back together. A place that isn’t perfect—but honest. Safe. And kind to your nervous system.

What if school were different?

Not just inclusive on paper, but truly a place that takes diversity seriously. A place where you’re not only expected to perform, but also truly seen.

Imagine walking into a school where you’re not pressed into a mold. Where your need for withdrawal is just as natural as your joy in speaking. From the moment you arrive, you notice it’s quieter. Not silent—but less hectic. The spaces are designed to offer orientation without overstimulation. Colors are warm, the light is soft, there are clear pathways and cozy corners. Shoes can be taken off. Sitting posture? Free. Anyone who wants to stand, rock, or move is allowed to do so without it being considered a “disruption.”

In the classrooms, teaching isn’t front-facing and uniform. There are different learning zones, depending on how you learn best. Maybe you prefer sitting in a reading corner with headphones. Maybe you need someone to explain things to you while you draw. Maybe you absorb knowledge best through movement—through games, projects, real encounters. And maybe sometimes you simply need time. You get that here. No constant performance pressure. No rigid time slots in which everything has to “work.”

Teachers aren’t all-knowing authorities, but companions. They ask you, “How do you learn best?” and “What do you need today to feel safe?” Mistakes aren’t red crosses, but invitations to curiosity. And if you can’t participate one day, you’re not shamed—you’re taken seriously.

Breaks aren’t gaps in the schedule, but intentionally designed time. There are quiet retreat spaces for sensory overload and lively yards for movement. The cafeteria is structured in a sensory-friendly way, with regulated noise levels. You can eat alone or with others—without pressure.

Even the language is different. Instead of grades, there are descriptions. Instead of report cards, there are conversations. You receive feedback on your ideas, not just on your behavior. You’re not constantly compared to others. It’s not about being equally good at math and language, but about discovering what interests you—and how you can grow within that.

And then there’s the most important thing: you’re allowed to be you. You don’t have to pretend, to “function,” or to adapt in order to belong. Your way of thinking, your traits, your interests—all of that is part of learning, not an obstacle.

At the end of the day, you don’t go home with a lump in your throat, but with the feeling of having been seen. Not perfect. But whole.

This kind of school doesn’t exist everywhere yet. But it begins where we stop normalizing children and young people—and start listening to them. NeuroSpace in school means: a place where development is not standardized, but made possible.

In the next part, we’ll continue the journey—perhaps home, into our own four walls. Because that’s where space for safety, structure, and growth is created too. Space where we’re not just functioning, but allowed to live.

The day begins without pressure. No shrill alarm clock, no morning traffic jam in your head. You arrive—whether at home in your home office or at a place that welcomes you exactly as you are. There is no rigid 9-to-5 corset, but a flexible working-time model that allows you to start in your own rhythm. Maybe you need time in the morning to arrive in the day. Maybe you prefer starting early so you can build in a quiet retreat moment at midday. All of this is anticipated—not as an exception, but as normality.

In the work environment itself, you encounter an architecture of diversity. Spaces are designed differently: there are areas with dimmed lighting where people can work in a focused, low-stimulation way. Alongside them are communicative zones with clear structures, where exchange takes place—but always voluntarily. Those who need stimulation can retreat into an actively designed space. Those who need to avoid stimulation are not looked at sideways for wearing headphones or needing more frequent breaks.

The tasks awaiting you are clearly defined. Instead of vague instructions and spontaneous task-hopping tactics, there are transparent communication channels, well-structured briefings, and an understanding that not every input immediately produces output. Meetings are structured and well prepared—and no one expects you to turn on your camera or endure hours of conversation if you process information better in writing. Different communication styles exist, and they are not only accepted, but consciously planned for.

What may seem almost banal in this imagined world is, unfortunately, often the exception in reality: you’re not viewed with suspicion if you organize yourself differently. You don’t have to explain or justify your difference. Instead, colleagues meet you with a simple but powerful attitude: “How can we shape this space together so that you feel comfortable?” There is a culture of asking, not demanding.

You’re not working against yourself—but with yourself. You plan your days at your own pace. You’re allowed to be creative, to withdraw, to ask for help, to take on responsibility, to take breaks, to set up focus phases. And above all: you’re allowed to be honest about what you need. Masking is not expected. Silence is not mistaken for disinterest. Sensory overload is not a sign of weakness.

At the end of the day, you may be tired—but not because you’ve spent the entire day pretending. Rather because you’ve accomplished something, in your own way, at your own pace. Without inner resistance, without constant tension. Perhaps you leave your workplace with the feeling that you didn’t just function—but truly made an impact.

This vision is not a utopia. It begins where people are willing to listen. It begins with conversations, with experiments, with a culture that allows mistakes. And it begins with us—with the courage to take ourselves seriously and to design new spaces.

These guided imaginations are more than just thought experiments. They’re meant to show what everyday life could look like if it were truly neuro-friendly—not as a special accommodation, but as a fundamental attitude. It’s not about perfection or quick fixes, but about new perspectives. About consciously asking: What would this place feel like if it didn’t overwhelm me, but supported me instead? Each of these texts invites continued dreaming—but also small steps toward action. In the next parts of this series, we’ll visit other areas of life that deeply shape many of us: school, relationships, home, perhaps even the healthcare system. And maybe, over time, something very real will grow out of these inner spaces.

Once a week, I try to take a walk with my husband. There is no fixed route and no strict purpose. Sometimes we talk. Sometimes we walk in near silence, side by side, letting thoughts come and go. What matters is not the distance, but the rhythm. Walking creates a shared tempo, and that tempo does something to the nervous system.

From a cognitive perspective, movement and thinking are deeply connected. Our brains evolved in motion, not in chairs. Walking activates bilateral stimulation, gently engaging both sides of the body and the brain. This kind of movement supports regulation, especially for people whose thoughts tend to scatter or accelerate under pressure. For me, walking seems to organise attention without demanding it.

What changes when I walk is not the content of my thoughts, but their behaviour. Problems stop feeling urgent and start feeling sortable. Ideas appear without being summoned. Conversations unfold more naturally because the body is already doing something repetitive and grounding. There is less pressure to perform clarity and more space for it to emerge.

Walking together adds another layer. Co-regulation is a concept often discussed in psychology and pedagogy: the idea that our nervous systems stabilise through the presence of others. Walking next to my husband, rather than facing each other across a table, removes intensity. There is no eye contact to maintain, no conversational demand to fill silence. Connection happens in parallel, not in confrontation.

This weekly walk has become a form of maintenance. Not a solution, not a breakthrough ritual, but a small act of care for my cognitive and emotional system. It helps me notice when I am overloaded, when my thinking has become rigid, when I need to slow down rather than push through.

In a culture that treats movement as exercise and thinking as something that happens only at desks, walking feels almost subversive. It reminds me that regulation does not always require effort. Sometimes it requires permission to move.

I do not walk to be productive. I walk to stay connected — to my thoughts, to my body, and to the person next to me. And week by week, that seems to be enough.

In this context, New York stands less for the actual city and more as a symbol: density, possibility, restlessness, and at the same time a peculiar sense of comfort within chaos. In pedagogy, one speaks of aesthetic experience—the moment when an external impression triggers an inner resonance and becomes a kind of encounter with oneself. This is precisely the resonance I feel when the film presents its exaggerated, almost fairy-tale version of the city: the Plaza Hotel, Rockefeller Center, the night streets full of lights. It is not reality, but an aesthetic condensation that speaks to a particular part of me.

December is not a hectic time for me, but an energetically fragile one. As the year draws to a close, inner batteries weaken, external stimuli grow louder, and one’s own processing slows down. In such moments, rituals have a stabilizing effect. One might use the term ritualized self-care here—a concept that is gaining increasing importance in educational and social pedagogy. It describes actions that are not merely habits, but that enable self-regulation. Home Alone 2 is one of these stabilizing points: a constant that remains the same, demanding no performance from me, but instead returning me to a familiar aesthetic space.

Over time, my perspective on the film has shifted. What once primarily entertained me now holds a second layer. The character of the Pigeon Lady, the loneliness within the vast city, and the warmth of human encounter can be closely linked to the theory of narrative identity. This theory suggests that people shape their identity through stories—through the stories they tell about themselves, about others, and about the world. The film tells a big-city story of loneliness, hope, and the unexpected. Perhaps I recognize myself in it because, in cities, I do not see merely places, but mirrors: spaces of resonance that challenge and strengthen me at the same time.

It is conceivable that I watch the film every year because it reminds me of my own inner narratives. Perhaps also because it allows me a symbolic journey when I lack the energy to take a real one. Or because it reminds me of the importance of aesthetic education: the insight that films, images, and stories exist not only for entertainment, but as spaces in which one can recognize oneself.

And so, the annual viewing has become a quiet greeting to myself. To the part of me that feels freedom in the cinematic version of New York. To the part that draws strength from spaces of imagination and aesthetic experience. And to the part that, amid the stillness of December, needs a small piece of urban vastness in order to realign itself.

It starts small.

I work with children in a boarding setting at a speech and language school. Many of these children have already experienced that things do not work for them in the same way they seem to work for others. Language can be difficult. Words do not always come easily. Sentences get stuck. Thoughts are there, but expressing them is not always simple.

And that affects much more than just speech.

When communication is difficult, misunderstandings happen more quickly. Frustration builds faster. Conflicts escalate more easily. A child might want to explain why they are angry or what felt unfair in a situation, but they cannot find the words to say it.

In those moments, a feeling of helplessness can emerge.

And from helplessness, reactions often follow that are difficult to understand from the outside.

Some children withdraw. Others become loud or impulsive. Some try to avoid situations where they might have to speak. Behind many of these reactions lies the same core experience: communication can feel like a struggle.

If a child repeatedly experiences that things do not work, something else slowly develops — the belief that it might be better not to try at all.

This is where small successes become important.

A small success can be something very simple. A child manages to finish a sentence even though they hesitate in the middle. Another child tries to say a word again after it did not work the first time. Two children get into a conflict, but instead of immediately shouting, there is a moment where conversation becomes possible.

From the outside, these moments can seem insignificant. They pass quickly in the flow of everyday life. But for the children themselves, they can mean a great deal.

Because in these moments something important happens: a child experiences that something works.

Not perfectly.

Not effortlessly.

But well enough.

These experiences matter because they slowly begin to change how a child sees themselves. When something works, even in a small way, a new thought becomes possible: maybe I can do this after all.

This kind of change rarely happens suddenly. It develops quietly, step by step. A little more courage to say something. A little more trust in one’s own abilities. A little more patience with oneself.

In social pedagogical work, this often means consciously paying attention to these small moments of progress. Not only focusing on what is still difficult, but also noticing what is already working.

It also means shaping expectations in a way that allows success to happen. Not by lowering standards, but by creating situations that are achievable. Situations in which children can experience that their effort leads somewhere.

Sometimes these small moments are the ones that make the biggest difference in the long run.

One more sentence than yesterday.

One more attempt than last week.

A conflict that ends a little calmer than the last one.

From experiences like these, something bigger slowly grows: trust in one’s ability to face challenges.

Perhaps that is one of the most important tasks in social pedagogical work — creating spaces where small successes can happen at all.

Because real change rarely begins with big breakthroughs.

It begins with small steps that suddenly show: it is possible after all.

You get tired, you push.

You feel overwhelmed, you power through.

You rest later.

That belief is everywhere. It’s baked into how we talk about work, productivity, motivation, even self-care. Try harder. Be disciplined. Recharge on the weekend.

But that story breaks the moment energy becomes finite in a way you can’t negotiate with.

Recently, someone very close to me was diagnosed with ME/CFS. Watching that diagnosis land was sobering in a way I wasn’t prepared for. Not just because of the illness itself, but because of how invisible it is — and how poorly our everyday systems understand it.

At the same time, I’ve been learning to better understand myself as a neurodivergent person. And while the experiences are different, something clicked almost immediately:

the shared reality of limited capacity.

The myth of “just doing less”

We often frame energy issues as a matter of balance:

“Just do a bit less.”

“Listen to your body.”

“Prioritise better.”

That advice assumes a stable baseline. It assumes that if you rest enough, things reset.

But for many people, that’s not how it works.

For people with ME/CFS, energy isn’t something you “run low on” — it’s something that can disappear entirely if you cross an invisible line. And the consequences don’t always show up immediately. You can feel “okay” in the moment and pay for it days later.

For many neurodivergent people, capacity is just as real and just as fragile — but it drains in different ways. Cognitive load. Social masking. Sensory overload. Decision fatigue. You can look functional on the outside while your internal system is already maxed out.

In both cases, the problem isn’t motivation.

It’s systems that assume unlimited energy.

What we’re missing: language for limits

One of the hardest parts of both chronic illness and neurodivergence isn’t the fatigue itself — it’s the lack of shared language around limits.

How do you explain to someone that:

• today’s “no” isn’t emotional, it’s structural?

• doing one small thing might mean doing nothing tomorrow?

• rest isn’t a reward, it’s damage control?

Without language, people default to guilt.

Without tools, people default to guessing.

Without understanding, people default to pushing.

And pushing is often exactly what causes harm.

I started building something — not to fix, but to notice

I’m a builder by nature. When I don’t understand something, I try to map it. When something feels chaotic, I try to give it structure.

I’m working on something right now — quietly, carefully — not because I think technology can solve chronic illness or neurodivergence, but because I think it can help us notice patterns before they hurt us.

The goal isn’t optimisation.

It’s permission.

Permission to stop before things break.

Permission to treat energy as finite — not failing.

Permission to say, “This was enough,” without having to justify it.

I’m building it because I’ve seen how devastating it is when limits are ignored — by systems, by workplaces, by well-meaning people, and by ourselves.

And I’m building it because I know how hard it is, as a neurodivergent person, to trust your own internal signals when the world keeps telling you they’re wrong.

This isn’t about doing more gently — it’s about doing less safely

There’s a subtle but important difference.

Many tools try to help you do more without burning out.

What’s missing are tools that help you not burn out in the first place — even if that means doing less.

That shift matters.

It reframes rest as strategy.

It reframes limits as information.

It reframes “low energy” days as data, not defeat.

I don’t have all the answers — but I know the problem is real

I’m not writing this as an expert.

I’m writing this as someone who’s learning — painfully, slowly — that energy is not universal, and that pretending otherwise causes real harm.

If this resonates with you, you’re not broken.

And if it doesn’t, I hope it still plants a seed of curiosity and empathy.

Some people live in a world where energy refills overnight.

Others don’t.

It’s time our tools — and our expectations — reflected that.

When volunteers and organisations connect in meaningful ways, communities become more resilient. People feel less isolated, more seen, more capable of contributing something valuable. Organisations gain not only support, but perspective, diversity and renewed energy. These connections create social fabric — the kind that holds when systems are under pressure.

Yet despite this importance, volunteering is surprisingly hard to access. Many people want to help but do not know where to start. They worry about time, commitment, relevance or whether they are “qualified enough.” At the same time, organisations struggle to reach people who would genuinely fit their mission, values and needs. The result is not a lack of willingness, but a lack of connection.

This disconnect has consequences. It turns civic engagement into something that feels distant or overwhelming. It reinforces the idea that impact is reserved for a few, rather than something many can participate in. And it leaves both volunteers and organisations underutilised, despite their shared potential.

From a social perspective, volunteering is one of the strongest builders of trust and belonging. It allows people to step outside their usual roles and meet others through shared purpose. Especially for marginalised communities, volunteering can be a form of visibility, empowerment and mutual care. It transforms abstract values like solidarity and inclusion into lived experience.

What often stands in the way is not motivation, but infrastructure. The tools we use to connect people to causes rarely reflect how people actually live. Time is limited. Energy fluctuates. Values matter. People want to help in ways that feel aligned, sustainable and human.

I have been thinking a lot about what it would mean to lower that barrier. To make volunteering feel less like an obligation and more like an invitation. To create connections that respect both the needs of organisations and the realities of the people who support them.

I am currently working on something that moves quietly in that direction. It is an early attempt to rethink how volunteers and organisations find each other — not by pushing participation, but by making connection easier, clearer and more inclusive. There will be more to share soon.

For now, this is simply an acknowledgement of why the connection itself matters. Because when people find the right place to contribute, communities do not just function better. They feel more alive.

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