Finding Clarity in the Desert

Last year we took a family holiday to Fuerteventura. Whilst everyone else was at the pool, I was running in the desert.

I'd wake up early, before the heat became unbearable, and head out into the wilderness. Cross-country, mostly off any paths. The landscape there is barren in the most beautiful way. Desert stretching in every direction, volcanic rock, endless sky. I was exploring as much as I was running.

Some days I'd cover 20 kilometres. Just me, the sun, and my thoughts.

There were moments out there when I felt freer than I've ever felt. More liberated than in any other context of my life so far. Something about the vastness of the desert, the warmth on my face, the absolute silence except for my breathing and footsteps. No emails. No notifications. No urgent problems demanding immediate attention.

I did a lot of thinking about oodlü whilst I was out there. About what it means to make a difference in the world. About whether what we're building actually matters. About the gap between the vision in my head and the reality of making it exist.

Running has always been my safe space for slow contemplation. Back home in Scotland, I run with my dog Rocky in the East Lothian Hills behind our house two or three times a week. He's a Dutch Shepherd, which means he's basically half Malinois. Crazy drive. Wonderful, loving personality. Absolutely relentless when he's moving.

There's something about running beside a dog the size of Rocky that feels primaeval and real. Dogs have a way of bringing you back to what matters. They ground you in a way humans don't. Rocky doesn't care about business plans or user numbers or investor pitches. He cares about the run, the hill, the moment.

When times get tough, and I'm finding things difficult, I think back to those moments in the Fuerteventura wilderness. When I doubt myself, when the weight of what we're trying to build feels overwhelming, I remember what I felt out there with the warmth of the sun on my face and the vast distance of the desert around me.

Somehow, I find new energy to carry on. Because what we're doing is worth it.

Building oodlü means long hours at a screen. It means technical problems that take days to solve. It means conversations with people who don't understand why we're not just copying what already works. It means watching our children grow up whilst I wake at 3am to move the project forward before the day actually starts.

The desert reminds me why I'm doing this. The silence out there creates space for clarity you can't find anywhere else. No distractions. No compromises. Just the question: does this matter?

And the answer, every time, is yes.

We're building something that could genuinely help children develop in safer environments than what currently exists. That's not a small thing. That's worth the early mornings and the self-doubt and the years of work with no guarantee it succeeds.

The East Lothian Hills don't have the dramatic vastness of Fuerteventura, but they offer something similar. Space to think. Distance from the noise. Rocky bounding ahead, then circling back to check I'm still there. The rhythm of movement creating room for thoughts to settle into something coherent.

I'm not sure I could do this work without those runs. Without the physical space that creates mental space. Without the reminder that some things are bigger than metrics and milestones.

If you're building something difficult, something that matters, find your version of the desert. Find the space where you can think clearly without everything else crowding in. Find what brings you back to why it matters when the weight of it all threatens to crush the reason you started.

For me, it's running through wilderness with the sun on my face and a dog who just wants to move. For you, it might be something entirely different.

But find it. Because you'll need it.

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