They told me remote work from Ibiza would be “the dream.” Morning swims, barefoot in the sand, espresso under a lemon tree while the Slack pings roll in soft like tidewater.
Let me paint you a real picture: me, half-dressed, one AirPod in, laptop balancing on a patio chair because I forgot the table leg snapped last week, and a mosquito bite swelling like a balloon on my neck while I try to sound interested in a Q2 sales forecast.
You know what doesn’t mix? Ocean breeze and urgent emails.
My office now bleeds into everything. Wake up? There’s a client WhatsApp message already waiting. Breakfast? A Zoom call scheduled by someone who thinks CET is a polite suggestion. Try to take a break? Ping. Ping. Ping. The phone hums like a guilt machine. So I answer. Every time.
The beach is right there. Like, right there. But stepping onto it feels like I’m bunking off school. And when I do, it’s never peaceful. It’s me pacing in the shallows while talking to a guy in Düsseldorf about an invoice dispute from November.
I tried boundaries. Honest. I even made a rule: no emails after 6. That lasted until 6:02 on a Tuesday when some nightmare client called the office number and my assistant (God bless her patience) transferred it to my mobile. Now she just says, “You’re on the island, not on Mars.” Helpful.
The real kicker? I built this. I crafted a job that could be anywhere. Frankfurt. Madrid. Ibiza. I wanted this freedom. But now I feel like I’ve wired my nervous system to a notification bell.
And I’ve noticed something terrifying. When things go quiet—when nobody calls, emails, messages—I don’t feel relieved. I feel panicked. Like I’ve dropped a ball I didn’t know I was holding. That’s not balance. That’s addiction. Different from nicotine, but just as sharp.
There are days I wonder if I should chuck the phone into the sea. Just watch it sink and feel… what? Lighter? Lost?
The villa’s Wi-Fi cuts out randomly. Usually at the worst moments. One time, mid-pitch, the screen froze on my face mid-word. I stared at myself, glitching, grinning like a lunatic. Then silence. My heart rate didn’t come down for an hour. That was the same day I tried meditating on a cliff edge. Lasted six minutes before my brain reminded me of five things I forgot to invoice.
So, no. It’s not balance. Not yet. It’s me, running a company in my board shorts, trying to keep the dream alive without losing my mind or dropping a client.
But sometimes—just sometimes—there’s a moment. The light goes gold, a breeze hits just right, and the inbox sits still. I look up from the laptop and the island looks back like, “You done yet?”
Not quite. But I’m learning.
Or maybe I’m just pretending I’m not unraveling in paradise.