I was halfway down a mountain in Uttarakhand when the first line of a blog post hit me. No laptop. No notebook. Just cracked lips, sore calves, and a sentence that refused to let go.
I pulled out my phone. Opened the recorder. Spoke into it like I was delivering a voice note to myself from the edge of the world. A guide glanced back, probably wondering what I was doing talking to rocks. I didn’t care. That line came when it wanted to, and I wasn’t going to let it dissolve into the silence.
Inspiration doesn’t show up when asked. It shows up when you’re least prepared. And unless you act on it immediately, it vanishes without ceremony.
Another time, I was deep into an Airtable rabbit hole, trying to close a role I’d failed at twice. I’d reviewed portfolios, run outreach campaigns, even toggled back to meditation apps between calls. And then I remembered a voice note from months ago—someone who’d casually mentioned rebuilding a broken government site for fun. At the time, I’d dismissed it as eccentric. That night, it made perfect sense. This role didn’t need polished. It needed peculiar. I found the message, called them, and didn’t bother with small talk.
They were hired. That single instinct reshaped the entire hiring strategy for that account. I stopped scanning for perfect resumes and started tuning into the offbeat clues I usually brushed aside.
We pretend our best work is born from structure. That creativity blooms on neatly planned timelines. But what actually moves the needle often arrives in moments that look like chaos: while brushing your teeth, in the middle of a trek, between half-written emails, while cooking lunch you’re already bored of.
Inspiration has a shelf life. Wait too long, and it goes stale.
This isn’t about hustle or squeezing output from every waking second. It’s about responding to the pulse that says, this matters now. Not later. Not when the meeting’s over. Not when the house is clean or your mood’s better.
Curiosity doesn’t follow your calendar. It doesn’t ask for permission. It taps you lightly—and if you don’t answer, it walks away.
I’ve made peace with being the person who pulls over to type one perfect line. Who speaks thoughts into her phone while walking through a bazaar. Who responds to a nudge in the middle of cooking, cleaning, or crying.
Because some of the best things I’ve created weren’t made during “work hours.” They were made during life. The unfiltered, badly lit, unpredictable parts of life where inspiration just barges in.
And these days, when it does, I keep the door wide open.
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