It’s back-to-school time again. As I wrote exactly a year ago, this is when I pause to realign and check in on my resolutions —listed below. With three kids now in school and after a long summer break, the sense of renewal and excitement for the new season is contagious. We spent weeks together soaking up the warmth and expansiveness of a Spanish summer, but now it’s time to readjust routines and reengage with daily rhythms: seeing familiar faces, resuming activities, finding flow again. Beyond the passage of time, the freshness of new beginnings also brings the energy of new projects and milestones.

In our hometown, this transition has been quite literal. As school began, the roasting temperatures of the past weeks suddenly gave way to soft, rainy days —as if nature was officially declaring the seasonal change. It sets the mood for a slower, more focused rentrée. A welcome shift, as there is work to be done.

The first thing I wanted to do upon returning this year was reconnect with the blog. I started it a little over a year ago as a personal experiment, with no goal other than to push myself to write more: to provoke my thinking, clarify my ideas, and spark connections. The past year was intense —juggling work, family, and other endeavors— and I didn’t manage to write regularly. That’s something I’d like to change. Making space to think, read, write, and create feels like a necessity right now. A way to step consciously out of the noise and the hustle, and cultivate my own ideas.

So far, I’ve written mostly about our relationship with time and presence, and a zen approach to life and work —topics I intend to continue exploring. But as a brand strategist by trade, I’m also constantly drawn to thoughts around branding and strategy, especially where they intersect with simplicity and zen. I haven’t yet shaped those ideas fully, but I may share some of them this year –perhaps here, perhaps in a dedicated space. If that resonates with you, I’d love to hear your thoughts.

Another major focus for the year will be Mure. We’ve been quiet because we’ve been working, but progress looks great, and we’ll start sharing news soon. Our goal was to have a beta version by year’s end, and we’re getting close. Building a startup is often glorified in the media, but the reality —especially when bootstrapping— is a messy, bumpy road. Still, I’m lucky to have great partners who share a love for the craft and an obsessive care for detail, which makes the journey so much more joyful. More on that soon.

Alongside that, I’ll keep honing my strategy practice. I’m deeply grateful for the work opportunities that come my way and the chance to collaborate with amazing teams. This year will be special in another sense too: I was offered two opportunities to teach, which I’m really looking forward to. Teaching is the best way to learn, and it will help me reflect on my practice as a strategist —which beautifully circles back to writing.

Of course, no back-to-school reflection would be complete without a resolution list. Here's the one I’ve been carrying forward for a couple of years now. It’s high-level, but it works for me.

Looking back, I’ve made good progress with healthy habits —better eating, hydration, exercise, more walking, more time outdoors, more time with people who matter to me. Meditation slipped a little this summer, but I’m catching up. Cutting down online time remains a challenge. While my screen-time ratio is decent, I know I could still be more intentional about reducing it. The bigger challenge, though, is shifting my output: creating more, diving deeper, and working more with my hands. That last one has been elusive, but as I carve out time, I’ll seek to truly get my hands dirty. I’ve reprioritized the list this year and added one important focus: less dependency, more agency.

As a kind of meta-resolution, I want to be more in the driver’s seat of life. Freedom and control, in the most positive sense, are not just liberating but enabling. This desire shows up across many areas of my personal and professional life. The dots are there; they just need connecting. I want to create a more balanced, fulfilling rhythm —one where I’m not carried away by the environment, but dancing with it instead, setting the pace myself.

The months ahead look exciting. I’m looking forward to exploring some of these topics more deeply as the year unfolds, calmly, but steadily. Wishing you a wonderful start to the school year. Thanks for reading.

We humans crave permanence. That new shiny object, a hard-earned job that feels now like a calling, the relationships we couldn't live without, the current (or a past) version of ourselves. We quietly wish these moments could stay just as they are, untouched by time. But the truth is, nothing does. And that’s not a reason to despair. It’s actually the beginning of something beautiful.

Life moves in cycles. Nature knows this well. Days give way to nights, seasons spin in quiet repetition, tides rise and fall. Our bodies follow circadian rhythms, our minds ebb and flow between clarity and fog, energy and rest. Growth always comes with decay. The initial exhilaration eventually bows to indifference, or even sorrow, which in turn makes space for joy again.

This isn't a glitch in the system. It is the system.

Cycles are the quiet scaffolding of life. They create rhythm. Not just in nature, but in our emotions, our focus, our creativity, and even our relationships. They're not just something we go through; they're something we grow through.

The challenge (and opportunity) is in recognising them. Rather than resisting change, or fearing the downturns, we can learn to ride the wave. When you understand that everything is cyclical, you start seeing the low points not as failures, but as natural preludes to renewal. You stop forcing constant productivity and begin cultivating sustainable flows.

This is an idea deeply rooted in ancient thought. In Taoist philosophy, yin and yang are not opposites but complementary forces. Two sides of the same whole, in a constant dance. Light and dark, activity and rest, fullness and emptiness. One doesn’t exist without the other. In Western philosophy too, thinkers from Heraclitus to Nietzsche have spoken about the inevitability of change, the return of patterns, and the renewal that can be found in repetition.

Everything breathes. Everything pulses. Even the economy moves in cycles. Ray Dalio explains it very well in 'The Big Cycle'. A long-term wave of expansion and contraction, creation and correction, overarching a series of smaller short-term cycles. And zooming out even further, we start to see that our lives themselves are made up of micro and macro cycles: phases of exploration, of building, of breaking down, of becoming, of going back to the start. It’s cycles within cycles, all the way out.

When we resist these natural rhythms, clinging to highs or fearing the lows, we lose sync with something fundamental. But when we attune ourselves to the pattern, things begin to feel lighter. There's relief in knowing that a foggy morning doesn't mean the sun is gone forever. There's wisdom in letting rest be rest, instead of treating it like a hiccup, or a problem to be solved.

This mindset isn’t just philosophical. It’s also practical. It gently shapes how we work, how we create, how we connect and exchange with others. In the design and tech world, it's standard procedure: scrum cycles, sprints, iterations, retrospectives. We build, test, learn, pause; then begin again.

That same quiet logic applies to everything in life. This is why the cyclic thinking is at the very heart of what we're building at Mure. Not a system for squeezing more out of every minute, but a system designed to help you tune into your own rhythm. It's about aligning with your natural flow, not just throughout the day, but across the seasons of your life. Because when we move with the current instead of against it, we find a kind of progress that feels whole, and paradoxically, lasting.

That is the beauty in the cycle.

Let's grow with the flow.

As you might already have heard, a massive power outage swept across Spain and Portugal yesterday, plunging millions into darkness. Around midday, the blackout disrupted daily life on an unprecedented scale. Although we still don't know exactly what happened, the official culprit for such a sudden loss of power is a rare atmospheric phenomenon that caused oscillations in high-voltage lines, leading to a cascading failure across the interconnected European grid.

Of course, the initial moments were filled with uncertainty and concern about what was happening and how long it would take —you don't have a whole country blacking out that often; and just imagine all those people trapped in elevators, tunnels, or stranded in trains, with communications off—, but the resilience and adaptability of the community quickly shone through.

In my own neighborhood, the absence of electricity meant more than just a lack of light. The non-functional elevator turned a simple ascent or descent into a minor expedition, especially for older neighbors. Water pumps ceased, leaving taps dry, and the usual hum of appliances fell silent. Yet, amidst these inconveniences, a unique atmosphere emerged.

Stepping outside and wandering around, I was met with scenes that felt as unfamiliar as they were heartwarming:

Generosity: neighbors checked on each other, offering assistance without hesitation. There was a palpable sense of community, a collective understanding that we were all navigating this together.

Calm: with traffic lights out, drivers approached intersections with caution, communicating through gestures and nods —and without honking. Surprisingly, traffic flowed more smoothly and quietly than usual.

Faces: without the lure of screens, people walked with their heads up, engaged in face-to-face conversations, while children played in the streets, and a general sense of presence prevailed.

Doors: lacking intercoms and messaging apps, visitors knocked on doors, waiting patiently, reminiscent of times past.

Windows: families and children leaned out of windows, chatting with neighbors, sharing news, and somewhat enjoying the novelty of the situation.

Radio: portable radios became the primary source of news and entertainment. Walking through the streets, the collective sound of broadcasts was somewhat joyful.

Cash: with card machines down, transactions reverted to cash —for those who had it, of course, since ATMs weren’t working either— and shops adapted swiftly, some even resorting to handwritten receipts.

Silence: in the evening, the typical urban noise was replaced by silence, broken only by occasional conversations or the distant chirping of birds.

Rhythm: as daylight faded, the absence of artificial light encouraged an earlier bedtime. The alignment with natural light cycles felt restorative.

Stars: with the usual glow of city lights absent, the night sky revealed its splendor. In almost full darkness, stars shone brightly, offering a celestial display, rare to enjoy from home.

This unexpected pause highlighted our deep reliance on electricity and technology. From basic needs like water and food storage to communication and transportation, the infrastructure we rely on daily is intricately tied to power —and so fragile.

While we met the return of electricity —past midnight in our case— with relief, the experience served as a gentle reminder of the joys found in the simplicity of the analog world. It emphasized the value of slowing down, being present, and connecting with those around us without digital intermediaries or distractions.

Perhaps, in our ever-connected world, creating more of these occasional moments of disconnection can offer clarity, fostering a renewed appreciation for both our technological advancements and the timeless pleasures of just being here.

This winter break, my family and I embarked on a road trip that was also a return to roots, to memory, and to a sense of timelessness. Driving through Southern Spain, we revisited the villages where my ancestors were born and raised, reconnecting with both family history and the relatives who still call this region home. These moments of connection and rediscovery brought a unique stillness, a feeling that time unfolded at its own unhurried pace there.

Every visit to my Andalusian roots seems to invoke this sensation: a distinct slowing down of time that feels almost tangible. There’s a natural rhythm to life there, one that resonates deeply with me every time I return. Whether it’s the golden sunlight washing over olive groves or the whisper of the wind through the arid stretches of the Tabernas desert, the South seems to demand presence. It draws you in, not through spectacle, but through quiet sublimity.

The Tabernas desert, in particular, left me spellbound on this trip. Its vast, undulating expanse feels otherworldly yet grounding —a paradox that defies articulation. Strolling aimlessly through the landscape, I found myself enraptured by its hypnotic allure. In these moments, everything else —worries, plans, and the relentless forward march of time— faded into insignificance. The desert’s ineffable beauty commands deeply rooted stillness.

There’s something transformative about surrendering to this slowness. With hands casually clasped behind my back, I walked without destination or agenda, letting the land and the moment guide me. It’s a way of being that stands in stark contrast to the relentless pace and constant demands of our modern lives. There I found a quiet joy in simply existing, absorbing the energy of the land, the stories embedded in its contours, and the wisdom it seems to whisper to those who pause to listen. Being there, at that very moment, was simply enough.

This land teaches me something each time I visit: to live in harmony with time rather than against it. The pace of life here is deliberate, unhurried, yet profoundly connected. People take their time, whether sharing a meal, chatting in the town square, or tending to the land. It’s a rhythm that honors presence over productivity, being over doing. And as I’ve come to realize, this way of life is not just refreshing; it’s essentially and deeply comforting.

There’s a Japanese concept called ‘being time’ (有時, u-ji), which expresses the idea that existence and time are inseparable —that we are time itself. This beautifully connects with what I wrote in my previous post about framing time, and during these days, I felt the truth of it profoundly. Time isn’t something to be managed or outrun; it’s something to be inhabited fully, with grace, intention, and a quiet presence.

As we wrapped up our journey, I carried this wisdom with me. The landscapes of Southern Spain, from rugged deserts to ancient towns and vast fields, remind me that life isn’t measured by milestones or minutes but by the depth of our presence in each moment. And in that presence, we find something timeless.

Time has always fascinated me. It’s this strange thing —always there, always slipping away. Since I was a kid, I’ve tried to get on top of it. My sister and I had these hyper-organized mornings, planning everything down to the minute: wake up at 7:30, wash face by 7:32, breakfast exactly at 7:40. It wasn’t so much a challenge as it was a routine, a way to tame the day before it even began.

That obsession has stuck with me as I’ve grown up. I’ve downloaded virtually every time management app out there, convinced that the next one would finally be the one to help me get it all together. I’ve read books, tried systems, even built spreadsheets. I find beautiful things like capturing a 'life in weeks', inspired by Tim Urban’s deeply simple idea —seeing it all from above, boxed into neat little squares representing my finite time on this planet. It’s sobering and stimulating at the same time. A memento mori of sorts, if you will.

Then there’s the other side of me. The part that resonates with the Zen notion that time isn’t real —at least not in the way we think of it, with our clocks and calendars. Zen invites us to live fully in the present, to let go of schedules and all the ways we try to pin down the infinite. When I manage to let go, even briefly, it feels like stepping into another world. Whether I’m meditating, quietly savouring a good cup of coffee, or wandering without a destination, in those moments I feel present, like I’m finally touching something real.

Yet I still love my calendar and time-boxing. They’re the scaffolding that lets me create and protect those fleeting moments of presence. In that tension between structure and flow is where real magic happens. It’s where the visible meets the invisible, where the practical meets the profound, where time makes sense and becomes space.

After all, time isn’t something we conquer or escape, it’s something we inhabit. It shapes us even as we try to shape it. Maybe the answer isn’t to figure it out but to simply live with it. To embrace the contradiction. To flow with it. In the end, only time will tell.

You are what you repeatedly do. You will most possibly have heard this many times before. Possibly attributed to different people —most of times to Aristotle himself—. Maybe articulated with different wordings. Regardless of the messenger, the message is crystal clear: actions speak louder than words.

A simple idea that carries profound implications. Especially so if you aim to be authentic and intentional, true to your beliefs. Thinking and talking is actually the easy part. Acting on it is where things start to get interesting.

As a strategist, I know firsthand how easy it is to get caught up in the world of ideas, elaborating plans, setting ambitious goals, and making big claims. Don't get me wrong, these are all part of the process of charting your own path. But it's also too easy to fall into the trap of abstraction. Truth is, actions speak louder than words ever could. The story we share —and we tell ourselves— is relevant, but what we actually do is what truly matters. The walk is the talk.

That gap between intention and execution is where the true test of character lies. Values and ideals only exist in the moments we choose to actively live them out. Whether individually or collectively, taking action is crucial. It’s about making those consistent choices that bring your true ethos to life. Practice is the ultimate test of commitment. As someone said, "If it doesn't cost you money, it's not a principle, it's an opinion."

For me, this is a heuristic I keep close in my day to day, setting boundaries and frameworks to live in. Professionally, this is taking me from strategic thinking to strategic practice. Far from being a dramatic shift, this is more of a natural progression. It's about embodying a viewpoint. About focusing on the principles and systems that reflect true ideals and character. About slowly but surely shaping reality to match our aspirations. Most of times, it’s small actions that make the biggest difference over time.

Of course, this isn't always easy. It's comfortable to live in the world of ideas, where everything is perfect and possible. Taking action means facing the messy reality of imperfection and, at some point, potential failure. But it's in this space of doing —trying, learning, and trying again— that real growth and authenticity emerge.

Maybe the next time you find yourself thinking, ask yourself: “what's one small action I can take right now to move the needle towards this ideal?”. Then, take that step. It might feel insignificant, but remember, it compounds.

September feels like a beginning. Summer fades into fall, the world seems to exhale, and a quieter, more deliberate energy takes over as we prepare for the slower pace of winter. It is a natural moment to pause, reflect, and set the direction for the coming months. It is the perfect time for a fresh start. The excitement of a new school year. The return to structure. The thrill of new possibilities.

I like to see it as time to plant seeds for the coming season —small, thoughtful actions that will grow and evolve over time. They can be just intentions —I want to read more—, or good old goals —I want to read a book a month—. Or both. It doesn’t really matter, as long as it works for you. In my experience, nothing beats habits when it comes to moving the needle; playing audiobooks in my long walks is what made me crush my 12 books a year goal months ahead this year.

As per resolutions, this one below is my current list. I wrote the first version of it about three years ago, and it still feels like a good benchmark to assess my progress over time. As it is, it’s amazing the impact it has already made. I will deep-dive into some of these topics later on.

As I prepare for the year ahead, I’m revisiting the list again and acting on it. Coming back from a long parental break this summer, the feeling of a new beginning is more intense than ever. So, as the leaves begin to turn, I’m planting my seeds. Gentle reminders to live with intention, while embracing the unpredictability of life. That is ultimately the beauty in this process: it’s not about reaching a destination; but about growing with the journey.

It’s amazing how intimidating a blank page can be. No matter how much you have to say, the struggle to type that first word is real. That’s been me for a while now, never finding the right moment to actually sit down and do it. Yes, there’s something daring about sharing your thoughts, but there’s a lot of power in it too. So, that’s why I’m challenging myself to do it here, hoping that what I share will resonate with someone.

I see this space as an experiment and a way to improve both my writing and my thinking. More than just getting thoughts and ideas out of my head, which is appealing in and of itself, I want to make sense of them. I have come to see writing as a mirror and as a map —it helps me see where I am and also find the way forward, connecting the dots.

This is also a kind of mindfulness practice to me. A commitment to the process. By sitting down to write, I’m not only taking the time, but also really engaging with my thoughts, shaping them, and letting them shape me in return. Each note here is going to be sort of a little stepping stone, helping me —and maybe you too— find a bit more of clarity and insight.

Now, I should probably tell you upfront; I might not have a perfectly regular posting schedule. Not a consistent theme either. My writing might actually be all over the place in terms of topics, length and depth, but that’s kind of the point. This is not about sticking to a strict plan, it’s about having a personal space where I can share questions, ideas and meditations. I’m excited to see where it all goes.

Thanks for reading.