Learning To Notice

On losing myself, finding my way back, and discovering the value of ordinary moments.

September 8, 2026 • Journal 001 • Mark Koolit

Reflection on the train

My 30th birthday was black and white. My family and friends wore black while I wore white. It felt like a funeral, not because I had died, but because a version of me had. I wanted it to mark the beginning of a new chapter, a rebirth as the person I hoped I was becoming. At the time, I didn’t fully know what that person looked like. I only knew I didn’t want to keep living the way I had been. I knew it wouldn’t happen overnight, and even today, it’s still an ongoing process.

I had my fair share of fun in my early twenties. As I started earning my own money, I could finally buy the things I wanted. I remember shopping at outlet malls in Palm Springs, filling bags with clothes I liked but didn’t really need. I followed trends, wore what was popular, and went to the places everyone else was going. I’d buy clothes just to fit in. Most weekends were spent clubbing with people I barely knew. At the time, it felt exciting, but looking back, it was only temporary happiness. I thought happiness was something I could buy or chase. A new outfit. Another night out. Another place everyone said I had to visit. In hindsight, I realised I wasn’t really choosing those things for myself—I was trying to keep up with everyone else.

My twenties were quite a ride. I experienced heartbreak, and my six-year relationship came to an end. It was around that time that everything began to unravel. There was a period my family and friends jokingly called my “La La Land” phase. I was unmotivated and simply drifting through life. I only went out because I was being dragged along, and I wasn’t really present wherever I was. My family and friends told me they couldn’t have a proper conversation with me because it felt like I wasn’t really there.

There were moments when I looked at myself in the mirror and couldn’t recognise the person looking back at me. My eyes no longer had the same spark—they looked dull and empty. I couldn’t even imagine myself smiling. I remember quietly saying to myself, “I miss your smile. When will I see you smile again?”

I wish I could tell you there was one moment that changed everything, but there wasn’t. It was simply the point where I became tired of feeling like a stranger to myself. One day, I had enough. I was tired of feeling low, tired of feeling sorry for myself, and tired of living without direction. With the support of my family and friends, who surrounded me with love during that difficult period, I slowly began to find my way back.

I joined a new gym as a fresh start and committed myself to a simple routine of push, pull and leg days. My siblings joined me. My sister focused on cardio, while my brother and I trained together. What started as exercise gradually became quality time we shared as a family.

Around the same time, my friends and I spent many summer and autumn evenings in Soho Park. We’d sit on the grass, talk about life, play games, eat, drink, and enjoy each other’s company. Some evenings we’d stay until after sunset before heading to a karaoke room to sing our hearts out. Looking back, I didn’t realise it then, but these ordinary moments were slowly putting me back together. For the first time in a long while, I found myself looking forward to the weekend, not because of where I was going, but because of who I’d be spending it with.

Three friends catching up at the park

As I continued rebuilding myself, I booked a solo trip to Prague. I chose Prague because it felt like the perfect city to explore alone. It was compact, beautiful, and easy to experience on foot. I was lucky enough to visit during sunny weather, which made the city feel even more alive.

I genuinely enjoyed spending time on my own. Along the way, I met a few people I’m still in touch with today. But the moment I remember most happened one evening as the sun began to set. I sat on a hill overlooking Prague, reading my book while families, couples and groups of friends gathered around me. For the first time in a long time, I didn’t mind being alone. I enjoyed my own company. I had a list of places I wanted to see, but I gave myself permission to wander instead. Some of my favourite moments happened when I wasn’t trying to tick another landmark off a list. One of my favourite views wasn’t one you’d find in every travel guide. It was a quiet stretch along the river on the opposite side of the city, away from the crowds. Standing there, I realised that sometimes the moments we remember most are the ones we never planned.

People sitting on a grassy hill overlooking Prague at sunset

When I came home, nothing around me had really changed. I still had the same job, the same routines and the same responsibilities. What had changed was how I looked at them. I stopped chasing the next distraction and started paying attention to what was already in front of me.

I used to think happiness came from doing more—buying more, going out more and travelling more. Somewhere along the way, I realised the moments I remembered most weren’t the loudest ones. They were the quiet ones: sitting in the park after sunset, reading on a hill in Prague, training with my siblings, and conversations that didn’t need a destination. That’s when I understood I wasn’t searching for a different life. I was simply learning to notice the one I already had.

Today, I still ask myself what I value before I say yes to something. Sometimes the answer is a flight to another country. Sometimes it’s dinner with friends. Sometimes it’s sitting in the park, watching the leaves move in the wind. Those moments don’t look extraordinary, but they remind me that a meaningful life isn’t built through grand occasions. They quietly remind me who I’m becoming.