The Verandah I’ve Been Walking Towards Is Not a Place

There is a place I visit often.

Not in my car.
Not on a map.
Not even in my dreams while I sleep.

I visit it in quiet moments when my mind finally stops racing.

It is a simple verandah.

The first light of dawn is stretching across the land. The air is cool, the kettle has just boiled, and a cup of coffee warms my hands. Somewhere nearby, Jimmy is lying down, content to simply be close, while Bailey is keeping one eye on me, making sure I haven’t wandered too far.

There are no deadlines.

No urgency.

No noise.

Just another sunrise.

For years, that picture has lived quietly inside me.

Businesses have changed.

Countries have changed.

My understanding of technology has changed. My understanding of health has changed. Even my understanding of myself has changed.

But that verandah has remained.

The older I become, the more I realise that the verandah was never really about owning “that” farm.

It was about finding a life where my soul could finally exhale.

Recently, I found myself overwhelmed by an unexpected sadness.

Not because anything had happened today.

But because I imagined that future morning and wondered whether Jimmy and Bailey would still be there to share it with me.

Anyone who has loved a dog will understand this feeling.

We know, from the day they come into our lives, that one day our hearts will be asked to do something unimaginably difficult.

And yet we choose to love them anyway.

Perhaps that is one of life’s greatest lessons.

To love deeply, even when we know nothing earthly lasts forever.

Jimmy and Bailey have given me something I don’t think I fully understood until recently.

They have shown me what unconditional presence feels like.

They don’t care what I’ve achieved.

They don’t care whether a client said yes or no.

They don’t care whether I wrote the perfect article, built the perfect business, or solved the perfect problem.

They simply know me as their person.

In a world that often measures us by our usefulness, our productivity, or our success, that kind of love is profoundly healing.

When I look back over my life, I realise I haven’t really been chasing success.

I’ve been chasing peace.

Not the absence of work.

I love creating.

I love building systems.

I love writing.

I love understanding how things fit together.

I hope I’ll always be curious enough to learn something new.

But I no longer want my work to consume the very life it is meant to support.

I want a life that has room for sunrise.

Room for silence.

Room to notice the changing seasons.

Room to grow herbs because I’m curious.

Room to sit with a coffee while two faithful companions remind me that this moment is enough.

Perhaps that is what freedom has always meant to me.

People sometimes ask what success looks like.

For me, it isn’t a number in a bank account.

It isn’t recognition.

It isn’t a title.

Success is waking before the world does.

Opening the verandah door.

Feeling the cool morning air.

Watching the first rays of sunlight touch the trees.

Hearing birds begin their morning chorus.

Knowing there is meaningful work waiting for me later in the day—but not feeling hurried to begin it.

And, if I am blessed, having Jimmy and Bailey somewhere nearby, sharing another ordinary morning.

Because ordinary moments, I’ve come to believe, are the extraordinary ones.

I don’t know whether life will unfold exactly as I imagine.

None of us do.

But I do know this.

Every meaningful decision I’ve made over the past few years has quietly pointed me towards that verandah.

Building a business that creates freedom instead of dependency.

Studying health because understanding the human body fills me with wonder.

Writing because it helps me make sense of the world.

Dreaming of a botanical farm where nature, science, and simplicity can exist together.

Perhaps the destination matters less than the direction.

Perhaps every small step taken with intention is already part of arriving.

Maybe we all have a verandah we’ve been walking towards.

It might not overlook paddocks or gardens.

It might not involve coffee or dogs.

It might be a workshop.

A kitchen table filled with grandchildren.

A sailboat.

A tiny apartment overlooking a busy city.

A studio where art finally has room to breathe.

Whatever it is, I hope you don’t lose sight of it.

Because beneath our careers, responsibilities, achievements, and ambitions, I think most of us are searching for the same thing.

A place where we can finally become fully ourselves.

A place where our soul can exhale.

I hope, one ordinary morning, I find myself standing on that verandah with a warm mug in my hands.

Jimmy stretched out nearby.

Bailey watching the sunrise with me.

And perhaps I’ll smile quietly to myself and realise something beautiful.

I was never really walking towards a farm.

I was walking towards home.

And tomorrow morning, before the world wakes up, I’ll take another small step towards it.