I was driving along the Mitchell Freeway in Perth on the weekend, wind blowing in my hair (having the car window down in mum’s Corolla is a cheap alternative to a convertible).
According to my speedometer I was doing the speed limit of 100 km per hour (that would be 62.1371192 miles per hour for my overseas friends).
For a moment I thought I was on a German Autobahn or the Top Gear test track. Vehicles were speeding past me like the proverbial bats out of hell.
I double checked my speedo. Yes, I was still doing 100 kph. So if that was the case and I was doing the speed limit then why did I feel like I was driving too slow. Why was I feeling guilty? Why was there a mounting pressure to drive faster? What was I? A tortoise?
There is a thing called the pace of life and it varies from country to country, city to city, person to person. Step out of Sydney into Fiji and you’ll see what I mean..bula bula.
In western society we can be prone to something called “hurry sickness”. Its a cool psychological term for “running around like a headless chook” (that would be chicken for my overseas friends).
I am becoming more aware of my internal speedometer. Without a doubt my sweet spot is an unhurried soul.
I haven’t mastered the art of marching to the beat of my own drum yet. But I do know that the first step to change is always awareness and I now know that just because others are travelling faster than me, it doesn’t mean I’m going too slow.





