A while back, I noticed that I could spend an entire morning at my desk and still feel unsure about what I’d actually done.
Not because I was distracted or wasting time, but because I was busy in a way that left no footprint.
The document would be open, the last paragraph reread a few times, a word changed and then changed back, the structure reconsidered, the coffee reheated, and somehow the hours would pass without resistance.
It didn’t feel wrong while it was happening. I wasn’t avoiding the work. I was close to it.
Close enough that if someone asked, I could explain what I was working on and where it was headed, and that explanation would sound sensible even to me. There’s a certain comfort in being able to describe something clearly, because it creates the feeling that the thing itself is already underway.
Once I saw this, I started seeing it everywhere.
I do it with podcasts and audiobooks.
I’ll queue one up at night and listen for a bit, long enough to feel like I’m learning or keeping myself company, then pause it at a clean stopping point. Not because I’m tired exactly, but because stopping early keeps it intact. I don’t have to find out whether it will hold me for hours. I get to remain someone who listens without having to finish.
I do it with walking.
I head out with good intentions, take the familiar route, turn back when my body starts asking for a little more, and feel satisfied enough afterward to count it as movement.
I do it with conversations.
I write messages carefully, read them again, soften the tone, save them, and tell myself I’ll send them later, when I have more clarity, as if clarity shows up on its own when something is left alone long enough.
For a long time, I thought of this as being sensible with my energy. It felt like patience, like maturity, like not forcing myself into effort before I was ready.
Nothing was breaking. Nothing was obviously wrong.
That made it easy to stay there, in that space where everything feels prepared but nothing is tested.
What shifted wasn’t a big insight or a sudden burst of motivation. It was repetition, the unremarkable kind.
I picked a few small things and did them the same way every day for a while, long enough for the novelty to wear off.
Writing even when the words felt flat. Walking the same route until it stopped feeling like a decision.
Over time, the imagined versions of how things might go grew quieter, and what remained was more specific than I expected.
Some ideas I’d been fond of didn’t survive that. They sounded good when I talked about them, but felt heavy when I had to carry them daily. Other things stayed, not because they were exciting, but because they fit into ordinary days without asking for a special mood or extra convincing.
I didn’t feel more inspired. I felt less split between who I thought I was and what I actually did.
What I hadn’t realized before was how much effort it takes to keep everything possible. Staying in preparation mode feels light, but it requires constant adjustment, constant checking, constant keeping doors open.
Doing something the same way, day after day, closes a few doors, but it also quiets the room. There’s less to manage. Fewer versions of yourself to keep alive.
I still catch myself hovering sometimes, rereading instead of writing, planning instead of stepping in, telling myself I’m almost ready. That habit didn’t disappear just because I noticed it.
But it’s harder now to confuse preparation with living. The setup no longer feels like a place to stay. It feels like something you pass through, aware that the work, the walk, the conversation are already there, waiting without urgency, and that entering them is the only way to find out what actually holds.ther you like the ground.
Leave a Reply