Remote work has given me freedom, but it also asked me to define what freedom really means. 

In the beginning, I let work spill into every corner of my day. I would check emails over breakfast, take calls during walks, and convince myself it was balance because I could do it all from home. 

What I eventually realized is that flexibility is not the same thing as peace. True peace comes from knowing when to stop and being intentional with your time.

I grew up with two Olympic parents, which meant achievement was woven into the fabric of our home. 

It shaped how I understood success: focused, disciplined, and always reaching for more. But over time, I noticed something smaller and softer. I started looking for what I now call glimmers, those fleeting, beautiful moments that quietly light up an ordinary day. The scent of coffee after Pilates. The warmth of morning sun through the bedroom window. The stillness before the world wakes up.

Working remotely has become my practice in protecting those glimmers. 

I start my mornings with movement before I open my laptop. I step outside between meetings to breathe the fresh air. I end the day by closing my computer and walking away, even when there is more, I could do. 

Boundaries are not barriers. They are an act of care. They remind me that rest is productive too.

I used to think slowing down meant falling behind. Now I know it means falling into my life. The more I protect my energy, the more creative, grounded, and fulfilled I feel. My work is better when I am present for it, not consumed by it.

The medals in my family represent excellence, but my version of success looks different now. It is not about speed or shine. It is about depth. 

Every remote day offers a chance to notice something good and to pause long enough to feel grateful for it. That is what it means to thrive. When I live this way, I do not measure success by what I finish. I measure it by how it feels to be here.

Thriving remotely begins when you give yourself permission to slow down.