There was a time in my life when peace sounded… boring.

In my twenties, life was about movement. Plans. Parties. Friends calling at midnight. Last-minute dinners that turned into nights out. Social calendars that were full before the week had even begun. It was fun, and I genuinely enjoyed it. I look back at those years with a lot of fondness.

Those were the years when having the best time possible felt like the whole point.

And to be fair, I did.

But somewhere in my early thirties, something quietly shifted.

The things that once felt exciting slowly started feeling… loud. Not in a literal sense, but in the way life can sometimes become noisy when you are constantly surrounded by people, expectations, and social obligations that don’t really mean anything.

I began noticing how I felt after certain interactions. Not just physically tired, but mentally drained. As if my energy had been quietly chipped away by conversations that didn’t matter, obligations that felt performative, and people who only appeared in my life when it suited them.

Unnecessary drama started to feel exhausting.

And the social obligations that came with it, even more so.

Especially the kind where you’re expected to be politely engaged with people who never actually show up in your life in any meaningful way. The kind who don’t call, don’t check in, don’t really know you, but suddenly want long conversations when you run into them at a social gathering.

At some point I realised something simple.

If someone genuinely wanted to be part of my life, they would already be there.

And the people who are there know exactly who they are.

Those are the friends who can call me anytime. The ones who have shown up over the years, who have checked in, who have been present in the quiet moments and not just the public ones. With them, the energy flows naturally. No effort, no performance, no pretending.

Those friendships stayed.

The others quietly faded.

And strangely enough, life started feeling lighter.

These days, what I value most isn’t excitement. It’s peace.

A peaceful day for me now looks very different than it did ten or fifteen years ago.

It can be something as simple as a slow morning. A long walk through Madrid with my AirPods in. Sitting somewhere with a coffee and observing the world around me. Writing. Reading. Cooking something simple. Or just spending time alone without feeling the need to fill every moment with noise.

Peace, I’ve realised, is a kind of luxury.

Not the kind you can photograph or post online. Not the kind people brag about at dinner tables.

But the kind you feel in your body.

It comes from choosing your energy carefully. From knowing when to say no. From protecting your time. From understanding that not everyone deserves full access to you, and that this isn’t selfish. It’s simply self-respect.

In my twenties I chased excitement.

In my thirties I discovered something far more valuable.

Calm.

And sometimes I find myself wondering something that never would have crossed my mind before.

When did peace become the thing I value most?
And why did no one tell me sooner that it would feel like this?

— Raulito