I live in the middle of everywhere.

That's not me trying to sound philosophical. It's the actual tagline. Printed on brochures, whispered by real estate agents, probably embossed somewhere tasteful on a council strategy document. The middle of everywhere.

Which is impressive, because from where I'm sitting, it's also the middle of nothing much at all.

This isn't a complaint. It's an observation. A mildly stunned one.

I used to live in motion. Not metaphorically. Physically, structurally, chemically in motion. Cities, airports, meetings, deals, deadlines. Thirty espressos a day, fifty cigarettes, four phones -- one for work, one for the work I wasn't supposed to be doing, one that only certain people had the number for, and one I'm fairly sure I was just carrying out of loyalty. A resting heart rate that my GP described as "consistent with someone who has made a series of interesting choices." The quiet, unshakeable belief that this was not only sustainable, but somehow optimal. You don't question velocity when it's working for you. You call it drive. You call it capability. You call it being "in demand," which is a polite way of saying you've made yourself available to be consumed at scale.

And it does work. Right up until it doesn't.

No dramatic collapse. No cinematic moment where someone gently removes the espresso from your hand and says, "That's enough now." It's more administrative than that. The bill just arrives. Quietly. Compounding interest. A few things don't bounce back the way they used to. A bit less energy here, a bit more consequence there. The body, it turns out, has been taking notes the entire time.

So you adjust. You relocate. You do the sensible thing and move to the middle of everywhere, where life is supposed to be simpler. Cleaner. More grounded.

And it is simpler. In the same way that removing half the components from a machine makes it easier to understand. It also means it does less.

In the city, everything moved. You didn't need to ask who you were because the system answered it for you. Your calendar told you. Your inbox confirmed it. Your exhaustion validated it. There was always somewhere to be, someone to see, something to fix, build, negotiate, salvage. Momentum wasn't a choice, it was the default setting.

Here, momentum is optional.

Which sounds peaceful, until you realise you've spent most of your life being run on a frequency that no longer has a tower.

Now, a ten-minute drive into town requires planning. Not because it's far. Because it requires a decision, and decisions require energy, and energy is apparently a finite resource that no one mentioned in any of the performance reviews. There is a negotiation. It has stages. First: do I need to go today? Second: is there a version of this that can be handled remotely? Third: could I ask someone who is already going? Fourth: who is already going? Fifth: does anyone go anymore? Sixth: a brief, dissociative moment of wondering whether town still exists or whether we have all simply agreed, collectively, to believe in it. Eventually you go. You drive the ten minutes. Everything is fine. You do it again in three weeks.

Entire relationships now exist as a series of messages between people who could, if motivated, reach each other on a mobility scooter before the battery gave out. We are, geographically, very close. Logistically, we are pen pals.

And that's the strange part no one quite sells you. When the movement stops, things don't automatically become meaningful. They become visible.

You notice what's left when the noise drops away. You notice what you've built your identity on. You notice that "being busy" was doing quite a bit of heavy lifting, and without it, you are left holding a fairly unedited version of yourself in a place that has no particular interest in who you used to be.

The middle of everywhere, it turns out, is an excellent place to meet yourself.

I showed up. I was not entirely what I was expecting. Smaller in some ways. Louder in others. Deeply, inexplicably interested in whether the neighbour's dog has had a good morning.

Turns out the tagline was right. Just not in the way the brochure meant.