I’d been wrestling with a decision for days. You know the kind, where you think you’ve made it, then second-guess it half an hour later. I’d turned it over in my head in every direction. It was still unclear. Then I took Midge for a walk. No earbuds. No agenda. Just sky, the breeze, and soft rhythm of paws on grass. And somewhere around the field, the answer came to me. Simple. Clear. Settled. Not because I tried harder. But because I stopped trying at all. That walk reminded me (again) that...

Sometimes the clarity fades. Not dramatically. Not all at once. We’ve all been there, lost our way. But slowly. A plan that no longer feels alive. A rhythm that stops making sense. A sense that you’re “off”, without being able to name why. If you’re wired for responsibility (and most of us are), the instinct is to fix. To push harder. To get back on track, fast. But what if there’s nothing to fix? What if this moment, the doubt, the pause, the quiet, isn’t failure, but recalibration? I wrote...

There’s a certain kind of moment that doesn’t get talked about much. The moment when you’re doing all the right things… but something still feels off. The rhythm breaks. The plan doesn’t land. The clarity fades, and you can’t quite see where you’re headed anymore. In those moments, the voice of urgency tends to rise. It tells you to push. To fix. To prove you're not falling behind. But what if that voice isn’t your true guide? What if the pause isn’t a problem? What if it’s just your system,...