We are living through a genuinely transformative moment, and it raises a practical question, not only a philosophical one: what will remain distinctly human, and what conditions let us access the fullness of what we are capable of. The way we answer shapes how we spend our time and energy.
An earlier piece in this series covered the guardrails I set for how I use AI. This one turns to the other half of the work — cultivating the higher-order abilities AI cannot reach. What I have found is that these abilities depend far more on context than on effort.
Why does AI make this a leadership question, not just a personal one?
The arrival of AI creates both an opportunity and a necessity. The opportunity is that as machines take over more cognitive and manual work, many of us stand to gain more time than we have had before. The necessity is that we will need new sources of meaning, and new places to apply distinctly human abilities that do not compete with what machines do well.
It helps to distinguish ordinary abilities from what I call extraordinary abilities — uniquely human capacities that machines cannot easily replicate. Tasks once considered safely human, from writing compelling prose to diagnosing conditions and playing strategic games, have already been emulated. What remains distinctly human is not processing information or following rules, but seeing connections no one has seen, asking questions no one has asked, and imagining possibilities that do not yet exist.
Some people have easier access to these abilities than others. But they are, I believe, available to most of us to some degree, and can be unlocked even later in life. Their emergence, though, depends heavily on context.
Why can't we simply force these abilities?
Understanding that these abilities exist is one thing. Accessing them reliably is another. If they are latent in most of us, what keeps them from showing up regularly?
The answer, in my experience, lies in context — and specifically in state. These capacities are much more about being than about doing. They tend to arrive when the body, mind, and emotions are coherent and working together rather than in conflict.
This is consistent with what many artists, writers, and inventors describe: that ideas come to them rather than being consciously manufactured. It is why forced creativity rarely works, and why our best ideas so often surface in the shower, on a walk, or just before sleep — when we are relaxed and receptive rather than striving and controlling.
What is context curation?
The insight that has shaped my life most is that we have far more agency over our experience than we usually assume. Most of us respond to circumstances rather than deliberately shaping them. We tolerate environments that drain us, relationships that diminish us, and routines that pull us away from our potential — often without noticing we have a choice.
Context curation is the practice of reclaiming that choice. It is not dramatic upheaval. It is a practice of awareness and small, consistent decisions — who to spend an hour with, where to place attention, what to consume, how to use a morning. Over time these compound, moving us toward what resonates and away from what creates friction.
I think of it in two dimensions:
External context — the environment around us: the people, places, and activities we spend our time in.
Internal context — our own physical, mental, and emotional state.
Rather than trying to change everything at once, I focus on one dimension at a time, making small adjustments and watching what shifts.
I will also be transparent about something that has mattered a great deal to me: for the past six years I have spent one month a year in immersive retreat — intensive yoga, meditation, and breathwork, sometimes for many hours a day. My daily morning ritual builds steady progress; the retreats have been where the larger leaps happened. I mention this not as a suggestion that anyone should copy it, but as an honest account of how my own practice is structured.
How does the external environment shape our capacity?
Our surroundings matter more than we tend to credit. Just as a citrus tree planted at the North Pole will never bear fruit, expecting ourselves to flourish in an environment that does not fit us is futile. Too often we tolerate conditions that do not serve us and then wonder why we feel off.
The good news is the leverage of small shifts. Removing one draining relationship, adding fifteen minutes in nature each week, keeping the phone down in the morning — each creates a ripple. In general, I am careful about who I spend time with, where, and how, and I actively avoid what scatters my energy or creates discord.
Which relationships help — and which quietly cost us?
The people we surround ourselves with are the single most powerful environmental factor we can influence. I only understood how much creative energy I was losing in the wrong relationships once I gave myself permission to step back from them — and the effect on my capacity was immediate.
The relationships I now keep distance from tend to run on superficiality, gossip, drama, negativity, or an extractive mindset. I no longer preserve connections that feel chronically unbalanced, and I avoid unproductive conflict — I engage in disagreement only when there is genuine openness on both sides, and I bring the same. Conflict where both people are only trying to prove a point resolves nothing and drains everyone.
I treat relationship hygiene as a foundation of self-care. A simple signal I rely on: I notice how my body feels after being with someone. If I repeatedly feel contracted — a tightness or sense of diminishment — I take that seriously.
The relationships I actively seek are defined by shared values, mutual respect, trust, reciprocity, and open-mindedness. They do not need to be numerous; a few deeply aligned connections are worth more than many shallow ones. The people who inspire me most are often bridge builders — those who live between worlds: technology and art, science and somatic practice, business and spirituality, different cultures. I seek their company deliberately, and I have created spaces to connect them.
Which environments and activities help or drain us?
Beyond people, the physical and digital spaces we inhabit shape our energy in subtle but real ways. The principle is consistent: notice what drains you, and make small moves toward what nourishes you.
The things I minimise, as far as I can:
Crowded, cluttered, or dark spaces
Overstimulation — especially digital overstimulation from endless scrolling and binge-watching
Screens during the morning and when I want to create
Cheap dopamine, heavily processed food, and alcohol
A hustle mindset, overcommitment, and an overpacked schedule
Art that transmits turmoil rather than lifts
Anything that leaves me feeling contracted or off-centre
For years I could not avoid overstimulation or hustle — I worked in fast-paced startup environments where they were the norm. I did not leave it all behind overnight. I became more aware of how it affected me, and over time made choices that moved me away from it. Each small choice — leaving work fifteen minutes earlier, walking instead of scrolling, saying no to one commitment — was a vote for a different kind of life.
The things I actively cultivate:
Silence, solitude, and space — I need one to two hours a day to myself to stay connected to my intuition
Nature — at least fifteen minutes in a park daily, and a weekend in nature every couple of months
Regular deep relaxation — massage, yin yoga, yoga nidra
Simple, mostly plant-based food as a baseline
Protected, prioritised sleep
Uplifting art, and authenticity
If time or money is tight, the principle still holds; it just looks different. Even small amounts of intentional time in a natural setting — a park bench at lunch, a few trees on the walk to work — shift the nervous system. These micro-choices, accumulated day by day, gradually reshape both context and capacity. You do not need to transform everything at once.
Why is the internal state the most direct lever?
Beyond external circumstances, how we prepare body and mind each day is perhaps the most direct lever we have. My morning ritual is where I realign — and I focus on mornings because the brain is naturally more open and receptive then, before the day pulls us into reactive mode.
My morning practice usually includes:
A morning walk (15–40 minutes)
Hatha yoga (15–60 minutes)
Breathwork (15–20 minutes)
Meditation (15–20 minutes)
I also protect around an hour of silence and space, free of screens and external input. A slow, intentional morning is essential to my access to creativity and intuition. I may be more productive in the narrow, task-counting sense when I shortcut it — but I lose access to the larger ideas and insights, and that trade is too costly.
This was not always my practice. My mornings once ran rushed and fragmented, dictated by work. The shift happened gradually, as I noticed how different I felt when I carved out even small pockets of space. That progression matters — you do not need everything to be perfect before you begin. Even five minutes of intentional calm before the day pulls you into reactivity can meaningfully change your access to clarity.
How do we find our own version of this?
Some of these elements are close to universal. But there is also real individual variation — just as a citrus tree needs different conditions from a Nordmann fir. What nourishes one person's creative capacity can drain another's. The structure I have built around morning practice, solitude, and retreat is not the right structure for everyone; it is what I have learned my particular nervous system needs.
The real work is learning to listen to yourself. Attune to your own rhythm and follow that inner signal, even when it runs against convention. Over time you learn to read the subtle cues your body sends — the sense of expansion or contraction, coherence or discord — and to treat them as reliable guidance. That capacity strengthens the more you use it.
The deeper invitation is to reclaim agency over your own experience. We live in a world designed to pull attention outward, toward metrics, comparison, and consumption. Choosing to curate your context is a deliberate move against those defaults. Like a tree, you need the right environment to thrive — but unlike a tree, you get to choose and shape that environment.
So return to the question worth starting from: what conditions allow you to feel most alive, most connected, most capable of accessing the fullness of what you can do? Notice the moments when you feel most yourself — when the body relaxes, the mind opens, ideas flow — and notice what precedes them. Then, one small choice at a time, begin moving toward those conditions. Each step builds momentum. The only remaining task is to trust yourself enough to follow it.
Frequently Asked Questions
What is context curation?
Context curation is the practice of deliberately shaping the environment that lets higher-order abilities emerge, rather than passively responding to circumstances. It works across two dimensions — external context (the people, places, and activities around us) and internal context (our own physical, mental, and emotional state) — through small, consistent choices that compound over time.
Why can’t creativity and insight simply be forced?
These capacities are more about being than doing — they tend to arrive when the body, mind, and emotions are coherent rather than in conflict. This is why forced creativity rarely works and why ideas often surface in the shower, on a walk, or before sleep, when we are relaxed and receptive rather than striving and controlling.
How do relationships affect creative capacity?
The people we spend time with are the single most powerful environmental factor we can influence. Relationships built on superficiality, drama, or an extractive mindset quietly drain creative energy, while those grounded in shared values, respect, and reciprocity support it. A useful signal is noticing how the body feels after an interaction — a repeated sense of contraction is worth taking seriously.
Why does a morning routine matter for cognitive capacity?
The brain is naturally more open and receptive in the morning, before the day’s demands pull it into reactive mode. A slow, intentional morning — even a few minutes of stillness, breathwork, or a short walk — can meaningfully change access to clarity, creativity, and intuition for the rest of the day. Consistency matters more than duration.
What if I don’t have time or resources for extended practices?
The underlying principle still applies; it just looks different. Even small amounts of intentional time in nature, a few minutes of genuine quiet, or one nourishing food choice register in the body and shift the nervous system. These micro-choices, accumulated day by day, gradually reshape both context and capacity without requiring a dramatic overhaul.