The Space Between Ten Heartbeats

"Between stimulus and response there is a space.In that space is our power to choose our response.In our response lies our growth and our freedom." — Viktor E. Frankl

Amid the rush of Leicester Square — the buskers, the noise, the constant movement of people crossing paths without seeing one another — she sat alone, still as a breath held between thoughts. There was something quietly magnetic about her presence, a kind of self-contained calm that seemed to soften the air around her. Her eyes met mine and smiled before her lips did — an unspoken invitation to sit, to slow down, to just be.

She looked to be in her forties, but her hair, entirely silver, framed her face like a soft crown of light. She wore all black — a loose, comfortable jumper, casual trousers, the kind of outfit chosen not to impress but to feel at ease in her own skin. Her nails, painted black, were the only deliberate accent. No makeup, no adornment. Just a woman completely herself, settled into her own company. When I asked how she copes with stress, her voice was steady and low, carrying that same sense of unhurried grace. “I think you have to put everything into perspective,” she said, eyes thoughtful. “If I’m having a really stressful time, I take a step back — I don’t rush into things. It’s like the old saying: count to ten.”

She laughed softly, a laugh that lingered in the air like warmth after sunlight. “Things might not be great in the moment,” she continued, “but there are people a million times worse off. So I ask myself — is this really the worst thing that could happen, or just what feels worst right now?”

Her way of seeing life wasn’t naive. It was practiced — a discipline of perspective, built from experience. She had learned to find peace not by avoiding stress, but by refusing to let it define her.

When I asked what she has learned in life, she tilted her head slightly, her grey hair catching the light. “We rush to assume the worst,” she said. “We think everything is about us — that every disagreement is personal. But it isn’t. You just have to say — that’s your view, this is mine. We’re not all going to get on, and that’s okay.”

There was a serenity in her acceptance, a refusal to be pulled into the noise of ego and reaction. Around us, Leicester Square carried on — a blur of footsteps, laughter, traffic — yet somehow, sitting with her, the world seemed to move in slow motion.

Her stillness brought calm to the chaos. I found myself breathing differently, deeper. It was as if her way of being — patient, grounded, self-contained — had quietly recalibrated the pace of the day.

When we parted, the noise returned, but it felt gentler somehow. I realised that what she carried — that ability to pause, to count to ten before reacting — was more than just a coping strategy. It was a kind of presence. A small, personal act of grace that could change the rhythm of an entire square.