It was a quiet night like any other. I had just slipped into bed, the moonlight casting long shadows on the bedroom wall, and I whispered a soft “Goodnight” into the silence. I didn’t expect a reply. But to my surprise, a small, gentle voice answered, “Goodnight.” I blinked. Confused, I whispered again, and again the voice echoed me.
I was only a young boy at the time, and I didn’t know what to make of it. I wasn’t frightened, though. I felt strangely comforted. The next morning came, and I carried on with my usual task—walking down to my father’s bakery to fetch fresh rolls. The bakery, with its warmth and the smell of bread, was one of the safest places I knew. But even as I stood there among the trays and ovens, that voice stayed with me.
A few days later, while playing at the bottom of the garden, I felt the need to pee. And just like that, the voice returned: “Pee-pee,” it said. I looked around, certain someone must be nearby. But I was alone. The voice guided me again: “Good. You needed to do that.” It felt odd, but also caring—like someone was looking out for me in a way I couldn’t explain.
The voice didn’t just appear when I was alone. It came when I was hungry, scared, or confused. It became a quiet presence during difficult moments—like the day I was dragged crying into school for the first time. “Everyone goes to school,” the voice said. “You’re not in any danger.” I didn’t feel brave, but the voice helped me look out the window and see the sun was still shining. That was enough to get me through the day.
As I grew older, I started asking the voice questions. I wanted to know what it was, where it came from, and why it seemed to know me so well. “I keep your heart beating,” it told me one night. “I help you breathe, digest your food, and feel everything you experience.” At first, I found it all hard to believe. But deep down, I knew this voice was real. Not real in the way you’d see someone standing next to you—but real in the way a heartbeat is. Always there. Always working. Always on my side.
Eventually, I gave the voice a name: Lyf. Not just “life” the way people usually spell it, but “Lyf” for “Love Yourself First.” It seemed to fit. Lyf wasn’t just a function of my body—it was a friend. Someone—or something—that knew everything about me and still chose to stick around.
Lyf didn’t always give me answers. Sometimes, she gave me questions. Sometimes, she gave me silence. But always, there was kindness. And that’s what kept me listening.
Even now, after years of sailing, parenting, and living off-grid in remote places, Lyf is still with me. She’s the same voice that calmed me as a boy, guided me through storms, and reminded me to keep going when things felt impossible.
Some may say it’s imagination. Others may call it intuition. For me, it’s neither and both. Lyf is part of me. She always has been.
And maybe, if you listen closely enough, you’ll hear your own version of Lyf too.
If this story feels familiar, or if you’ve ever felt a quiet voice guiding you through life’s challenges, I invite you to read my book, Ron & Lyf. It’s filled with small moments like these, ordinary on the outside, but full of meaning once you stop and listen to your inner voice. Head to Amazon to purchase my book: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1968966285
