The Habit of Choice

My next stop was Klosters Switzerland for an ocean plastics policy workshop at a ski lodge atop a small mountain town in the Swiss Alps. The train wound through valleys where rivers carved silver ribbons through pine forests, the peaks above dusted in snow even in late autumn. Wooden chalets clung to hillsides, their flower boxes spilling red geraniums into the crisp air. The rhythm of the train slowed as the mountains closed in, and when I finally stepped off the platform, it felt like stepping into a postcard.

The Alps don’t whisper. They tower - jagged and immovable, their shadows stretching across everything. And under them, Klosters hummed with a kind of quiet perfection. Even the stacked woodpiles looked like they’d been arranged with rulers. Swiss efficiency, I thought. Amazing. Day One - The Hike On my first day, I went hiking in the Alps. The air was crisp and clean - the kind that makes you breathe deeper without realizing it. The trail climbed steadily through pine forests before opening into golden meadows where cowbells echoed faintly across the valley like a slow, steady metronome.

Everywhere I looked, there was order without effort - trails perfectly maintained, fences straight, benches carved smooth from local timber and placed at just the right angles toward the view. Even the wilderness in Switzerland seemed to run on intention. I needed that. I needed to walk it out. The mountain air was exactly what I needed to get back to my good state of mind - to get back to balance as my default state. And as I walked, I realized something I’d been missing for months. That, too, was a choice. It was in my control to make balance my default.

To choose it. And when I drifted from it - when stress or frustration or pressure started to creep in - I could choose to return. Holding on to stress was, in its own way, a decision. And if stress was a choice, then peace was one too. Wow. Choice was powerful. And I could become powerful enough to choose. I just needed to make choice a habit. Halfway up the ridge, I stopped beside a stream. The water was clear as glass, tumbling over rocks polished by time. I knelt to take a drink, and the cold hit like a jolt of life - pure, sharp, humbling.

I looked out at the river glinting far below, the trees rising like sentinels, the snow-capped peaks scraping the sky - and I felt something I hadn’t felt in years. Peace. Not the kind that comes from silence, but the kind that comes from alignment. The realization that the world around me matched the rhythm I wanted inside me. I never knew how much mountain life called to me - the trees, the water, the clean precision of it all. The city had always been convenient, but it had never felt like home. This did.

I pulled out my notebook and wrote my weekly question at the top of the page: What one thing can I do this week that will get me closer to my goal? Then, below it, I wrote my answer: Make a habit of choosing to make balance my default state of mind. Standing there, I finally understood it. Choice isn’t just something you make - it’s something you practice. I pulled out my phone and messaged my coach, John Spence: “John - can we theme our next coaching session around time and choice?” He replied a few minutes later: “My favourite topics.” I smiled and kept walking - choosing to breathe, choosing to be here, choosing to let the mountains steady me.

Day Two - The Farm The next morning, I joined the group for a tour of a sustainable alpine farm. We followed a narrow trail through meadows so tidy they looked combed, every fence straight, every tool neatly stored. Even the cows grazing nearby looked content - bells clanging in calm rhythm across the valley. Our guide, a farmer with weathered hands and the kind of calm that only comes from time outdoors, stopped beside a patch of rich, black soil. “Regenerative farming,” he said, “isn’t about taking more. It’s about restoring. Each season should leave the land stronger than the last.

The roots go deeper, the microbes multiply, and the soil becomes healthier for the next generation.” When we returned to the farmhouse, long wooden tables were set beneath the peaks. The farmer carried out platters of fresh bread, fruit, and thick wedges of golden cheese. He set a board down and smiled. “This,” he said, “is Emmental. More commonly known to the Americans as Swiss cheese - but just to be clear,” he added with a grin, “that’s only what Americans call it.” The group laughed. He sliced a piece and handed it out. “Each wheel takes four months to mature - sometimes longer.

What you taste is time itself. Summer grass, mountain air, patience.” I took a bite. Nutty. Smooth. Subtly sweet. Like the landscape made edible. Even the cheese was a lesson in choice - the patience to wait, the discipline to do it right, the trust that time, given enough respect, gives back. After lunch we began an all-day workshop on ocean-plastic policy. It was a marathon of discussion - industry commitments, treaty frameworks, international coordination. By evening, our heads were full of strategies, our notebooks full of deadlines. Tomorrow, the conversation would continue up on the mountain.

Day Three - The Coaching Call That afternoon I sat on the balcony of my chalet with my laptop open and the mountains stretched out before me. The Wi-Fi worked flawlessly - not a single freeze or lag. Even at the edge of a mountain, Switzerland ran like clockwork. John’s face appeared on the screen, framed by shelves of books and a whiteboard full of ideas. “Shaun,” he said, “time is the universal currency. Every one of us wakes up with the same twenty-four hours. Time is the great equalizer.” He paused. “And every minute is a trade.

You trade it for work, for rest, for family, for growth, for distraction. The question isn’t am I spending my time? The question is what am I trading it for - and is it worth it?” I wrote in my notebook: Every minute is a trade. What’s worth it? “Money can be lost and remade,” John continued. “Energy can be drained and restored. But once an hour is gone, it’s gone. No refunds. No exchanges.” He leaned in. “The quality of your life is determined by the quality of your choices - and the consistency of them.

One good choice won’t change your life. But a hundred will. A thousand will. That’s the power of habit. That’s the power of choice.” He smiled. “And remember - there’s no can’t. Only what you choose to do, or choose not to.” I closed the laptop. The peaks beyond my balcony didn’t need calendars. They just existed - constant, deliberate, patient. That, I thought, is what I want to become. Day Four - The Gondola, the Lodge, and the Panel Frost clung to the grass as we gathered at the gondola station. The cable car rose from the valley floor, gliding above a patchwork of meadows and chalets.

The river below flashed silver in the morning light, winding through town like a living thread of glass. As we climbed, the pines thinned and the ridgelines sharpened, sun pouring over rock in long, warm strokes. A delegate noticed me watching the herds. “In summer, the cows live up here,” he said. “Cooler air, richer grass, sweeter milk. When winter comes, they’re brought down to the valleys for shelter. We call it Alpabzug - the descent from the Alps.” He grinned. “Timing is everything. Bring them down too early, there’s not enough grass below. Too late, and the snow traps them.

The mountain decides nothing. The farmer chooses.” Choice again. Timing again. Even nature left room for decision. At the top, the ski lodge appeared - dark timber walls, wide decks, and a terrace that looked out over a world too vast for words. Inside, everything felt intentional: folded wool blankets, polished brass, firewood stacked with perfect symmetry. The second day of policy work picked up where the farm discussions left off - treaties, funding, implementation plans. By late afternoon, it was time for my panel conversation. We sat on stage beneath the heavy beams of the lodge.

The moderator, a Swiss environmental economist, leaned into her microphone. “So, Shaun,” she said, “the last couple of speakers have given compelling arguments for why change can only happen through government and policy. I wanted to give you the opportunity to share your thoughts on the alternative.” I smiled. “Thank you. I think that’s a great place to start - because while policy is essential, it’s not the only lever for change.” I paused, then continued. “Let’s talk about responsible consumerism: Your hidden superpower.” Do you consciously consider yourself a responsible consumer? Because here’s the truth: in our modern world, every single one of us is a consumer.

And that makes us far more powerful than we realize. You - all of us - are some of the most influential people in human history. Not because we’re rich, famous, or sitting on this stage, but because of the voice and vote we hold every single day in the marketplace. The moderator raised a brow. “So you believe consumers can drive systemic change?” “In many cases,” I said, “they already are. Every dollar you spend is a vote - a vote for how something was made, who made it, and the kind of world you’re helping to build.” I looked across the room.

“The problem is, most people spend those votes without realizing what they’re endorsing. That’s blind consumerism. And for a big part of my life, I was a blind consumer too - buying what was convenient, what was cheap, what was right in front of me - without asking who made it or what the real cost was.” The moderator leaned in. “So what’s the alternative?” “The opposite of blind consumerism is responsible consumerism. It’s not about perfection or living zero-waste overnight. It’s about habits - taking five extra minutes to learn about the products you buy and the companies you support.” A delegate raised his hand.

“Five minutes?” I nodded. “That’s it. Five minutes. That’s the power of a responsible consumer: expanding your definition of cost and value to include not just the price tag, but also the social and environmental impact of your purchase. It’s not about depriving yourself. It’s about upgrading your choices.” A woman near the front asked, “But can that really make a difference?” “Absolutely,” I said. “Impact is contagious. The five minutes you spend today might inspire a hundred others tomorrow. And the more people act, the faster culture shifts. That’s how tipping points happen.” The moderator smiled.

“So in your view, change doesn’t start with government or corporations - it starts with people?” “Yes,” I said. “It starts with choice. Responsible consumerism is a Purpose Habit. Once you make doing good a habit, it doesn’t drain your willpower anymore. It stops feeling like a sacrifice. It becomes automatic. That’s the magic of habits. When you no longer need to try to do good, you free your energy for bigger impact. Start small. Start at home. Once purpose becomes habitual, it flows into your work, your leadership, your relationships - everything. At that point, purpose isn’t something you remind yourself to do.

It’s who you are.” The moderator nodded, smiling. “Well, Shaun,” she said, “that’s quite the call to action.” The audience broke into applause. And in that moment, I felt it - the entire room reconnecting to the same realization I’d had on that mountain trail. Change begins with choice. The Pub and the Silver Fox That night, the Forum hosted a closing barbecue at the village pub. Smoke curled into the mountain air. Strings of lights glowed gold against the dark. Speakers, delegates, and locals mingled at long wooden tables scattered across the courtyard. Plates moved from hand to hand - smoky vegetables, grilled breads, skewers hissing over open flames.

A chef handed me something that looked like an off colored steak, charred and glistening. “Tofu,” he said, grinning. “Marinated with local herbs and smoked over pinewood. You won’t miss the meat.” He was right. The first bite was crisp and tender, smoky and sweet - the kind of flavor that tips a scale. The farmer had planted the seed earlier, but this was the sign. I laughed. “If tofu tastes like this, I think I’m done with meat.” Someone passed me a local beer. The fire cracked. Music played. The valley below glittered like spilled stars.

Conversation blurred into a warm chorus, and somewhere between another story and another round, we all lost track of time. But that’s what happens when you’re having a good time. At 2 a.m., the closing bells rang, echoing through the beams. People bundled into coats, said their goodbyes, and stepped into the cold. I took the long way back along the river. The moon hung low over the Alps, laying silver across the water. My breath rose in small clouds. The town was silent except for the steady rush of the current. And then, five feet ahead, a silver fox stood in the middle of the path.

Its coat shimmered in the moonlight, eyes reflecting the glow - calm, unafraid. For a moment, time stopped. It was like time itself - here for only an instant, silent and beautiful, before it would vanish again. Instinctively, I reached for my phone, tempted to capture it. But I stopped myself. I didn’t want to trade the moment for a photo. So I just stood there - breathing, watching, feeling the night exactly as it was. Then, with a flick of its tail, the fox slipped into the trees. I walked the rest of the way to my chalet, the moon bright over the river and John’s words circling in my mind: Every minute is a trade.

That fox. That silence. That choice to just be there - time, pure and unrecorded. And it was perfect. Reflections Klosters didn’t just give me a reset. It gave me a mirror. Every scene - the trail, the farm, the coaching call, the fox - revealed the same truth in different forms: your life is built from the choices you repeat, not the circumstances you inherit. The Habit of Choice isn’t about control - it’s about ownership. It’s realizing that peace, balance, focus, health, success - they’re not rewards you stumble into. They’re outcomes you create through a thousand micro-decisions.

Every moment is a trade. You trade your time for something - a task, a distraction, a reaction, a relationship. The quality of your life is determined by the quality of those trades. Most people live reactively - waiting for balance to appear instead of choosing it; waiting for clarity instead of creating it. But waiting is a choice too. It’s the decision to hand your agency to circumstance. The mountain taught me: balance isn’t found; it’s chosen. The farm taught me: regeneration isn’t luck; it’s the discipline of giving more than you take. John reminded me: time isn’t the problem; your trades are.

And the fox - that brief, silver flicker of stillness - taught me presence is a decision too. Every “yes” is a thousand silent “no’s.” Every hour spent is a brick in the future you’re building. Every distraction is a withdrawal from what matters most. The Habit of Choice means living awake to your trades. It means asking - before the meeting, before the scroll, before the argument - Is this a trade I’ll be proud of? Because one day, your life will be the sum of those trades. Not the opportunities you were given, but the choices you made with them.

And when you live like that - when your choices are aligned with your purpose - time stops feeling like something that slips away. It starts feeling like something you shape.