I was sitting at my kitchen table this morning, staring at a half-empty cup of coffee that had gone cold, and I realized I couldn’t actually remember the taste of the first three sips. I’d been “productive.” I’d checked my messages, glanced at the news, mentally mapped out my afternoon, and worried about a noise the car started making yesterday. But the coffee? The thing I was actually doing? It was just a background event. A ghost of an experience.
We do this all the time, don’t we? We live in this strange, fragmented state where our bodies are in one place and our minds are scattered across four different time zones and three different anxieties. It’s exhausting. And yet, we’ve been told for so long that this is just how life is now. We’re supposed to be efficient. We’re supposed to be accessible. We’re supposed to be “on.” But honestly, I think we’re all just tired of being spread so thin that we’re starting to become transparent.
The Myth of the Master Multitasker
I used to pride myself on being a multitasker. I thought it was a badge of honor. I’d be folding laundry while listening to a podcast, occasionally checking a notification on my phone, all while keeping an eye on something simmering on the stove. I felt like a conductor leading a chaotic orchestra. But looking back, none of those things were getting my best. The laundry was folded haphazardly, I missed half the nuance of the podcast, and the sauce usually ended up a bit too thick because I wasn’t watching the heat.
The truth is, our brains aren’t really built for it. We aren’t switching between tasks seamlessly; we’re just jumping back and forth very quickly, and every time we jump, we lose a little bit of ourselves in the gap. It’s called “task-switching cost,” and while it sounds like some dry academic term, it’s actually a very real feeling of mental friction. It’s that fog that settles in by 3:00 PM when you’ve done “so much” but feel like you’ve accomplished nothing of substance.
I’ve started trying to do the opposite lately. It feels rebellious, in a weird way. Just doing one thing. If I’m washing the dishes, I’m just washing the dishes. I’m feeling the warmth of the water, noticing the way the soap bubbles look, and actually finishing the task before I think about the next one. It’s remarkably difficult at first. My brain starts itching. It wants to go find something “more important” to think about. But if you sit with that itch for a minute, it eventually goes away, replaced by a strange kind of peace.
The Constant Hum of “More”
Why is it so hard to just be? I think a lot of it comes down to the fear of falling behind. There’s this invisible pressure to always be consuming information or producing results. If we have five minutes of standing in line at the grocery store, we feel like we’re wasting time if we aren’t checking something or learning something. We’ve forgotten how to just stand in a line.
This “hum” of modern life is always there in the background. It tells us that we aren’t enough unless we’re doing everything. It tells us that rest is something you earn only after you’re completely depleted, rather than something you weave into the fabric of your day. But the more I look at the people I admire—the people who seem truly centered and creative—the more I realize they aren’t the ones running the fastest. They’re the ones who have learned how to stop.
Finding the “Boring” Moments
There is a specific kind of magic in boredom that we’ve almost entirely eradicated. When you’re bored, your mind starts to wander in directions it wouldn’t otherwise go. It starts to solve problems you didn’t know you had. It starts to notice the way the light hits the floorboards or the sound of the wind in the trees outside. When we fill every single gap in our day with a screen or a task, we’re effectively closing the door on our own inner lives.
- Try leaving your phone in the other room when you eat. Just for one meal.
- Take a walk without a podcast. Just listen to the neighborhood.
- Sit on the porch or a chair for five minutes without a goal.
- Write something by hand. Feel the resistance of the pen on the paper.
The Physicality of a Slower Life
Living more intentionally isn’t just a mental exercise; it’s a physical one. We’ve become so disconnected from the tactile world. Everything is a glass screen or a smooth plastic surface. There’s no weight to anything. I think that’s why so many of us have taken up “slow” hobbies lately—gardening, baking bread, woodworking, knitting. We’re desperate to touch something real.
I started a small garden last year. I’m not particularly good at it. Half the things I plant end up as snacks for the local rabbits, and I can never remember the right time to prune the roses. But it doesn’t matter. When I’m out there with my hands in the dirt, I’m not thinking about my inbox. I’m not thinking about the “discourse” happening online. I’m just there, with the soil and the worms and the very slow, very stubborn pace of nature. You can’t rush a tomato. It’ll grow when it’s ready, and no amount of “optimizing” will change that.
That realization—that some things simply take the time they take—is incredibly liberating. It gives you permission to let go. We spend so much energy trying to bend time to our will, trying to squeeze more out of twenty-four hours than is humanly possible. But when you align yourself with the actual pace of the world, that tension starts to dissolve.
Learning to Say “Not Now”
One of the hardest parts of slowing down is the social aspect. We live in a culture of immediacy. If someone sends a text, there’s an unspoken expectation of a reply within minutes. If an email comes in, we feel the urge to “clear” it. We’ve taught people that we are always available, which means we are never truly present for ourselves.
I’ve had to learn how to say “not now.” Not in an aggressive way, but in a way that protects my own sanity. It means setting boundaries that feel a little uncomfortable at first. It means realizing that most things aren’t actually emergencies, even if they feel like they are in the heat of the moment. The world won’t stop turning if you wait until tomorrow to answer that request.
This isn’t about being lazy or unproductive. It’s about being *discerning*. It’s about deciding that your attention is a finite, precious resource and that you aren’t going to give it away to whoever happens to scream the loudest at your notification bar. When you stop reacting to everything, you finally have the space to start acting on the things that actually matter to you.
The Joy of Missing Out
We’ve all heard of FOMO (Fear of Missing Out). It’s that nagging feeling that everyone else is at a cooler party, reading a better book, or living a more exciting life. But there’s a flip side to that, which people have started calling JOMO—the Joy of Missing Out. It’s the realization that you don’t *have* to be everywhere. You don’t have to know every headline. You don’t have to participate in every trend.
There is a profound sense of relief in deciding that something isn’t for you. It’s like putting down a heavy bag you didn’t even realize you were carrying. I’ve stopped trying to keep up with every new show or every viral conversation. And you know what? I don’t feel like I’m missing anything. In fact, I feel like I’m finally finding the things that were already there, right in front of me.
I think about my grandmother sometimes. She lived a very quiet life in a small town. She didn’t have a hundred channels or a feed of global news. Her world was small—her garden, her church, her neighbors, her family. By modern standards, her life might seem “boring.” But she was one of the most content people I’ve ever known. She wasn’t constantly looking over her shoulder to see if she was missing something. She was right where she was.
Coming Back to the Surface
I’m not saying we should all go live in a cabin in the woods and throw our phones into a lake (though some days that sounds tempting). We live in the modern world, and we have responsibilities. But we can change how we inhabit that world. We can choose to move through it a little more deliberately.
It starts with the small things. It starts with the cold coffee. It starts with noticing the transition between one task and the next. It starts with a breath. If you’re reading this right now, I’d encourage you to just sit for a second after you finish the last sentence. Don’t click away to the next thing immediately. Just feel the weight of your body in the chair. Listen to the room. Let the words settle for a moment.
We’re so much more than just a series of outputs. We’re living, breathing people who deserve to actually experience the lives we’re working so hard to build. And sometimes, the most productive thing you can do is absolutely nothing at all.
I think I’ll go make a fresh cup of coffee now. And this time, I’m going to actually taste it.