I genuinely believe it is now easier to get Taylor Swift tickets than it is to organise dinner with six adults. Want to grab brunch? “Absolutely. I’m free on the third Sunday of March next year.” I’m exaggerating. Barely.

A few weeks ago, I suggested a spontaneous weekend away with two friends. Nothing extravagant. Just a couple of days somewhere nearby, good food, questionable weather and enough gossip to justify the petrol. One of them replied, completely sincerely: “I’d love to. Let’s look at the first semester of next year.” Reader, she wasn’t joking. I’ve seen countries form governments faster.

Somewhere along the way, we’ve become unpaid executive assistants to ourselves. Our lives are now a never-ending cycle of calendar invites, reminders and colour-coded commitments. Every dinner requires a poll. Every coffee needs to be booked three weeks in advance. Every birthday somehow turns into a logistical masterpiece involving four group chats and someone inevitably replying, “Sorry, just catching up!”

Brunch has become a military operation. What’s fascinating is that everyone seems incredibly busy, yet nobody can quite explain doing what. Ask someone how they’re doing. “Busy.” “What have you been up to?” “Everything.” “What exactly?” “Honestly… I couldn’t tell you.”

Being busy has quietly become a personality trait. Somewhere between hustle culture and social FOMO, we’ve started wearing packed schedules like designer handbags. Look how important I am. Look how impossible I am to book. Look how many tabs I have open. I say this with love because I am guilty of it too. 

I have friends with whom we organise one-hour coffee dates weeks in advance. Somewhere around minute thirty-eight, they’ll pull out their phone and say, “We should organise the next coffee.” We’re literally still drinking the current one. At this rate, we’ll soon be planning Christmas 2032 while ordering dessert. 

Perhaps the greatest luxury today isn’t money. It’s finding two people who are both free on the same Saturday. Spontaneity has become an endangered species. Imagine texting someone, “I’m outside your neighbourhood. Fancy a walk?” Half the population would respond as though you’d asked them to relocate to Antarctica. “Today? As in today today?” The calendar did not approve.

Of course, planning itself isn’t the problem. Planning holidays is wonderful. Planning birthdays is thoughtful. Planning weddings is probably advisable. The problem is that we’ve become so good at planning life that we’ve forgotten to leave room for living it. Every space in our diary now feels like a mistake waiting to be fixed. A free evening? Quick. Book Pilates. Dinner. A networking event. A pottery class. A run club. A sound bath. Anything before we accidentally spend an evening alone with our thoughts.

We’ve somehow convinced ourselves that if our calendar isn’t full, our life isn’t either. But I don’t think a full calendar necessarily means a full life. Some of my favourite memories have terrible organisational skills. They happened because someone cancelled. Because one drink accidentally became four. Because we missed the train. Because someone said, “Let’s keep walking.” Because a quiet coffee somehow lasted until dinner. None of those moments was pencilled into the diary six months earlier. Life’s best stories rarely begin with, “Calendar invite accepted.” They’re usually born from, “Actually, why not?”

We’ve also become strangely uncomfortable with doing absolutely nothing. Not scrolling. Not networking. Not optimising. Just existing. Going for a walk because it’s sunny. Browsing a bookshop with no intention of buying anything. Watching a terrible film in your pyjamas on a Saturday night with Chinese takeaway. Calling your mum because you suddenly have an hour free. Going grocery shopping without simultaneously listening to a productivity podcast about becoming your “highest self.” Revolutionary.

The funny thing is, we’re all searching for connection while scheduling ourselves out of it. We’ve become so efficient at organising our friendships that we’re in danger of forgetting how friendships actually work. They’re messy. They’re spontaneous. Sometimes your best friend doesn’t need a calendar invite. They need you to answer, “I’m free now.”

Maybe that’s the new status symbol. Not a luxury watch. Not a sold-out restaurant reservation. Not saying, “Sorry, I’m slammed.” Maybe the real flex is looking at a random Tuesday evening and thinking, “Nothing planned.” Perfect. Because an empty evening isn’t empty at all. It’s possibility. It’s a walk that turns into a two-hour conversation. It’s bumping into someone unexpectedly. It’s ordering Indian food because cooking suddenly feels like too much effort. It’s saying yes to the plans that couldn’t possibly have been planned.

Life has never been at its best when it’s over-scheduled. It happens in the spaces between the plans. In the conversations that run longer than expected. In the detours. In the cancelled reservations that somehow become unforgettable nights. Perhaps we don’t need more productivity. Perhaps we just need a little more room for surprise.

So here’s a radical suggestion. Leave one evening empty. Protect one lazy Sunday like it’s your most important meeting. Don’t optimise every spare hour. Allow yourself the outrageous luxury of boredom. Because here’s the thing. Your friends won’t remember how beautifully organised your Google Calendar was. They’ll remember that you stayed for one more drink. That you came over after a bad day without making them send a calendar invite. That you said yes when everyone else said, “Let me check my schedule.”

The goal was never to have a life so full that nobody could fit into it. The goal was simply to build a life with enough room for the people you love, and enough space for life to surprise you

With Love, Chaos, and Jazz. Always.