Today is January 1st. Not a good day for looking back on the year that has just ended. I’ve already spent a lot of time doing that — revisiting what I experienced, the successes and the wounds, the progress and the setbacks, taking a closer look at encounters and goodbyes, taking stock. Today, I don’t want to do it again.
The room in that unassuming, almost ugly office building smelled like spilled beer and sweat. Concrete walls, neon lights, cables running along the ceiling, a cheap PA system humming somewhere in the corner. People leaned against each other on folding chairs, scrolling through their phones, waiting for the next person who would walk on stage and say the one thing we are all trained not to admit: »I failed.«
The first time I read about Before the Coffee Gets Cold, I was sitting in a café not unlike the one in the book — quiet, a little narrow, the kind of place where time seems to gather rather than pass. Outside, the city was still in its morning hurry, but inside there was only the soft hum of the espresso machine and the faint clatter of cups.
The trails in Switzerland don’t rush you. They invite you — past cowbells, into fir shade, up where the air turns glassy. Somewhere between a ridgeline and a mountain hut, a small yellow sign rewired how I think about work.
The light tilts, the colors deepen, pavements shine after quick showers. Autumn moves the city from one state to another without fuss or apology. That same current runs through our workdays: from tiny thresholds to bigger crossings it’s all about the art of leaving one thing cleanly and arriving well at the next. These transitions come in all sizes — from the eyelash-thin switch between two tasks that lasts a heartbeat to the long arcs that reshape teams, companies, and people over months, sometimes years. Read More