Christian Van Gils

The rhythm of worry starting 24 hours too early.

The sun was shining, he was reading a good book, and his partner was laughing in the kitchen. Logically, he was happy. But deep beneath the surface, the subtle, cold knot of Sunday night dread had already tightened in his stomach. The thought of Monday, the meetings, the demands, the volume, had preemptively stolen the peace of the present moment. His personal energy wasn't low, but it was being siphoned off by future anxieties. He closed the book, annoyed at the thief in his stomach. He realised preventative care meant defending his weekends, not just surviving his weekdays.

A heartbeat thought by Christian van Gils

The exhaustion that settles in the throat.

She had been talking all day: meetings, calls, conflict resolution, motivating, persuading. By 4:30 PM, her throat felt dry and raw, but the exhaustion was deeper. The mental energy required to constantly articulate, negotiate, and perform had simply run out. She sat in silence, physically unable to form another coherent sentence. It wasn't a lack of ideas; it was a physical depletion of her voice. She cancelled her last meeting, knowing that the most valuable thing she could offer anyone at that point was absolute, restorative silence.

A heartbeat thought by Christian van Gils

Setting a boundary you must physically cross.

For months, he had worked from the kitchen table, blurring the line between work and home. He was always 'on.' Today, he made a rule: work stops at 5:30 PM, and he had to leave the apartment for 15 minutes. At 5:30 PM, he locked his desk and walked out. He didn't check his phone; he simply walked around the block. When he returned, the space felt completely different. He hadn't changed the kitchen table, but he had successfully created an invisible fence between his professional self and his human self. Crossing that physical boundary was the only way to validate the emotional one.

A heartbeat thought by Christian van Gils