A few nights ago, in one of those moments where the mind refuses to do anything that is even remotely useful, I was searching the internet for people I’ve been working with. People whom I have been in contact with recently —mostly through email, sometimes on the phone— while dealing with the technical side of a seller-customer relationship. I was surprised to find that several of them at least five years my junior, five years younger than 18-year-old me. Of course, it has been a dozen years since I actually was 18, but it does not always feel that was and the reality of being 30 sometimes takes me a few seconds to grasp.

At the same time, I am probably more 30 than I’ve ever been 29 or 28. Like I have been (and still am) very busy with work. Not the kind of busyness as an easy excuse for ignoring a full inbox, but really busy: making long days with little to no breaks and then spending at least an hour in the evening working too.

I am not complaining though: the busyness has mostly been self-imposed and work is interesting, challenging and rewarding. In fact, it is quite fun. Yet I do regret it does not always give me enough time to digest things; to realise where I am now and to reflect on how unlikely this had looked a few years ago, when life had turned into a self-imposed misery. And if that has not become implicitly clear, I should be eternally grateful to Dimitra, for keeping me sane while staying sane herself, especially at times when that seemed impossible and unhealthy respectively.