When Did We Stop Feeling Alive?
There are moments in life that don't announce themselves as important.
They arrive quietly, almost unnoticed, and yet somehow they leave a mark that stays with us for years.
One of those moments happened to me in Africa.
It wasn't during a close encounter with a lion or while watching elephants gather around a watering hole. It wasn't even one of those postcard-perfect sunsets that make you instinctively reach for your camera before remembering that no photograph could ever quite capture what your eyes are seeing.
It happened early one morning before the sun had fully risen.
I was sitting in the back of an open safari vehicle with a warm mug of coffee wrapped between my hands. The air was cool enough that I could see my breath, and the bush was just beginning to wake. Somewhere in the distance a Hornbill called, followed by the unmistakable rumble of a lion. Nobody in the vehicle spoke. There was an unspoken understanding that this was not a moment to fill with conversation. We simply sat there, watching the light slowly spill across the landscape as though the world itself was taking a deep breath.
It was then that I realised something that caught me completely off guard.
My mind had gone quiet.
Not because I was meditating. Not because I had consciously tried to switch off my thoughts. It had simply... stopped.
For the first time in what felt like forever, there wasn't a mental list running through my head. I wasn't thinking about work, or emails, or what needed to happen when I got home. I wasn't solving problems or planning ahead or replaying conversations I'd had the day before. There was nothing except the sound of birds, the smell of fresh coffee and the extraordinary privilege of being completely present.
It felt unfamiliar.
And that was the part that saddened me.
How had peace become something that felt so rare?
I don't think this is unique to me. In fact, I think it's become one of the defining experiences of modern womanhood.
We have become exceptionally good at carrying things. We carry businesses, families, relationships, expectations, responsibilities and dreams. We carry invisible lists that begin before we've even climbed out of bed in the morning. Before our feet touch the floor, we're already thinking about the lunches that need packing, the meeting we can't forget, the message we still haven't replied to, the groceries we need to buy, the bills that need paying and whether everyone else is okay.
It's exhausting, but because so many women are living this way, we've started calling it normal.
Somewhere along the way, being constantly busy became something to admire. Being needed became a measure of our worth. Rest started to feel like something we had to earn instead of something we simply needed.
The strange thing is that most women don't even realise how much they're carrying until, for a brief moment, they put it down.
I've watched it happen on retreat after retreat.
Women arrive apologising for taking time away from work or their families. They tell me they'll probably have to answer a few emails while they're away. They laugh and say they're terrible at relaxing.
Then something beautiful begins to happen.
Not immediately. Not because the scenery magically fixes everything. But slowly, almost without them noticing, their shoulders soften. Their laughter comes more easily. They linger over breakfast instead of rushing through it. They begin looking up instead of down. They stop checking the time.
And perhaps the biggest shift of all is that they stop apologising for taking up space in their own lives.
I often wonder if what we're really searching for isn't rest at all.
Maybe what we're searching for is aliveness.
There is a difference.
Rest is something we recover.
Aliveness is something we remember.
As children, we knew how to find it without even trying. We chased waves simply because they were there. We climbed trees, collected shells, lay on the grass watching clouds drift across the sky. We weren't trying to be productive. We weren't trying to optimise our time. We were simply living inside the moment we had been given.
Then life happened.
Careers. Mortgages. Children. Ageing parents. Businesses. Expectations. Responsibilities.
None of those things are bad. In fact, many of them are beautiful.
But somewhere beneath the weight of becoming everything to everyone else, many women quietly stop becoming themselves.
Perhaps that's why places like Africa have such a profound effect on us.
Not because they change who we are.
Because they remind us who we've always been.
Standing in the African bush, you realise that the world has been turning long before your inbox existed. The sun still rises whether you've answered every email or not. The birds greet the morning without checking a calendar. Nature has never hurried, and yet somehow it has always arrived exactly where it needs to be.
There is a lesson in that.
One I find myself returning to again and again.
Life was never meant to be measured only by how much we achieve.
It was also meant to be measured by how deeply we experience it.
By the conversations that stay with us. The places that leave us speechless. The mornings that begin with birdsong instead of notifications. The laughter shared around a table with strangers who somehow become lifelong friends. The moments when we suddenly remember that we are allowed to feel joy without first ticking everything off our to-do list.
Maybe that's the real shift.
Not changing your life overnight.
Not walking away from your responsibilities.
Simply remembering that you are part of your life too.
And perhaps that's why I created The Shift Journal.
Not to tell you how to live.
Not to convince you to book a retreat.
But to create a place where we can have honest conversations about what it means to live well. To question the pace we've accepted as normal. To celebrate adventure, courage and curiosity. To remind one another that there is another way to move through the world.
Some weeks we'll talk about Africa. Some weeks we'll talk about burnout, purpose, midlife, fear or the quiet courage it takes to choose yourself again.
Wherever these conversations take us, I hope they leave you feeling what I felt that morning in the African bush.
A little quieter.
A little lighter.
And perhaps just a little more alive than when you first arrived.
The older I get, the more I realise that the biggest changes in our lives rarely happen because someone gave us the perfect advice. They happen because, somewhere along the way, we begin asking ourselves different questions.
Perhaps that's all I hope these journal entries become.
A place to pause.
A place to breathe.
A place to remember the parts of yourself that have been quietly waiting beneath the busyness of everyday life.
If these words found you today, I hope you carry just one question with you as you move through the week.
When was the last time you felt truly alive?
Not when were you most productive.
Not when did you achieve the most.
Not when did everyone else tell you that you were doing a great job.
When did you last feel completely and wonderfully alive?
You don't need to answer it today.
Just don't ignore it.
Sometimes the questions that make us the most uncomfortable are the ones that quietly lead us home.
Thank you for spending this time with me.
I'll meet you back here next week for another entry in The Shift Journal.
Until then, take a deep breath, look up from your to-do list every now and then, and don't forget that your life is something to be experienced, not simply managed.
With love,
Alka xxx
P.S If this journal entry resonated with you, I'd love to invite you to stay connected. Every week I share a new reflection through The Shift Journal - stories about life, adventure, psychology, nature and the quiet courage it takes to choose yourself again.
And if, while reading, you found yourself longing for more than just a holiday—if something inside you whispered, "I need a shift"—I'd love to invite you to explore The Shift Safari Retreat.
It isn't about escaping your life.
It's about returning home to it with a quieter mind, a lighter heart and a renewed sense of what truly matters.