This morning I woke up slowly.
Sleepy.
Still wrapped in the softness of something huge that just happened.
The air was already alive with sound — birds, breeze, the distant clatter of the waste collection truck.
But inside, everything was still.
My very first thought?
I did it.
Not as in “it’s over.”
But as in: I actually became the person who could do this.
Who held a vision, made it real, and stayed whole in the process.
I think I need a few more days.
To tell my nervous system:
This is safe now.
This is joy.
This is a milestone worthy of being felt in full.
Because it’s not just that I wrote a Master’s thesis.
It’s that I gave shape to something that matters.
That speaks.
That wants to live on.
Radical Sensitive Leadership is no longer just my inner compass.
It’s a field. A vision. A gift to be shared.
So I skipped my usual morning run and drove to an architectural nature park nearby, where a medieval festival was taking place.
And suddenly: I was walking through living time.
Craftspeople sat in silence, deeply focused.
Women spinning wool into thread.
Children gathering herbs.
A man carving spoons.
Not a spectacle — but devotion.
The first person I spoke with was an older woman, radiating warmth and clarity.
She sat at a wooden wheel, showing me how to spin yarn from raw wool.
She told me about passing this lost knowledge on to children during summer workshops.
She was smiling the whole time — open, wise, kind.
And all I could think was:
This is what it means to carry your Ikigai.
Not the Japanese word.
But the essence.
The dignity of living your gift.
And offering it, with no rush, no performance, no need to prove.
Her presence was ancient.
Solid.
And I remembered again:
It is not just what you know that matters — it’s what you transmit.
We spent the rest of the day with animals and wildflowers and caramel sweets.
We watched bees drink nectar.
We walked slowly.
We climbed trees and fed sheep.
We came home to grilled vegetables and laughter.
And now, as I walk through the dusk-shadowed woods,
my body round and full from food,
my soul nourished beyond words,
I feel it:
I am not in a rush.
I do not need to capitalize on this moment.
I need to integrate it.
To become it.
To trust that when the next move is ready, it will rise.
This work — this thesis —
is not a product.
It is a seed.
And today, all I need to do is protect its soil.
The rest will come.
From presence.
From listening.
From that same deep, quiet place where all true things begin.