I was sitting at my kitchen table the other morning, staring at a half-empty cup of coffee and a list of “to-dos” that seemed to be growing while I watched it. You know that feeling? It’s like a low-grade hum in the back of your head, a constant reminder that you should be somewhere else, doing something more, or at the very least, doing something faster. I realized then that I’ve spent a good chunk of my adult life trying to be everywhere at once. I’ve tried to be the person who responds to every email within five minutes, the one who has a perfectly curated home, and the one who is constantly “leveling up” whatever hobby I decided to pick up that month.
It’s exhausting. Honestly, it’s more than exhausting—it’s hollow. We live in this culture that treats speed like a virtue and multitasking like a superpower. But if I’m being real with myself, most of the things I’ve rushed through lately haven’t been very good. The work was just okay. The conversations were distracted. Even the meals I cooked felt like something I just had to get out of the way so I could get to the next thing. We’re all vibrating at this high frequency, and for what? To get to the end of the day and realize we can’t remember half of it?
I want to talk about the opposite of that. I want to talk about the quiet, almost rebellious joy of just doing one thing. One thing at a time, with your full attention, until it’s actually done. It sounds so simple, almost patronizingly so, but in practice? It’s one of the hardest things I’ve tried to do lately.
The myth of the multi-tasking genius
I used to pride myself on how many tabs I could have open—both in my browser and in my brain. I thought it meant I was efficient. I’d be on a phone call while checking an invoice while also thinking about what I needed to buy for dinner. I felt like a machine. But eventually, the machine starts to break down. You start forgetting small details. You feel a sense of irritability when someone interrupts your “flow,” even if that flow is just you frantically bouncing between tasks.
The truth is, our brains aren’t actually wired for that. We aren’t multi-tasking; we’re just “context switching” really fast. And every time we switch, there’s a little tax we pay. A bit of mental energy gets left behind on the last task, and it takes a few minutes to fully arrive at the new one. By the end of a “productive” day of multi-tasking, I usually feel like my brain has been through a paper shredder. I’m tired, but not the good kind of tired you get from a hard day’s work. It’s a jittery, anxious kind of fatigue.
I started experimenting with “mono-tasking” a few months ago. It felt incredibly awkward at first. I’d sit down to write a letter or fix a broken shelf, and my hand would instinctively reach for my phone every three minutes. It was like an itch I couldn’t scratch. It made me realize how much I’ve trained myself to be distracted. Relearning how to focus on a single task is less like a “life hack” and more like physical therapy for your attention span.
Why we’re so afraid of going slow
I’ve thought a lot about why we rush. I think part of it is fear. If we slow down, we might have to actually sit with ourselves. If I take three hours to bake a loaf of bread instead of buying one in thirty seconds at the store, that’s three hours where I’m not “producing” something that the world deems valuable. There’s this weird guilt that creeps in when you aren’t being optimized. We’ve been conditioned to think that every minute needs to be accounted for, monetized, or shared.
There’s also the comparison factor. You look around and it seems like everyone else is doing more than you. They’re running marathons, starting side businesses, and learning three languages while you’re just trying to get the laundry folded. But what we see is the highlight reel. We don’t see the burnout, the messy houses, or the frayed relationships that often hide behind the “busy” persona. We’re chasing a ghost.
When I finally decided to stop rushing through my weekends, I noticed something strange. The world didn’t fall apart. The emails were still there on Monday. The chores eventually got done. But I actually enjoyed the process. I remember the smell of the wood when I was sanding down that old chair. I remember the way the light hit the garden in the late afternoon. These are the things that actually make up a life, not the number of items we crossed off a list.
The physical toll of the rush
It’s not just in our heads, either. I’ve noticed that when I’m in that “rush mode,” my shoulders are up by my ears. My breathing is shallow. I’m constantly in a state of mild fight-or-flight. Over time, that does something to you. You get headaches, you don’t sleep as well, and you find yourself snapping at the people you love for no reason other than they are “in the way” of your schedule.
Learning to move slower is a physical practice as much as a mental one. It’s about consciously dropping your shoulders. It’s about taking a full breath before you start the next task. It’s about realizing that most things aren’t actually emergencies, even if they feel like they are in the moment.
Learning to love the “middle part”
We are a results-oriented society. We want the finished product, the “after” photo, the trophy. But the reality is that 99% of life is the “middle part.” It’s the messy, boring, repetitive work that happens before the thing is finished. If you only find joy in the completion, you’re going to be miserable for the vast majority of your time.
I’ve been trying to find the joy in the “doing” lately. For example, I’ve started gardening. Now, if I were doing this the “efficient” way, I’d just buy the most mature plants I could find and hire someone to put them in. But I’ve been doing it from seed. It’s agonizingly slow. You put a tiny speck in the dirt, you water it, and then… nothing happens. For days. Then a tiny green sprout appears, and you have to protect it from the wind and the bugs. It might take months before you see a single flower.
But those months are where the magic is. You start to notice the rhythm of the weather. You learn the personality of the soil. You realize that you can’t force the plant to grow faster by yelling at it or “optimizing” its workflow. It grows when it’s ready. There’s a profound peace in accepting that some things have their own timeline, and you’re just there to support it. I think our careers, our relationships, and our personal growth are a lot like that garden. You can’t rush the good stuff.
Practical ways to reclaim your pace
I’m not suggesting we all quit our jobs and move to a cabin in the woods (though some days that sounds pretty good). Most of us have real responsibilities. But there are small, practical ways to start pushing back against the rush. These aren’t rules, just things I’ve found that help me stay a little more grounded:
- Give yourself a buffer. I used to schedule things back-to-back. Now, I try to leave fifteen minutes between tasks. It gives my brain time to reset and prevents that feeling of being constantly “behind.”
- The “One Big Thing” rule. Instead of a list of twenty things, I pick one thing that I really want to do well today. If I get the other stuff done, great. But that one thing gets my best energy.
- Leave the phone in another room. It’s amazing how much more focus you have when that little rectangle of distraction isn’t within arm’s reach.
- Say “no” more often. This is the hardest one. We say yes because we don’t want to disappoint people, but every “yes” to something unimportant is a “no” to the things that actually matter.
- Eat without a screen. Just try it once. Sit there, taste the food, and look out the window. It’s surprisingly difficult and surprisingly rewarding.
The beauty of imperfection
When you do things slowly, you also have to accept that they might not be perfect. When you’re rushing, you can blame the speed for the mistakes. “Oh, I just threw this together,” we say as a defense mechanism. But when you take your time and it’s still a bit messy, that’s just… you. And that’s okay. There’s a certain beauty in the handmade, the slightly crooked, and the lived-in. It shows that a human was there, taking their time, doing their best.
A few final thoughts on the long game
I’m still not great at this. I still find myself checking my watch when I should be listening. I still get that familiar itch to do “just one more thing” before I sit down to dinner. But I’m getting better. I’m starting to realize that the most valuable things I have—my marriage, my health, my skills, my home—weren’t built in a weekend. They were built in the quiet, slow, sometimes boring moments where I chose to stay present instead of rushing to the next thing.
Life isn’t a race to the finish line. The finish line is the same for all of us, anyway. The point is the walk. It’s the conversation you have while you’re walking. It’s the way the air feels. It’s the weird little details you only notice when you aren’t sprinting. I think we’d all be a lot happier if we stopped trying to “win” at life and just started living it, one slow, deliberate step at a time.
So, maybe today, just pick one thing. Maybe it’s making a cup of tea, or talking to a friend, or even just cleaning out a drawer. Do it like it’s the only thing that matters in the world for those few minutes. You might be surprised at how much better it feels to actually be where you are.