Imagine driving a race car at full tilt — engine screaming, every decision happening in fractions of a second, completely locked in.

Then the front door flies open and you’re asked if you remembered to call the plumber.

Or the kids are screaming and the cat just puked on the carpet.

That’s the work to life whiplash.

At work you’re firing on all cylinders, kickin’ ass and takin’ names. Then at home the tempo of the room is operating at a totally different pace. It can feel like you just got slingshotted from one extreme to the other.

Many high performers don’t have an off switch, and it’s usually because nobody taught them where to locate it for themselves. 

So they stay in sixth gear — physically present, mentally somewhere else entirely — and the people closest to them learn to stop expecting anything different.

I struggled with this for years. Still do.

Full tilt, full throttle, unable to downshift from the day no matter how much I wanted to. My mind hadn’t clocked out, even though my physical body had already come home.

On the harder days it follows me into sleep. I’ll wake up at 2am mid-thought, dreaming about a problem, already building solutions. By the time my alarm goes off it’s like I’ve already been working for hours without even opening my eyes.

I’d be in a room full of people I loved and still be completely alone in my own head.

I could feel the gap between where I was and where I needed to be.

It wasn’t until my therapist looked at me and said:

“While I love how passionate you are about your work. We’re here to talk about you.”

I’d show up to our sessions buzzin’ and unwilling to be present. Same issue I’d experience in my personal relationships.

At the time I justified it as not wanting to lose momentum. I was so locked into a good work state that any other energetic state felt like a threat.

In reality I just didn’t have the skill to put it down — or the self trust that I could pick it back up when I was ready. Let alone without the anxiety of not working and the guilt of not being present.

She taught me something simple that day. I still use it. I call it The 3 Minute Circle.

Here’s how it works:

Step 1 — Sit down and close your eyes.

Find a chair, your car, wherever you are. Sit down, put both feet flat on the floor, and feel your back make full contact with whatever is behind you. Close your eyes. You’re not meditating. You’re just stopping.

Step 2 — Box breathe until your body settles.

Breathe in slowly through your nose for four counts. Hold it for four. Exhale slowly through your mouth for four. Hold for four. That’s one round. Do this 8-10 times. You’ll know it’s working when you feel your chest drop and your stomach start to expand instead. That’s your nervous system getting the memo that the emergency is over.

Step 3 — Imagine a circle around your head.

With your eyes still closed, picture a circle forming around your head — like a halo sitting just outside your skull. Now slowly expand it. Down through your neck, your shoulders, your chest, your stomach, until the circle surrounds your entire body. Everything inside that circle is your space. Nothing gets in unless you let it.

Step 4 — Start pushing things out.

Now start noticing what’s inside the circle that doesn’t belong there. The conversation you keep replaying. The email you haven’t sent. The decision you’re still second guessing. The thing someone said that you can’t let go of. 

Whatever comes up — picture yourself grabbing it and pushing it outside the circle. One thing at a time. Don’t rush. Some days there’s more to clear than others. Keep going until nothing else surfaces. 

Step 5 — When there’s nothing left to push out, stop.

Just breathe. Keep your eyes closed and notice what it feels like when it’s just you in there — no noise, mental replays, or unfinished business. Just be present.

Three minutes. Sometimes less. Harder days sometimes more.

The days you least want to do it are usually the days you need it most.

You can’t meet people where they are if you haven’t left where you were.

And the people waiting for you on the other side of that door deserve a present version of you, as do you.