I used to optimize everything: inboxes, task managers, browser extensions. I answered emails while on calls, wrote posts in transit, etc. I batch processed my life like a machine trying to outrun its own wear and tear. A good day was a full day, and a full day was packed to the brim.

But speed has a cost. Go fast enough, long enough and you start mistaking motion for momentum. (And yes, there’s a difference.)

Lately, I’ve been typing slower. Intentionally. It's a combination of laziness (if you will) and an experiment in rhythm. 

I don’t start the day at a sprint. I make tea. I sit. I breathe. I don’t schedule back-to-backs. I leave white space in the calendar. I take walks without headphones. I finish fewer tasks, but they feel like they’re the right ones.

There’s no leaderboard for slowness. No badge. But there is a quiet pride in doing one thing well, and knowing it’s enough.

It’s worth noting how unnatural it felt at first. Like I was letting someone down. Like I was acting as a burden rather than a contributor. 

But the longer I live at a slower pace, the more I realize: I was never really ahead. I was just busy. 

And busy doesn’t scale. Not indefinitely. Not without cost.

Speed got me through the door. Slowness helps me stay in the room.

I would rather measure success in attention. In presence. In cups of tea finished while still warm. In drafts written without panic. In days that feel shaped, not shattered. The work is still good. Maybe better. Certainly more mine.