I talk to myself. A lot.
Not in a dramatic, cinematic way—but in quiet, constant threads that run through my day. While walking, observing, pausing between meetings, or staring out the window. It’s not noise. It’s navigation.
Solitude has become the space where these conversations unfold. Not the absence of people, but the presence of clarity. In those in-between moments—before the world rushes in—I process. I connect the dots. I ask myself questions no one else is asking me.
And then I write.
Not for likes. Not for performance. Just to get it all out. What I write is often a mirror of my internal dialogue—bits and pieces from the running commentary in my mind. This habit didn’t start as a practice. It just… happened. And then it became something I rely on.
Most people think learning happens in classrooms, or meetings, or strategy documents. Sometimes it does. But most of my learning comes from watching people in hallways, listening to what’s not being said in a conversation, or sensing what’s missing in a decision. You don’t need a lecture for that. You just need to be present. Curious. A little intentional.
At the end of the day, I write these things down. Not always neatly. But honestly. That’s how I close the loop between what I saw, what I felt, and what I learned.