Yesterday, after a good day's work on my coming documentary Second Nature (stay tuned), I closed my laptop with a quiet sense of satisfaction. The work was flowing. The story was revealing itself.
Then, as I stood up to leave, it arrived. A familiar voice that felt cold and sharp.
"You still haven't finished?"
In the past, that question would have been enough to undo me. It would have erased the day’s joy and replaced it with an anxious sense of failure. But yesterday, I heard it differently.
I'm learning to see that this voice isn't a sign that I'm failing. It is the surest sign that I am succeeding.
It arrives when you are on the verge of a breakthrough, when you are stepping into a new version of yourself. It is the fearful echo of the person you are leaving behind.
And I realise that its only weapon is time.
My best work happens in a sacred, timeless space, a state of flow the Greeks called kairos. The voice of doubt, however, lives by the frantic ticking of the clock, the world of chronos. Its goal is to drag you out of the timeless workshop and into its hasty office, demanding to see a finished product. It wants to convince you that the journey itself, where all the discovery lies, is a waste of time.
I used to argue with it, to defend my process. But I’m learning a quieter way.
Now, I try to just notice it. "Ah, there you are."
I try to hear it not as a criticism, but as a compass, pointing toward the art that matters most.
And then, I try to answer it not with words, but with a single, small action. One more sentence written. One more edit made. A quiet vote for the sacred work, and for the person I am becoming.
The voice is just an echo. The work is waiting.
Trust the hunch. Find the story.
Antoine
