I was standing in my kitchen the other morning, watching the kettle boil. Usually, that’s the time I use to check my email, or maybe unload three things from the dishwasher, or quickly wipe down the counter. You know the drill. We’ve all become these masters of the “micro-task,” trying to squeeze every single drop of productivity out of the seconds it takes for water to reach 212 degrees. But for some reason, that morning, I just… didn’t. I just stood there. I looked at the way the light was hitting a stray crumb on the floor. I listened to the low rumble of the water starting to move. And I realized how incredibly loud my head usually is.
It’s a weird feeling, isn’t it? That constant pressure to be “doing.” I think we’ve collectively decided that if we aren’t being efficient, we’re somehow failing. We’ve turned our hobbies into side hustles and our rest into “recovery cycles.” It’s exhausting. And honestly? I’m kind of over it. I’ve started trying to find my way back to a version of life that isn’t measured in output. It’s not a quick fix—nothing worth doing ever is—but it’s been a necessary shift in how I see the world and my place in it.
The trap of the “Optimized” life
I remember a few years back when I was obsessed with life hacks. I wanted to know the fastest way to get through my morning, the best way to organize my pantry, the most effective way to read more books. I was optimizing myself into a corner. It felt like I was winning, in a way. I was getting so much done. But the strange thing was, I couldn’t actually remember much of it. I was so focused on the next thing that the current thing didn’t even stand a chance of sticking in my brain.
We’ve been sold this idea that efficiency is the ultimate virtue. If you can do it faster, you should. If you can automate it, do it. But what happens when you remove the friction from your life? Friction is where the meaning lives. It’s the struggle of kneading bread by hand instead of buying a loaf. It’s the long walk to the store instead of the two-minute drive. When we remove the “waste,” we often accidentally remove the joy, too. We’re left with a life that is streamlined, yes, but also incredibly thin.
I’ve started to look at my day differently now. I’m looking for the slow spots. I’m looking for the places where I can afford to be a little bit “inefficient.” Maybe that means taking the long way home because the trees look nice today. Maybe it means actually sitting down to eat lunch instead of shoving a sandwich into my face while I keep working. It feels rebellious, which is a bit sad when you think about it. Eating a sandwich shouldn’t feel like an act of defiance, but here we are.
Learning to love the “boring” bits
There is so much pressure to be constantly entertained or informed. If I’m driving, I have a podcast on. If I’m doing the dishes, I’m watching a video. If I’m waiting in line, I’m scrolling through something. We’ve lost the ability to just be bored, and I think that’s a tragedy for our creativity. Our brains need that white space. They need the quiet to process what we’ve seen and heard throughout the day.
I’ve been trying to reclaim those small pockets of silence. It was physically uncomfortable at first. My hand would itch for my phone. I felt this weird anxiety, like I was missing out on something vital. But then, after a few minutes, the anxiety would pass. I’d start noticing things. The sound of the wind, the way someone was walking their dog, a thought I hadn’t had time to finish three days ago. It’s like clearing the static off an old radio station. The signal starts to come through eventually.
Finding a hobby that produces absolutely nothing
One of the best things I did for my mental health was starting a hobby that I am objectively bad at and have no intention of getting “good” at. For me, it was sketching. I’m terrible. My perspective is off, my lines are shaky, and nothing looks the way it’s supposed to. But that’s the point. There’s no pressure to perform. There’s no “end product” that needs to be shared or sold or displayed. It’s just me, some paper, and a pencil, failing quietly for thirty minutes.
- It forces you to look—really look—at the world around you.
- It humbles you in a way that’s actually quite refreshing.
- It kills the perfectionist voice that lives in the back of your head.
- It reminds you that you’re allowed to do things just because they feel good.
We need more of that. More things done for the sake of the doing, not the result. Whether it’s gardening, or bird watching, or just learning to cook a really complicated sauce that you’ll probably mess up anyway. The stakes are low, and that’s exactly why it’s so important.
The physical toll of the rush
I don’t think we realize how much stress we carry in our bodies just by trying to move at the speed of modern life. My shoulders used to live somewhere up near my ears. I’d have these low-grade tension headaches that I just accepted as “part of being an adult.” But it wasn’t just adulthood; it was the rush. It was the feeling that I was always running late for something, even when I was exactly on time.
When you consciously choose to slow down, your body starts to respond. You breathe deeper. Your heart rate settles. It’s like your nervous system finally gets the memo that there isn’t actually a bear chasing you. It’s just Tuesday. There is no emergency. Most of the things we treat as “urgent” are just other people’s priorities trying to hijack our peace of mind. Learning to distinguish between a real emergency and a manufactured one is a superpower.
I’ve started practicing what I call the “slow start.” I get up thirty minutes earlier than I actually need to, not so I can do more work, but so I can do nothing. I sit with my coffee. I look out the window. I let my brain wake up at its own pace. It changes the entire flavor of the day. Instead of being shot out of a cannon the moment my eyes open, I’m stepping into the day on my own terms. It’s a small shift, but the impact is massive.
Practical ways to reclaim your time
Now, I’m not saying we should all quit our jobs and go live in a cabin in the woods (though some days, that sounds pretty great). We have responsibilities. We have bills. We have people who depend on us. But within the framework of our real, messy lives, there are ways to carve out space for a slower pace. It’s about the small choices we make every hour.
For me, it started with boundaries. I stopped checking my phone the second I woke up. I stopped answering emails after 6:00 PM. I started saying “no” to things that I only felt like I “should” do, rather than things I actually wanted to do. It’s uncomfortable to disappoint people, but I realized I was disappointing myself every single day by not protecting my own time. You can’t pour from an empty cup, as the old saying goes. It’s a cliché for a reason.
I also started focusing on mono-tasking. It sounds so simple, but it’s incredibly hard in practice. When I’m playing with my kids, I’m playing with my kids. I’m not half-watching them while scrolling through a news feed. When I’m writing, I’m writing. I’m not checking my tabs every five minutes. It’s amazing how much more rich life feels when you give one thing your full attention. It’s like seeing in color after years of looking at everything in grayscale.
The “analog” shift
Sometimes, the best way to slow down is to go analog. I bought a physical planner. I use a real alarm clock instead of my phone. I write letters occasionally. There’s something about the tactile nature of physical objects that forces a different kind of engagement. You can’t “click” through a physical book. You have to turn the pages. You can’t “delete” a pen stroke on paper. You have to work with it. These constraints are actually gifts. They slow us down just enough to make us present.
A different kind of success
I think we need to redefine what it means to have a “successful” day. For a long time, my success was measured by how many items I crossed off my to-do list. Now? Success is whether or not I felt present during the day. Did I actually taste my dinner? Did I have a real conversation with my partner? Did I notice the sunset? If I did all that, and only got half my work done, I still count it as a win. Because at the end of my life, I’m not going to be looking back at my spreadsheets. I’m going to be looking back at the moments where I was actually there.
It’s a work in progress. Some days I fall right back into the trap. I find myself rushing through a grocery store like it’s an Olympic sport, or getting frustrated because a webpage is taking three seconds too long to load. But I’m getting better at catching myself. I’m getting better at taking a breath, dropping my shoulders, and reminding myself that there is no prize for finishing life first.
So, if you’re feeling that same weight, that same frantic hum in your chest, maybe try it. Just for a day. Or even just for an hour. Don’t try to optimize it. Don’t try to make it productive. Just… be a human for a bit. It’s harder than it sounds, but I promise it’s worth the effort. The world will still be there when you get back. It might even look a little bit brighter.
Anyway, my kettle is whistling. And this time, I think I’m just going to enjoy the steam for a second before I pour the water. It’s a small thing, but honestly? It’s enough.