Wildlife Beyond the Lens

Of Candles, Power Cuts, and Learning When Enough Is Enough

We are back for another one.
Without further ado — and this time it’s less lions and sarcasm, and a bit more of the stuff that sits quietly in the corners of your mind when the lights go out.

It’s one of those nights.

I’m in Pretoria. The power is out. Rain tapping gently on the windows like it’s got nowhere else to be. There’s a Kgalagadi-branded citronella candle burning next to me — completely unnecessary for mosquitoes, but absolutely essential for memory. That smell hits and suddenly I’m not here anymore. I’m back in the bush. Back in a place that saw me the last time I had what felt, at the time, like a midlife crisis — although I suppose you need to believe you’ll actually reach midlife before that term makes sense.

You see, I never really had expectations of getting old.

I’ve always been what clinicians would probably describe as a troubled mind with a complicated past. Loudest person in the room, yet deeply uncomfortable when the attention actually stayed on me. Desperate to be extraordinary, to be seen, to be approved of — while simultaneously wanting to disappear if scrutiny lingered too long.

I wanted to be the best. At everything. Always.
And when I wasn’t — when I wasn’t better than my brother, or better than the room — the balance of my world tilted violently.

I was fiercely competitive. Frantically so. Failure wasn’t a learning curve; it was a personal attack. And that’s a terrible way to grow up — holding your own mind hostage to a reality you’ve manufactured. To outsiders it looked like ambition.

“That kid will achieve great things one day.”

Well… he didn’t.

And you know what? I’m fine with that.

Before I became who I am now, I lived a completely different life. Things would go well — really well — and then I’d sabotage them. Not out of bad luck or rebellion, but because somewhere deep down I didn’t believe I deserved things going right. It wasn’t a pity party. It was narcissism dressed up as self-awareness.

During those years, I hurt people. Quite a few of them. And it took one brave soul — just one — to tell me plainly that what I was doing was wrong, and that if I didn’t stop, I would lose their respect. That sentence landed harder than any consequence ever could.

The details don’t matter much. What matters is that somewhere along the line, I got a second chance at life. I was a person who lacked responsibility in almost every aspect of my existence, yet desperately wanted to prove everything to everyone else.

It was exhausting.

Today, I find myself on the opposite end of that spectrum. I’m still aware of how others perceive me — that doesn’t magically disappear — but I no longer let it dictate my decisions unless it genuinely affects the outcome I’m trying to achieve. With a mind wired like mine, extremes come naturally. There’s rarely a gentle middle ground.

So I swung hard in the other direction.

Responsibility became my happiness. Duty became fulfilment. Ownership became identity. To the point where I don’t really know how to switch it off anymore. And while that brings its own complications, there’s one thing I know for certain:

The only thing I genuinely enjoy is creating joy in other people’s lives.

After years of emotional detachment, narcissism, obsession with opinion (not perception — opinion), and deep unhappiness, the irony is almost cruel. The very thing I avoided for most of my life — responsibility — turned out to be the thing that gave my life meaning.

Being useful.
Taking ownership.
Showing up.

That’s where my joy lives now.

Some people might see me as arrogant. As egotistical. As someone who thinks highly of himself. But what they often misread is enthusiasm. They mistake shared happiness for bragging. And honestly — that’s okay. That’s theirs to carry, not mine.

It’s now been a week of not working.

I had something lined up. Something worth investing time and belief in. And through my own oversight, it fell apart. So here I am — sitting in Pretoria, with no power, debating the inner workings of my own mind like it’s a late-night radio call-in show.

And maybe — just maybe — there’s progress in that.

Yes, I’d be very happy working. Occupied. Moving forward. But I’d also be perfectly content if my partner were here, talking passionately about something I don’t really care about — pretending I do — simply because seeing him smile makes me happy.

Somewhere along the way, I lost touch with reality again. I forgot to be grateful for what has gone exceptionally well against all odds, and instead fixated on what should be happening, what must happen, and how hard I should be pushing.

It’s okay not to give 110% all the time.
Sometimes 90% is more than enough.

Sometimes things happen that are completely out of your control — and it is not your goddamn responsibility to fix them.

We need a job to put food on the table.
We need a hobby to keep us sane.
And if we can add value to other people’s lives along the way, then we’re already doing better than most.

But we also deserve to fail.
To learn.
To love and be loved.
To appreciate the fact that we’re still breathing.

Healthy parents.
A border collie.
A roof over our heads.
And the occasional night without electricity, talking nonsense with family.

That’s not nothing.

If one day my dream becomes reality, I’ll share it. I’ll empower others through it. And if it doesn’t — then at least I can say I tried my damned best. Considering everything. Not in spite of it.

We must never lose sight of who we are, where we’ve come from, and where we never want to end up again. Never look back thinking if only. The fact that you’re breathing right now means you’ve done something right.

The future still holds absurd amounts of unrealised potential and happiness.

This too shall pass.

I saw a video recently where someone said not to get bogged down in moments that feel like eternity — because they aren’t. We spend 90% of our time worrying about things that will never happen, and in doing so, we miss the only thing that actually exists: now.

So without further ado, I’m going to close the laptop, cuddle my dog, and just be present.

And don’t forget — tell the people in your life that you love them.