Last week in Melaka-Malaysia, a small but very beautiful and aesthetic city, I had a simple but unforgettable moment.
My husband and I were wandering through one of the old museums, the kind filled with antique porcelain, carved wooden furniture, and fragile handwritten letters. The air carried the faint scent of dust and varnished wood, the kind that whispers stories of time. The rooms were quiet, except for the soft echo of our footsteps, and for a moment, I could almost imagine what it felt like to live there. In that century, in that rhythm, in that stillness.
I was excited, maybe too excited.
I wanted to see everything, every detail, every piece of history carefully displayed behind glass. My steps grew quicker, my eyes jumped from one corner to another, as if I was afraid to miss something precious.
Then my husband looked at me and smiled.
“Slow down,” he said softly. “Breathe. See it calmly. Manage your posture.”
So I did.
And the moment I slowed down, everything changed. The light seemed warmer, the space wider, the air gentler. Even the sound of our steps became more harmonious, like a quiet rhythm that belonged to the building itself.
Then he added something that I’ll never forget:
“When we move calmly, people see us differently. There’s a kind of charisma in stillness.”
That line stayed with me.
Because in a world that glorifies speed, calm presence has become rare. And rare things always draw attention.
Since that day, I’ve been thinking about how often we rush, not because we have to, but because something inside us believes we should. We rush because we’re fear being left out. Stillness seems like failing behind in a race we never signed up. We rush because silence feels unfamiliar, and slowing down brings up thoughts we’ve been avoiding. We rush because moving fast gives us a false sense of control, like speed can shield us from uncertainty. And perhaps, we rush because excitement pretends to be urgency. We want to experience everything, but in that eagerness, we forget that beauty doesn’t flourish under pressure.
But when we slow down, life opens up in ways we don’t expect.
In that museum, slowing down didn’t just change how I saw the objects. It changed how I felt in the space. I wasn’t just looking at history; I was inside it. And I realized that doing things slowly isn’t about doing less, it’s about doing things fully.
When we move more slowly, our posture changes. Our breath softens. Our thoughts find order. We stop chasing what’s next and start appreciating what’s now.
There’s something magnetic about that kind of presence.
People can sense when we’re at ease with ourselves, when we move through the world with grace instead of haste.
As my husband said, there’s a kind of charisma in stillness.
The more I think about it, the more I realize that slowness isn’t just a pace, it’s a practice. It’s how we reclaim our attention in a world that constantly tries to divide it.
Ryan Holiday writes in Stillness Is the Key that “stillness is what aims the arrow.” We can move fast and still go nowhere if our direction isn’t clear. But when we slow down, when we take the time to think, to breathe, to be, our actions start to align with intention. We stop reacting and start responding. We trade noise for clarity.
Cal Newport calls it depth. In Digital Minimalism, he says that true fulfillment doesn’t come from constant motion, but from full engagement, giving our focus completely to what’s in front of us. It’s not about doing everything; it’s about doing one thing well.
Maybe that’s the beauty of doing things slowly. It’s not laziness, and it’s not weakness. It’s a quiet declaration that our worth isn’t measured by our speed. It’s how we show respect, to the moment, to the work, to ourselves.
And maybe that’s why people who move calmly seem magnetic. They’re not hurried, but present. They walk through the world with an invisible steadiness, the kind that doesn’t need to prove itself.
It’s funny, you know, once we start noticing this, we realize how much of our favorite art quietly celebrates slowness. Think of Before Sunrise (Oh, I loved that movie!), where two people simply walk and talk through Vienna, letting the night stretch without a destination. Even in music, there’s a reason why artists like Adele can hold us with a single note. They don’t rush to impress; they let emotion linger. They embrace the stillness.
We’ve been taught that charisma comes from movement and noise.
But perhaps true charisma comes from an unhurried presence.
From the kind of calm that says, “I’m not in a rush, I’m right where I need to be.”
And when we carry that into daily life, everything changes. Our work feels steadier. Our relationships feel warmer. Even small moments, like sipping coffee, walking with someone we love, or reading a page slowly, start to feel sacred again. Slowness teaches us that we don’t need to catch up; we just need to show up. It’s how confidence is built, not from speed, but from substance.
Because when we move slower, we move truer. We stop trying to chase the moment and start living inside it.
Maybe that’s the real art of doing things slowly: not to delay life, but to finally feel it.
So now, whenever I catch myself rushing, whether through work, conversations, or moments that deserve more presence, I remember that day in Melaka. I remember the sound of our footsteps in the quiet museum, the warmth of the light, and my husband’s gentle voice reminding me to slow down.
There’s power in that kind of pace.
Not the power that rushes to prove, but the one that moves with grace.
Because life isn’t meant to be skimmed, it’s meant to be read slowly. The laughter, the pauses, the people, the coffee, the quiet walks, they’re all chapters that deserve to be savored.
Maybe that’s the secret after all: the more we slow down, the more alive everything feels.
Love,
Kirana
