I’m sitting here with a cup of coffee that’s gone dangerously cold, staring at a blinking cursor that feels like it’s mocking me. It’s funny, isn’t it? We have all these ideas, all these grand plans for things we want to do—write a book, start a garden, finally learn how to cook something other than toast—and yet, the actual act of starting feels like trying to move a boulder with a toothpick. I’ve been a writer for a long time, and you’d think it would get easier. You’d think the “beginning” part would eventually just become muscle memory. But it doesn’t. It’s always a little bit uncomfortable.
I think we spend way too much time talking about “productivity” and not nearly enough time talking about the weird, quiet resistance that happens before we even do anything. We’re so obsessed with the finish line that we forget how heavy the starting block feels. And that’s what I’ve been thinking about this morning. Why is it so hard to just… begin? And more importantly, how do we keep going when the initial excitement wears off and we’re left with the actual work?
The Weight of the Blank Page
There’s this specific kind of paralysis that happens when you’re looking at a fresh start. Whether it’s a literal blank page, an empty gym floor, or a new project at work, the possibilities are actually sort of terrifying. When something hasn’t started yet, it can still be perfect. In your head, that garden is lush and weed-free. That blog post is insightful and world-changing. But the moment you put a shovel in the dirt or a finger on the keyboard, it becomes real. And real things are messy. Real things have flaws.
I’ve realized that most of my procrastination isn’t actually laziness. It’s fear. It’s the fear that the reality of what I do won’t live up to the vision I had. So, I wait. I tell myself I need more research. I tell myself I need a better desk, or a different pair of shoes, or more “inspiration.” But inspiration is a fickle friend. If I only wrote when I felt inspired, I’d probably produce about three paragraphs a year. Most of the time, you have to drag inspiration kicking and screaming to the table after you’ve already started working.
It’s okay to be intimidated. It’s okay to feel like you don’t know what you’re doing. To be honest, most of the people who look like they have it all figured out are just better at hiding the “I have no idea what’s happening” look. The goal isn’t to stop being afraid; it’s just to start moving despite it.
Why Our Brains Love to Complicate Things
We are experts at overcomplicating simple tasks. If I want to start running, I don’t just go outside and run. No, I spend three hours looking at reviews for the “perfect” running shoe. Then I look up training plans. Then I worry about my form. By the time I’ve finished “preparing,” I’m too tired to actually go for a run. It’s a classic trap.
We do this because it feels like progress. Researching is safe. Planning is comfortable. Actually doing the thing? That’s where the risk is. I think we need to learn to recognize when we’re using “preparation” as a shield. If you find yourself spending more time reading about a hobby than actually doing it, you might be stuck in this loop. It’s a cozy loop, but it doesn’t get you anywhere.
I remember trying to learn to play the guitar a few years back. I bought the books, I watched the videos, I even joined a forum. But I barely touched the strings because I was so worried about “doing it wrong.” I was treating it like a school subject I had to pass, rather than a skill I had to feel. The moment I stopped trying to be a “student” and just started making noise—bad, clunky, annoying noise—is when I actually started learning.
The “Just Five Minutes” Trick (And Why It Works)
When the mountain looks too high to climb, don’t look at the top. Just look at your feet. I’m a huge advocate for what I call the “low bar” approach. If I have a massive project to tackle, I tell myself I only have to do it for five minutes. Just five. If I still want to stop after five minutes, I’m allowed to stop. No guilt, no shame.
The secret, of course, is that the hardest part is usually just the transition from “not doing” to “doing.” Once you’re five minutes in, the momentum usually takes over. You’ve broken the seal. The dishwasher is half-loaded, the first paragraph is written, or you’re already out the door. The resistance is usually at its strongest right at the beginning.
- Set a timer for five minutes.
- Focus on the smallest possible unit of work.
- Give yourself permission to do a bad job.
- Notice how the resistance fades once you start moving.
It sounds almost too simple to work, doesn’t it? But simplicity is usually what we need when we’re overwhelmed. We don’t need a 12-step program; we just need to get through the next few minutes. It’s about lowering the stakes. When the stakes are lower, our brains don’t perceive the task as a threat, and we can actually get some work done.
Letting Go of the Idea of Perfection
Perfectionism is the ultimate dream-killer. It’s this high-standard voice in your head that tells you if it’s not amazing, it’s not worth doing. But here’s the truth: everything is “not amazing” when it starts. Every great book had a terrible first draft. Every beautiful painting started as a bunch of weird blobs of color. Every successful business started as a messy idea that probably shouldn’t have worked.
I’ve had to learn to embrace being “average” at things. There’s a strange kind of freedom in it. If I don’t expect myself to be a master, I can just enjoy the process of being a beginner. Being a beginner is fun! You get to make mistakes, you get to ask “dumb” questions, and you get to see huge improvements very quickly. But you lose all of that the second you demand perfection from yourself.
We need to give ourselves some grace. Life is already hard enough without us being our own harshest critics. So, write the bad draft. Paint the ugly picture. Run the slow mile. You can always fix “bad,” but you can’t fix “nothing.”
The Importance of a Low Bar
I know people who set these massive goals for themselves—”I’m going to go to the gym every single day for two hours.” That’s great for about three days. Then life happens. You get a cold, or you have to stay late at work, or you’re just plain tired. And because you can’t hit that massive goal, you quit entirely. You feel like a failure, so you give up.
What if your goal was just to put on your gym shoes? Or to do one push-up? It sounds silly, but it’s much harder to fail at a small goal. And consistency is built on small wins. I’d much rather see someone do five minutes of yoga every day for a year than someone do two hours of yoga once a month. The person doing five minutes is the one who’s actually changing their life. They’re building a habit that’s part of who they are, not just something they do when they have extra energy.
Dealing With the “Middle” Muddle
So, let’s say you’ve started. You got past the blank page, you did your five minutes, and you’ve been at it for a couple of weeks. This is usually where the “middle muddle” happens. The novelty has worn off. The excitement of the “new thing” is gone, and now it’s just… work. This is the danger zone. This is where most people quit.
The middle is where the real growth happens, though. It’s where you stop being a hobbyist and start being someone who actually does the thing. To get through the middle, you need a rhythm. Not necessarily a strict schedule—because life is too messy for that—but a rhythm that fits your life. Maybe you’re a morning person, or maybe you find your stride late at night. Maybe you work in short bursts, or maybe you need long stretches of quiet.
I’ve found that I need to protect my “middle” time. I have to be careful about who I talk to about my projects when they’re in this fragile state. If I tell someone an idea too early, I lose the internal pressure to actually do it. It’s like the “talk” satisfies the brain’s need for the “do,” and then I never finish. Sometimes, keeping things to yourself for a while is the best way to keep the fire going.
Finding Your Own Pace
We live in a world that is obsessed with “fast.” Fast food, fast results, fast success. We see people on social media who seem to have achieved everything overnight. But social media is a highlight reel. It doesn’t show the boring Wednesdays. It doesn’t show the years of quiet, unglamorous work that went into that “overnight” success.
Your pace is your pace. It doesn’t matter if someone else is going faster. You’re not in a race with them; you’re just trying to be a slightly better version of yourself than you were yesterday. Some days you’ll have a lot of energy and you’ll get a ton done. Other days, just showing up and doing the bare minimum is a huge victory. Both of those days are important.
I’ve learned to stop comparing my “Chapter 1” to someone else’s “Chapter 20.” It’s a recipe for misery. Instead, I try to focus on the feeling of the work itself. Do I enjoy the process? Does it make me feel alive? Even the frustrating parts? If the answer is yes, then the pace doesn’t really matter. I’ll get where I’m going eventually.
A Final, Quiet Thought
At the end of the day, showing up is an act of self-respect. It’s you telling yourself that your ideas matter, that your interests are worth pursuing, and that you’re capable of following through. It isn’t about being the best or the most productive. It’s about being present in your own life.
So, if you’re sitting there with a cold cup of coffee, looking at your own version of a blank page, just know that it’s okay to be stuck. It’s okay to be afraid. But don’t stay there. Take one tiny, microscopic step. Write one sentence. Do one squat. Plant one seed. Then do it again tomorrow. It’s not flashy, and it’s not always fun, but it’s the only way anything ever gets built. And honestly? The view from the middle of the project is usually much better than the view from the starting line anyway.
Take a deep breath. You’ve got this. Just start.