From a young age, we learn the paths we’re supposed to follow – through osmosis or direct influence – from the adults who raise us, our education, and our culture and environment…

Yet before long, Life throws many unexpected situations at us, encouraging and disruptive alike. Life teaches us, not always too gently, that no matter the paths we choose, we’re constantly meandering… Powerless to control its many surprises, yet responsible for how we live our lives.

Which path to choose, then, if we are powerless, yet in charge?…

HOMETOWNS

I grew up in a small, peaceful village in the countryside, 40 miles west of Paris. Every day, my brother and I went to school in a nearby town. Then our Mum would get some groceries and drive us home to do our homework. Afterwards, I loved riding my bike along the fields surrounding the village. I stopped every hundred yards or so, to stare in the distance… Trying to find a better viewpoint than the last… To get a glimpse of the free world beyond the skyline. Alone in the countryside, I could dream freely, and I loved this solitary quest.

For the vacations, we often went to visit my aunt Monette – my Mum’s sister. She still lived in their hometown in Brittany, on the Atlantic coast. That’s the region my name – Yann – is from. And that’s where I had the most fun… Running around the pine trees with my cousins… And relishing our afternoons at a quiet local beach that few tourists knew about. No matter the tide or the weather, I spent hours staring at the ocean, climbing the rocks, and gliding through the breeze.

My Mum had left her hometown quite young to go and live with my Dad near Paris. There, she became a schoolteacher – following the same career as her late parents and grandparents. My Dad worked long hours. We never saw him in the morning because he left too early. But dinner time was sacred. He would teach us the proper table etiquette, and ask us about our day at school.

A SERIOUS MAN

Beside this, my Dad didn’t talk much. And I knew very little about his work. Only that he was a telecoms engineer. Had been with his company for years. And often traveled to work on projects for the army. Once, he brought back a poster of a satellite he had helped design. It looked like a shiny diamond floating above a vibrant planet Earth. I hung the poster above my bed and it became the centrepiece of my bedroom decoration – along with my small collection of rocks and pebbles.

Every Sunday my Dad’s mother, my only grandparent, visited us from Paris for lengthy Sunday lunches. She always brought the desert while my Mum spent hours in the kitchen perfecting the other dishes. My role was to set up the family table as elegantly as I could. Just before lunch, my Dad would appear from his basement workshop with a bottle of wine that he then shared with my Mum and Gran.

Sometimes on special Sundays, my Dad took us to renowned restaurants in the area. Usually, my Mum and Gran chit-chatted busily on one side of the table… While my Dad slowly savoured his meal, pointing out the skillful cooking and superiority of the food. I always did my best to keep up with both sides – while marveling at the ballet of waiters. I loved how they treated me like an adult as I displayed my knowledge of the correct etiquette.

NOT GOOD ENOUGH

When I was 7, my aunt Monette died in a car accident. We never talked about it in detail, and I never dared ask any questions, but we essentially stopped going to Brittany after that. And our day-to-day schedule resumed.

Night after night around the family table, my Dad repeated the rules “Thou shalt sit straight in thy chair. Thou shalt not put food in thy mouth until it is empty…” Correcting my every move… “Thou shalt not rest thy elbows on the table…”

I often struggled to juggle this scrutiny with his daily grilling about what I had learned at school. He always knew the correct answers while mine never seemed precise enough. And I dreaded dinnertime even more if I had received a test score that didn’t place me among the top 2 or 3 students, for that normally prompted more intense questioning.

Yet school was the one place where I had friends. Because the village where we lived was so small and isolated. Like school, the nearest store, bank or doctor were all a 10-minute drive away. My Mum’s car was the only means of transport. Her schedule was the only schedule.

When I got to high-school age, the schedule changed to catch the school bus every morning at 6.30am. I got to meet a wider range of people there. My new best friend, Sandra, was one of the coolest kids on the campus. She dressed as she pleased. Listened to music I would never have dared play at home. And openly disagreed with our teachers. I was the opposite, but we got on really well. I didn’t talk much, I preferred listening to the other kids’ stories. Many of them seemed free to do whatever they wanted. Some were even allowed to go to Paris alone with their friends… I never went out alone.

Meanwhile, at home in the evenings, I went through the motions. Keeping myself to myself as much as possible. But in class, I used to daydream that I’d have my own travel company some day. Drawing my fleet of luxury coaches on a pad I hid under my textbooks… And planning itineraries to help people escape their daily grind and discover the beauty of the world.

In school tests, I started to totally ignore the topics I found boring. I only focused on the questions I found stimulating, hoping that my parents would concentrate on the overall score rather than the details. I often thought, “The moment I’m done with school, I’ll go and show the world I can succeed in my own way!”

I did manage to get into Uni but got very bored very quickly. So I switched to studying hospitality management since it seemed both an interesting and acceptable career path. I turned out to be good at it. And ended up moving to the UK, age 23, to work for a small hotel. I lived on site and made myself available day and night. No matter the issue, I gave it my all – constantly chasing the next crisis to solve. And I didn’t rest much. One busy Saturday night, I passed out in a pile of dirty laundry. When I emerged, I realised I had been rushing around nonstop for 16 hours and had forgotten to take a break to rest and eat. To my dismay, nobody noticed I had gone missing…

Soon after that, I found a manager’s job at a London hotel and I moved to the big city. I admired my new boss and his work ethics… Hands-on, and strict yet respectful. And I followed his approach with my own team. One day though, without notice, he left. We never got the details of what happened. We were just left to run the business by ourselves for several months. The 90-hour workweeks were intense. So I created a neat routine for myself… Work hard during the day, every day, then go out clubbing 6 nights a week to let loose -with Tuesday nights reserved for sleep… By the time a string of new bosses came along, I felt that the business had run better while we – the so-called “junior managers” – were in charge. The first new “boss” reshuffled our priorities but left within weeks. Another drowned us in paperwork. And the next one arrived announcing he had “no hidden agenda” yet the next day privately listed the staff members he wanted me to sack. For weeks, I ignored his orders. I made sure I was too busy to bump into him. But after 3 months, I couldn’t stand it anymore and knew I had to leave…

Nothing clicked for a while and I was getting anxious. Then, almost out of the blue, I was asked to help run a serviced office building styled as “5-star hospitality for business owners.” It sounded like a perfect job. And I was excited to soak up the success of these entrepreneurs. I studied all I could about the building, the clients, and their businesses. I precisely engineered my schedule, I was on a mission to get things done, and to look professional at all times. A colleague jokingly called me ‘Mr Organised.’ My assistant Laura handled regular admin and customer service exceptionally well. And I aimed to focus on the more strategic work. But somehow, there was always someone not keeping their word. A sudden technical issue. Or new regulations to comply with… And although I officially had weekends off, I spent most of them at my desk clearing my inbox and making up for the surprises that had sidetracked my plans…

Several months later, my Dad fell ill. He didn’t mention it, my Mum told me. For a long torturous year, he worked from home between chemo sessions. My Mum became his caretaker but rarely shared details with me. She said she didn’t want to worry me while I was busy working in a different country. But one chilly night, as I slogged through the sleet after a long day, I got the call I had dreaded… “Dad’s in hospital,” she said, “The doctors gave him 48 hours… 72 max.” My weariness vanished instantly. And I rushed to get a ticket for the 5am train to Paris.

The next day, I found my Dad in his hospital bed, a mere shell of the big man he had used to be. Barely able to breathe. An oxygen mask scrunching his gaunt face. Every movement looking like a major effort. After we convinced my Mum to get some rest, he summoned enough strength to murmur brief instructions for taking care of her and of my Gran, his mother. He then dozed off and I sat next to him for hours, in silence, holding his hand. When he woke up, he pushed his mask aside and, struggling for air, he slowly whispered “I… love… you…” It was the first time in my 35 years that I was hearing these words from him…

After 5 slow, long days, he fell asleep for good. When the number of friends and colleagues gathered for the cremation started to swell, I grabbed my Gran’s frail hand and gently led her into the funeral parlour. Suddenly she collapsed into my arms – gasping “It’s not possible! It’s not possible!” She had just glimpsed at her son’s coffin for the first time… I helped her stagger to a bench and spent the rest of the day keeping a vigilant eye on how she was coping.

The next morning, Paris was being ravaged by one of the worst snowstorms in decades. Despite the biting cold, my Gran looked a lot calmer as we trudged through the snow in the deserted cemetery. We buried my Dad’s ashes in the frozen ground next to his dad, and stood there silently, arm in arm, while the blizzard lashed our faces relentlessly…

That night I got one of the few trains still running, back to London. When I arrived at St Pancras Station, a sign said that all public transport had been suspended. I stepped outside to catch a taxi, but had to stop dead. I looked around slowly… I had never seen London like this… There wasn’t a soul in sight, no traffic, no noise, nothing. Nobody. Just mounds of snow overrunning the walkways. And the arctic wind slamming me sideways. I started prodding the slippery mush in front of me… And wondered out loud “Hmm…. And now what?”…

“YES, YOU’RE HUMAN…”

Back at work, I didn’t know what to do or what to feel. And I seemed unable to focus. I often retreated among the building’s air conditioners and water tanks on the rooftop. Nobody ever went there, and it had always been my favourite thinking spot. But it was now my refuge to get angry, shed a few tears, or just stare at the skyline. My Dad had passed away 6 months before retirement, and I kept hearing something he had whispered at hospital, “Appreciate what life gives you. And make the most of it while you can…”

One day in the office, my phone rang… It was Marlene – one of the few ‘complainers’ among my entrepreneur clients. I didn’t feel like talking to her. But she was calling my direct line, so I knew it was serious. Seconds later, I was in her office listening to her grievance. What had upset her would have been a minor annoyance to most people. But she was always so serious and protective of her time that I knew I would have been furious had I been in her shoes. We started discussing possible solutions. But before long, our conversation shifted. We shared intimate details about our joys and torments in running our respective businesses. And we lost track of time…

This impromptu conversation was the first of several, with her and several other clients. Freely sharing our hopes and headaches with anything from cash flow or staffing issues to the economy. And our heartbreaks over our bad decisions and not seeing much of our families.

I no longer cared if these conversations took 10 minutes or 2 hours. I just listened… Laughing, dreaming and crying along with them. Often thinking, “Yes, you’re human. You’re normal. Just let it out…” This was definitely not in my job description, but it became one of the best parts of my work…

As a self-improvement exercise, I once asked my team what they thought my unique strength was. One wrote: “You’re the most approachable boss I’ve ever worked with.” And my assistant Laura said that I saw things through a ‘positive lens’, helping the staff see their own potential and see opportunities instead of obstacles… These were NOT the answers I was hoping for. These were intangible traits I had considered weaknesses of mine – that people may take advantage of. I had strived to conceal them, but apparently these natural tendencies had surfaced anyway… I think that’s when I started to accept that it wasn’t really my ‘Mr Organised’ approach that people valued. That I didn’t need to hide that I cared about people. And that, maybe it was time to use my ‘positive lens’ on myself too.

We humans are not designed for stagnation. It’s natural to want to grow, move forward and try new experiences.

Yet it’s unnatural to expect these from simple, clear-cut paths. Sure, some degree of forethought and planning is prudent and useful… Until it isn’t…

Because we CAN’T outsmart Life!

Life doesn’t follow clear-cut paths! It throws curve balls… Has its own pace… Meanders. There’s so much we can’t control! For the most part, we’re powerless, yet in charge.

In charge of our choices, habits, and how we look at the world and ourselves.

The unpredictability of life and its surprises can be unsettling, making us question our readiness.

Yet we don’t need paths that require us to constantly compartmentalize ourselves because they dub some of our traits negatively.

Our attributes and impulses dubbed “problematic”, “irrelevant”, “weaknesses”, etc. by the narratives of these promising paths… Can be seen as “virtues”, “strengths”, “unique abilities” in other settings…

Nature doesn’t waste resources. Why would it give us traits we don’t need?! Let’s trust Nature’s coherence and embrace that ALL of our particularities and inclinations have value.

It’s the full spectrum of our instincts, predilections, and traits that give us the fluidity we need to navigate Life’s twists and turns.

So let’s embrace our powerlessness AND what we can control – in a constant symbiotic collaboration.

There lie the seeds of our creativity, growth, and contentment.

And “success” – whichever way we define it for ourselves – is not the goal… It’s merely a byproduct of our consistent alignment with our whole natural selves.

If we look closely, we see how all of our traits and instincts are naturally worthwhile… So let’s allow ourselves to stop hiding and stop seeking for more. Let’s glide along Life’s meanderings, live fully, and love ourselves and others openly.

WINDING ROADS

A while ago, I got a call from my Mum out of the blue. She’d just been diagnosed with a tumor, and gave me details of the surgery and treatment planned. I ignored the zoom call I was due to join. And we discussed our anguish, her prospects of recovery, and the physical and emotional toll we expected… We decided to take it as it comes, one day at a time. I had recently settled in Latin America for a new venture. But we played with time zones, spent hours together on the phone, unpacking our ups and downs. And I flew across the pond a few times to be with her at key moments during her year-long treatment.

Several months later, she was given the green light to travel again. We decided to go on a road trip together. And we chose to re-explore the coast of Normandy, not far from where she lived. I did the driving, my Mum by my side with maps and guidebooks on her laps. We chose tiny winding roads through the countryside, seeking hidden viewpoints, fancy restaurants and traditional towns we hadn’t seen in a long time. The weather was changing constantly and we got soaking wet more than once, but we just kept going.

One night, it was raining so heavily that we ran from our hotel to the first restaurant we found. When we finished dinner, the rain turned into drizzle. The streets were deserted and it was getting dark, but we decided to take a walk along the harbour. After a short stroll, we reached the long pebble beach. The dark cover of clouds parted slightly… Just enough to let a few rays of sunshine pierce through… Illuminating the sky, and making the sea glisten. We had the beach to ourselves and just stood there, watching the ocean ebb and flow, and the sun retreat behind the skyline…

It brought to mind a serene afternoon on a secluded Irish beach a few years earlier. I was at a business retreat with a small group of entrepreneurs. And after a meandering hike through lush woods and unspoiled dunes, we were greeted by a pristine strand of sand and rumbling breakers. I sat on a small rock, mesmerized by the slow dance of puffy clouds. And by the vastness of the ocean in front of me, shimmering in the distance, a couple of small islands perking up near the horizon. I savoured the salty breeze brushing my face. There was no-one else on the beach. Each of us had found our own spot to relax and daydream. And then I realised that these newfound friends knew me better than my own family.

Each day at a local traditional hotel, we gathered in snug velvet armchairs around the fireplace. Candidly sharing our unique blend of hopes, doubts and fears. We all had cringed, cried and laughed together. And for the first time, I had revealed out loud some unvarnished details about my story, frustrations and regrets. And also opened up about my dreams and aspirations.

The next day, it was time to say goodbye to my retreat companions. One of them, Betty, hugged me and said “You’re a very loving person. You shouldn’t be embarrassed by that…” For several days afterwards, I explored the coast by myself, with Betty’s voice echoing in my head. I drove for hours along narrow winding roads that seemed to go nowhere… Often having to turn around… And yet, persisting calmly through the whirl of downpours and occasional blue skies, I discovered unspoiled coves, hidden valleys, and rocky headlands defying the ocean’s fierceness…

PERSPECTIVES

I often think of Betty’s words to me. So simple. So obvious. But only in hindsight…

I guess it’s easier to see value and potential in others than in ourselves. With more empathy. With more clarity.

And we often need a “little help” to get this clarity and widen our horizons about what we are made of.

I hope I occasionally give this kind of “little help” to my friends, family and colleagues when I share time with them.

And that’s what I hope to do in my writing, too…

It’s not about blueprints, hacks or tactics. It’s about being a modest explorer of our experiences and instincts – for that’s what makes us uniquely valuable. In our lives and in our work.

I’m inviting you to join my email explorations of what it might look like to embrace Life’s meanderings and our unique natural fluidity.

And to humbly trust ourselves in an unpredictable world.

No guaranteed results. No specific schedule. No certainty.

Just simple explorations…

As I look into my own nature, lenses, and inner-narratives, I hope you’ll get to you see yourself, and your own potential, from new helpful perspectives.

Simply fill in your details below.

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_{Photography & visuals by Anne-Marie Dusseau, John Macedo, Tetyanka, Serrnovik, and Yann Vernier}