You do too much.
Day in, day out.
You force things that would unfold just fine on their own.
You try to control the uncontrollable.
Manage what doesn’t need managing.
And you can drop it all.
(Even better: it can dissolve on its own, effortlessly.)
You think:
“You’re right! I 𝘥𝘰 do too much! But how do I let go?”
Or:
“Oh no, not me. I’m just doing what needs doing. If anything, I should do more.”
Sure. Maybe.
But let’s look closer. It might show up like this:
😳 Refreshing your inbox like your life depends on it (it doesn’t).
😳 Doing something now even though you know—you 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸—it can wait.
😳 Forcing yourself to make a plan you’ll never follow.
😳 Thinking and re-thinking and 𝘳𝘦-𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 a decision that, later, resolves itself while you’re shampooing your hair.
😳 Reliving a conversation from two years ago while stress-prepping for something that might happen in 2029.
That kind of doing.
I’m not saying there’s nothing to do.
I’m saying:
There’s nothing to 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘤𝘦.
Life unfolds exactly as it should—whether or not you try to grip the wheel.
Let’s say you want to grow carrots.
(It’s a metaphor. Don’t DM me about carrot science.)
It’s winter. The ground is frozen solid. But you’ve decided: come April, you’ll be harvesting.
So you get a pickaxe. Hack holes in the frozen ground. Drop in seeds. They freeze overnight.
You try again. And again. With the same result.
But you’re smart. You can figure this out!
You knit tiny hats for the seeds.
You set up heat lamps.
You even whisper affirmations.
Still … no carrots.
Just exhaustion, frustration, and a lot of frozen dirt.
You could also do this:
Google when carrots like to be planted.
Plant them then. Water them when it’s dry.
Let the rain do some work. Perhaps fertilize them. Pull a few weeds.
And then—when they’re ready—you pull them out of the ground.
Boom. Carrots.
No pickaxe.
No tiny hats.
No forcing.
Here’s the point:
You’re not lazy.
You’re not doing it wrong.
You’re just winter-hacking your way through something that would unfold 𝘴𝘰 𝘮𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘪𝘦𝘳—if you let it.
Life has a rhythm.
A timing.
A pulse.
And it includes you.
When you stop overriding it, things get weirdly simple.
Actions arise naturally. They always have.
Sometimes they look like rest.
Sometimes they look like an email.
Sometimes they look like staring at the ceiling, unsure.
It’s all part of the same rhythm.
You don’t have to force carrots.
Or spring.
It knows when to arrive.
(It always does.)
Love,
P. S. Liked this blog?
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