Ignite

Introduction

The phone sits in my hands, a silent witness to my indecision. I want to accept my friend's invitation, but the weight of my workload pulls me back. My inbox is overflowing with unanswered emails, my day is crammed with meetings and I've just realised I only have twenty-four hours left to prepare my presentation for a conference in Frankfurt. The fear of falling short, of not delivering the flawless presentation I demand of myself, hangs over me like a storm cloud.

Yet, a small voice inside me urges me to say yes to my friend's offer. In this new city where I hardly know anyone, I yearn for connection, the laughter and warmth that friendship brings. The loneliness is like a heavy blanket, but the thought of putting my responsibilities on hold sends a jolt of apprehension through me. What if stepping away leaves me even more behind?

I wrestle with the decision, but finally, I take a deep breath and type out a simple, 'Yes, I would love to' and hit send. Immediately, unease settles in, my stomach tightens as if caught in a vice. My hands tremble slightly, revealing the tension between the relief of prioritising connection and the anxiety of putting it before work.

Glancing at the clock, I realise I need to get serious about my to-do list. The fact that I only have seven hours left until I meet my friend sharpens my focus in an unexpected way. No more fiddling around. I turn off my phone, close my email and zero in on the most important task: my presentation.

I quickly reschedule a few meetings and politely excuse myself from others, buying myself precious time. With those distractions out of the way, I dive into outlining my presentation. The ideas start flowing easily now that I've committed my full attention to the task. The initial pang of guilt for prioritising friendship over work is replaced by a strong sense of purpose. My fingers fly across the keyboard as I structure each slide with precision. My focus deepens, allowing me to execute with an efficiency I didn't know I had. It's as if deciding to meet my friend unlocked a hidden reservoir of energy, fuelling my determination to get everything done.

As I put the final touches on the presentation, a wave of accomplishment sweeps over me. Glancing at the clock, I realise I've managed to navigate a packed day with unexpected finesse and can now enjoy the evening. As I pack up my bag, I look forward to a guilt-free night with my friend.

The next morning, I wake up feeling unexpectedly refreshed. There's a lightness in my step as I remember the previous evening - a reminder of the joy I've been missing, the warmth of connection that work had slowly drained from my life. The satisfaction I feel from spending time with my friend forces me to confront the hidden costs of dedicating so much of myself to work. How many other moments have I sacrificed over the past few years? Is this really how I want to keep living - always prioritising work over life?

The questions linger like a quiet storm, fuelling a rebellion against the status quo. I start diving into books and articles on time management and personal productivity, eager to find a better way to balance my life. I begin experimenting, trying out tools like the Pomodoro Technique and carving out focus hours, searching for a rhythm that feels natural, sustainable.

As I test new strategies, I slowly learn to set clearer boundaries and become better at saying no. With each small victory, I feel a shift - tasks that once overwhelmed me are now tackled with more focus and intention. Slowly but surely, I start to reclaim my time, rediscovering a sense of freedom I hadn't realised I'd lost. It feels like I've unlocked a new level of control, not just over my work but over life itself.

However, beneath my newfound success, the familiar voice of self-doubt lingers, nagging at the edges of my consciousness. As I celebrate more victories, the hold of my imposter syndrome tightens, whispering that my achievements are merely a fluke - that I am not truly capable or deserving of them. Even being appointed as professor of economics fails to quell my feelings of inadequacy. My internal struggle casts a shadow over even my proudest moments, clouding them with a persistent haze of self-doubt.

Desperate for relief from the stress and anxiety that have become my constant companions, I decide to diverge from my meticulously curated professional path and embark on a five-month sabbatical - a period fully dedicated to life's simple pleasures. No hectoring voice, no pressure, no stress or anxiety that have infested my personal and professional life. With an enormous sense of relief, I shut down my computer and leave the office on 26 February 2020, ready to reclaim my life.

But the universe has different plans. Just three weeks into my sabbatical, the world has changed beyond recognition. As the pandemic tightens its grip, I find myself confined to my apartment, allowed out only once a day for exercise. The sabbatical, which was supposed to be a time of joy, exploration and nourishment quickly loses its purpose. The futility of persisting with this hollowed-out version of a sabbatical becomes glaringly obvious. With a heavy heart, I decide to end it prematurely and plunge back into work.

It only takes four days for the voice of self-doubt to creep back into my thoughts, more insidious than ever. Each time I sit down to work, it whispers that my ideas are shallow, that my contributions to economics are insignificant and that I'm simply not smart enough for this role. The constant barrage of doubts is suffocating. It gnaws at me, chipping away at my motivation and resolve.

One afternoon, as I gaze out of my window at the eerily quiet city below, I realise that I'm standing at a crossroads. Two distinct paths stretch out before me. The first is one of surrender - an escape route where I leave behind the career I've spent years building, trading it for something easier, something that demands less of me. The second path is far more daunting; a path of confrontation where I must face my fears and anxieties head-on, challenging the very doubts that have plagued me for so long. The choice is clear, but the journey ahead is anything but.

Unsure of where to begin, I reflect on the progress I've already made in self-management. These improvements have boosted my productivity, freeing up time for activities that energise me. I wonder if there's more I can do - other strategies that can enhance my work efficiency and help alleviate the stress and self-doubt I feel. My search leads me to a course taught by Jim Kwik, a renowned brain and memory coach, titled Superbrain. Intrigued by the promise of unlocking new cognitive abilities, I decide to enrol, eager to discover what more my brain might be capable of.

With a mix of curiosity and scepticism, I sit down behind my computer for the first class. The silence of my quiet room is quickly filled by Jim's confident voice, instantly capturing my attention. 'There is no such thing as a good or bad memory,' Jim begins, his tone both reassuring and persuasive. 'Only a trained or untrained one.' His words linger in my mind. Could it really be true? Can I actually train my brain to excel at memorisation? The idea feels both intriguing and hopeful, stirring a sense of possibility within me.

As the days unfold and I immerse myself deeper into the course, I begin to uncover something remarkable about my brain. I realise I've significantly underestimated its potential, focusing too much on its weaknesses rather than leveraging its strengths. In economic terms, I've been operating my brain with surprising inefficiency.

As the thirty-day course comes to an end, I realise my journey is far from finished. Having mastered memory feats that once felt way out of reach - easily recalling lists, facts and sequences - I find myself grappling with deeper questions. Why are these techniques so effective? If my memory techniques were flawed, what else might I be missing? Are my learning strategies inefficient too? And what about my creativity? Is there a way to enhance that as well?

Determined to explore these questions, I dive into the world of cognitive performance. It's not long before I meet Philip Bond, a professor of creativity and innovation, and a Guinness World Record holder for memorising the first ten thousand digits of pi and correctly identifying random sequences within them (a feat known as the Mount Everest of memory challenges). Meeting Philip opens the door to a world where the limits of my brain are both tested and redefined.

Under Philip's guidance, I embark on an exploration of cognitive training that stretches beyond memory, delving into problem solving and creativity as well. His techniques and exercises push me to new heights, revealing that significant improvements in cognitive abilities are possible within just a few months. The process is demanding, requiring considerable time and effort. Yet, even as progress sometimes feels slow, each small victory fuels my determination.

As I delve deeper into the mysteries of the brain, I uncover more methods to sharpen my memory, learn more effectively and spark my creativity. Some of these techniques are familiar, but many are entirely new. The irony isn't lost on me: despite years of study and learning, no one has ever told me how to optimally use my brain.

As my cognitive skills steadily improve, the sharp edges of my self-doubt begin to soften. I start to feel...