The Life Beyond the Checklist

A reflection on time, perspective and the standards we quietly set for ourselves.

There are moments in life when a thought arrives so quietly that it would be easy to overlook it.

It isn't dramatic. There is no fanfare or sense that everything is about to change. It simply appears, almost as though it has been waiting patiently for us to become ready to hear it.

Mine arrived on an ordinary afternoon in August 2025.

I had just finished another emotionally demanding conversation with a colleague. It was the kind of conversation that had become familiar over the years: one requiring careful judgement, measured language and the emotional discipline that leadership so often calls upon. By the time it ended, I felt the familiar weight that accompanies carrying responsibility for matters extending well beyond the practicalities of the role itself.

As I sat quietly afterwards, a single thought came into my mind.

"I don't want to be doing this when I'm fifty-seven."

The thought surprised me.

Not because I no longer cared about my work. I had devoted much of my professional life to organisations whose purpose I deeply believed in. I cared about the people, the mission and the privilege of leading well. None of that had changed.

What had changed was something less obvious.

It was my relationship with time.

My former checklist

For much of my adult life, I believed that a good day was one in which I had fulfilled my responsibilities well. I don't remember consciously arriving at that belief. It simply became the lens through which I viewed my days. If the work had been completed, difficult conversations navigated, expectations met and problems solved, then I allowed myself the quiet satisfaction of believing I had used the day well.

It sounds perfectly reasonable when written down.

Perhaps that is precisely why I never questioned it.

The standards I set for myself had never appeared overnight. They had accumulated gradually, almost imperceptibly, over the course of a career. Each new responsibility seemed entirely appropriate. Preparing thoroughly for an important meeting demonstrated professionalism. Thinking carefully before making a difficult decision reflected experience. Anticipating the concerns of others was part of leading responsibly.

None of these qualities was problematic in itself.

Indeed, they had served me well.

Yet somewhere along the way, the standards I expected of myself quietly expanded until they occupied far more than my working day. They accompanied me home in the evening, sat beside me over dinner, joined me on walks and often greeted me before I had properly begun the next morning.

I suspect many women will recognise this.

Not because we consciously decide that work should occupy such a large space in our lives, but because responsibility has a habit of expanding to fill the space we allow it. We become trusted. Reliable. The person who can be depended upon when situations are complex or emotions are running high. These are qualities to be proud of, yet they also bring with them a subtle invitation to carry just a little more than we carried yesterday.

The remarkable thing about human beings is our capacity to adapt.

What once felt exceptional gradually becomes routine. We become accustomed to responding to emails late into the evening, mentally preparing for meetings that are days away or replaying conversations long after they have ended. We tell ourselves this is simply what leadership requires.

Perhaps, for a season, it does.

What we notice less readily is the effect this has on our attention.

Attention is such an ordinary word, yet I have come to believe it is one of the most valuable things we possess. Where our attention rests ultimately shapes the quality of our lives. It determines whether we notice the changing light through the kitchen window, whether we hear the whole of what a friend is saying or whether our thoughts have already wandered to tomorrow's commitments before today has quite finished.

Looking back, I realise that my attention had become almost entirely absorbed by the next thing that required me.

The checklist was never complete.

There was always another report to review, another conversation to prepare for, another decision requiring careful consideration. The work itself was meaningful, and I remain grateful for the opportunities I had. Yet meaningful work can still ask more of us than we realise if we never pause to ask what else deserves our attention.

That quiet afternoon in August invited me to ask a different question.

Why had I become so diligent about protecting deadlines, yet so casual about protecting my own time?

The question lingered because it touched something much deeper than my diary.

Some years earlier, my mother had been diagnosed with breast cancer at the age of sixty-eight. She died shortly after her seventy-first birthday. Grief changes us in ways that often reveal themselves gradually. Long after the immediate sadness softens, it leaves us with a heightened awareness of time's preciousness.

As I reflected that afternoon, I found myself doing a simple piece of arithmetic. If I were fortunate enough to enjoy good health into my late sixties, how did I want to spend those years between now and then?

It was not a calculation rooted in fear.

It was one rooted in perspective.

For the first time, I saw my life not simply as a succession of professional responsibilities, but as something far richer and far more fragile.

I began to realise that while I had become exceptionally disciplined in meeting the expectations I placed upon myself at work, I had shown far less discipline in protecting the things that quietly gave my life its depth.

• Time with family.

  
  

• Long conversations with friends.

  
  

• Walking without mentally composing an email.

  
  

• Reading a book without interrupting myself with another thought about tomorrow.

  
  

• Enjoying an ordinary afternoon without feeling I ought to be doing something more productive.

These moments had never disappeared.

I had simply become less available to them.

Perhaps this is one of the quieter gifts that comes with age.

When we are younger, it is natural to look towards what lies ahead. Careers are being built, families established and opportunities embraced. Time feels expansive. There is always another year in which to begin something, another chance to pursue an ambition or take a different direction.

As the years pass, our perspective begins to shift.

Not because we become less ambitious, but because we begin to understand that fulfilment is shaped by more than achievement alone. We become increasingly aware that a meaningful life is woven together from countless ordinary moments that rarely appear on any measure of success.

• A shared meal.

• An afternoon in the garden.

• The changing seasons.

• The companionship of my dog, Clemence, on an early morning walk.

• The familiar laughter of old friends.

  
  

These moments ask very little of us, except that we are present enough to notice them.

I don't think I have lowered my standards.

If anything, they remain as important to me as they have ever been.

I still care deeply about doing good work. I still prepare carefully, think thoughtfully and want my contribution to matter. Those qualities are part of who I am, and I hope they always will be.

What has changed is the range of things to which I now hold myself accountable.

I want to bring the same care to my health that I once reserved for meeting a deadline.

I want to be as intentional about protecting time with family and friends as I was about protecting space in my diary for an important meeting.

I want to cultivate a life in which achievement and presence are able to sit comfortably alongside one another.

It has taken me time to realise that a meaningful life is not simply built by completing what is on the checklist.

It is shaped just as much by the moments that never appear on one.

When I think back to that ordinary afternoon in August, I no longer remember the detail of the conversation that preceded it.

I remember the question.

"I don't want to be doing this when I'm fifty-seven."

It was never really a question about work.

It was an invitation to reconsider what I wanted my life to feel like.

Looking back, I don't think my standards were ever the problem.

They helped to shape a career of which I remain deeply proud.

Over time, however, I came to understand that they belonged to only one part of my life.

Today, they reach further.

I haven't lowered my standards.

I have simply widened them.

If this reflection has prompted you to think about what matters to you now, my Reset Your Midlife series offers a gentle space to pause, reflect and consider what you would like the next chapter of your life to hold.