Pronounced: EN-KUR-UJ.com–short posts you can use every day
Author: Bob Dailey
Bob Dailey. Born and raised in Southern California...now in Oklahoma. Graduated from (and met my future wife at) Cal Poly Pomona, in 1988. Married to Janet 37-plus years. Father of two: Julianne and Jennifer. Grandfather of 9!
Held many leadership positions in small, medium, and large companies (and even owned a company for about 7 years). Tractor operator, competitive stair climber, camper, off-roader, occasional world traveler, sometimes mountain biker, and writer.
July 2nd is about a week away. That will be the 183rd day of the year. The halfway point.
I usually think of the summer solstice as the halfway point since the days start getting shorter after that.
Either way, it’s a good time to reflect.
Think back to January. Back then, you were probably wondering how to shed a few of those extra pounds you gained over the previous two weeks.
While sipping your leftover peppermint cocoa on New Year’s Day, what goals or intentions were on your mind? Did you write them down? Did you share them with anyone?
Be honest with yourself. What have you done that moves you closer to achieving any of the goals you set six months ago? Even small steps count.
Do those goals still matter to you? Have you added new goals since then?
Whatever your answers, write them down. Pick one thing to act on this week to get back on track. Movement builds momentum, and maintaining momentum is the key to achieving any goal.
Don’t forget to celebrate. A new productive habit. A relationship strengthened. A busy season endured (every industry seems to have one).
These quiet victories matter. They deserve your recognition.
Halfway through the year, the invitation is simple. Reflect. Realign.
Begin again.
Side note: Consider doing this exercise with an even larger time horizon.
-What were your goals 10 years ago? 20 years ago?
-Are those goals still important to you?
-Have you made progress on any of them?
-What are your goals for the next 10 years? 20 years?
-What concrete steps will you decide to take over the next 6 months to make progress on at least one of your 10-year goals?
Photo by Elliot Pannaman on Unsplash – why this image out of the thousands I could have chosen from Unsplash? My focus wasn’t on the stark, still, wintry vibe (although that’s nice). I was captured by the story it conveys. In my imagination, this person set out to cross the entire lake. Clearly, their chosen path wasn’t successful. Poor planning? Lack of vision? Who knows?
But the halfway point is a moment like this. A pause at the edge, where we get to decide if our goal still matters. If it does, it’s time to retrace, replan, and re-commit to accomplishing what we set out to achieve.
“Time heals all wounds,” people say when someone we love dies. It’s a phrase offered like a Band-Aid for a broken bone. Well meaning, but inadequate for the depth of what we’re facing.
For those who have lost a daughter, a son, a spouse, a parent, a sibling, a dear friend, the truth is something different. Time doesn’t heal. It changes things, yes. It allows us to move, to function, to smile even, but it does not erase their absence. That lives inside us, a permanent resident.
When I searched for quotes and stories from others who had walked this path before me (writers, psychologists, fellow travelers through loss), I discovered that my feelings aren’t unique or abnormal.
The bereaved across time echo the same truths I’m living.
I’ve heard that grief follows a pattern of denial, anger, bargaining, withdrawal, and finally, acceptance. That may all be true. It sounds like a clean process. Just a series of steps we must go through to get to the other side.
But that path has no clean endpoint. It can stall, restart at the beginning, skip and repeat steps while never reaching a conclusion. The grieving process never ends. We merely learn to function with our grief, and we do so in our own way, as imperfectly as we do everything else in life.
Author Jamie Anderson found words for what many of us feel but struggle to express: “Grief, I’ve learned, is really just love. It’s all the love you want to give but cannot. All that unspent love gathers up in the corners of your eyes, the lump in your throat, and in that hollow part of your chest. Grief is just love with no place to go.”
This captures exactly what happens when we reach for the phone to call them or save up a story we can’t wait to tell them. Only to remember a second later that they’re gone.
Grief isn’t a single event but a series of small realizations, each one a fresh cut.
C.S. Lewis, after losing his wife Joy, wrote about the persistence of absence: “Her absence is like the sky, spread over everything.” In his book “A Grief Observed,” Lewis documented what it feels like to live inside loss. “No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear. I am not afraid, but the sensation is like being afraid. The same fluttering in the stomach, the same restlessness, the yawning. I keep on swallowing. At other times it feels like being mildly drunk, or concussed.”
This is the lived experience of a body trying to process what the mind struggles to accept.
Joan Didion echoed this truth when she lost her husband, John Gregory Dunne. In “The Year of Magical Thinking,” she wrote, “Grief turns out to be a place none of us know until we reach it. It’s a foreign country with its own customs, its own weather, its own bewildering geography.”
There is no timeline. No tidy arc where pain transforms into peace according to some predetermined set of rules.
Dr. Lois Tonkin, working as a grief counselor in the 1990s, discovered a different truth about what healing actually looks like. A client whose child had died years earlier drew her a picture showing how her grief had initially filled her entire life. A small circle almost completely consumed by loss.
But over time, something unexpected happened. The grief didn’t shrink. Instead, her life grew larger around it. There was now space for new experiences, relationships, and meaning alongside the loss. This became known as Tonkin’s Model of Grief.
Like a tree growing around a piece of metal embedded in its trunk. We don’t absorb or eliminate the foreign object. We grow around it, incorporating it into our new shape.
This model shows us that time doesn’t diminish our grief. But it expands our capacity to hold other things along with it. Some days our grief surprises us with its suddenness. A song, a scent, a birthday or anniversary, seeing a classic car they used to drive. Other days we’re living fully in the expanded space around our grief, discovering we can hold both the wound and the wonder.
We must learn to carry the sharp pain of their absence while having gratitude for the gift of having known them at all. Our capacity to feel gratitude for the life we shared can provide much needed comfort, even though we’ll never stop missing them.
Some of the most tender truths come from those who’ve lost children. Elizabeth Edwards, who lost her 16-year-old son Wade in a car accident, offered this reminder, “If you know someone who has lost a child, and you’re afraid to mention them because you think you might make them sad by reminding them that they died, you’re not reminding them. They didn’t forget they died. What you’re reminding them of is that you remembered that they lived, and that is a great gift.”
Writer Megan O’Rourke, in her memoir “The Long Goodbye” about losing her mother, captured the peculiar contrasts of grief. “You look fine. You act fine. But inside, you are not fine. And you know it will never be the same.”
This is the hard reality of grief. The simultaneous existence of functioning and not-functioning, of healing and not-healing, of being okay and not-okay. We learn to carry both states, often within the same moments.
So no, time does not heal all wounds.
Time teaches us that we can be broken and whole simultaneously. That we can miss someone terribly and still find reasons to laugh. That love doesn’t end with death. It merely changes form, expressed as the very grief we wish we could escape.
In learning to live with our wounds, we hopefully discover something about ourselves. Our capacity to grieve deeply is evidence of our capacity to love more deeply than we ever thought possible.
And maybe that’s the real truth about time and grief.
“Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.” – Mathew 5:4
“The Lord is near to the brokenhearted and saves the crushed in spirit.” – Psalm 34:18
Sometimes the hardest limits aren’t what we believe we are…but what we’ve decided we’re not.
Leader: I’m hitting a wall. No matter how hard I try, something’s stuck. Coach: Where? Leader: Connecting with my direct reports. The one-on-one meetings. All the details. I’m just not wired for any of it. Coach: You sure? Leader: I’ve never been good at connection. I’m not super technical. I’m not touchy-feely. I’m not a detail person. Coach: Sounds like you’ve got your “not” list down cold. Leader: Isn’t that just self-awareness? Coach: Could be. Or maybe you’re protecting yourself with that list. Leader: I’m not trying to be someone I’m not. Coach: Are you avoiding someone you could become? What if the growth you’ve been chasing is on the other side of “I’m not”? Leader: What if I do all that work and don’t like what I find? Coach: Then you’ll learn something real. But what if you find a strength you didn’t know you had? Leader: That feels like a stretch. Coach: Growth usually does.
“Ego is as much what you don’t think you are as what you think you are.” – Joe Hudson
We usually spot ego in people who overestimate themselves. Their arrogance and swagger enter the room before they do.
But ego has a quieter side. It hides in the limits we quietly accept. Not in who we think we are, but in who we’ve decided we’re not.
“I’m not technical.” “I’m not good at details.” “I hate public speaking.”
These negations, the things we distance ourselves from, might feel like declarations of strength and clarity.
But often they are boundaries we’ve unconsciously placed around our identity. Once we’ve drawn these lines, we stop growing beyond them. They protect us from challenges, discomfort, and the hard work we know will be required.
Leaders who define themselves by what they aren’t often:
-Avoid feedback that challenges their identity.
-Miss chances to adapt or grow.
-Choose the path of least resistance.
-Struggle to connect with different types of people.
-Dismiss skills they haven’t developed (yet).
If you’re feeling stuck, ask yourself:
-What am I avoiding by saying, “I’m not that”?
-What am I protecting by holding on to that story?
-What might open up if I let it go?
Sometimes the next chapter of growth begins not with a new strength, but with a willingness to loosen our grip on the stories we tell ourselves.
If you want to grow as a leader—or help others grow—it’s not enough to ask, “Who am I?”
You also have to ask, “What am I willing to become?”
I received an email from Noah Kagan this week. Not because we’re personal friends, but because I subscribe to his newsletter. Noah, the CEO of AppSumo, often shares practical insights and thought-provoking questions from his journey in the tech world.
This particular message stood out. He talked about being fearful for his 10-month-old daughter’s future. With all the chaos in the world, the deepening divides, the rise of AI and robotics, the general noise of modern life, he wonders what kind of world she’ll inherit.
But instead of spiraling into worry, Noah laid out how he’s choosing to respond: by creating clarity, limiting distractions, and doubling down on the things that matter most. He’s building a foundation, not just for his own peace of mind, but for his daughter to inherit.
His email reminded me of a quote often attributed to Mark Twain: “The future is in the hands of a generation that isn’t ready for it.”
We didn’t have AI, social media, or the internet back in Mr. Twain’s day. But even then, concerns about “the next generation” were nothing new. Parents, teachers, and elders across every era in history have wondered if the next generation is truly ready.
Noah’s concern isn’t just that the next generation might be unprepared. It’s that the world itself might be too broken to navigate well. But history offers some perspective.
Every generation has faced challenges. Wars, famines, political collapse, pandemics, technological upheaval, moral drift. And yet, the world moves forward. Somehow, each generation rises to meet its moment…even if their preparation feels lacking.
We don’t get to control the future, but we do influence it by how we live, what we model, and what we choose to pass on. We can’t predict what our children and grandchildren will face, or how they’ll respond. But we can teach them how to think, how to hold on to timeless values, and how to walk through hardship with strength and grace.
It’s natural to worry.
Let’s not forget that hardship doesn’t cancel out beauty.
Struggles don’t erase joy.
There will be triumphs ahead, too. If we’ve taught them well, they’ll learn to spot their small victories, celebrate them, and then pass along what matters to those who come after.
The future always arrives in the hands of the young—and the young are never quite ready. But then again, neither were we.
We know about Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs and how our wants and desires are like a pyramid that goes from our basic needs up to our desire for self-actualization. The Pareto Principle reminds us that 80% of our results come from 20% of our efforts, helping us focus on what truly moves the needle. Saint Ignatius’s Spiritual Exercises guide us through discernment, teaching us to distinguish between what brings life and what drains it.
But there’s another framework worth considering: the evolution of what we consider important throughout our lives.
As kids, we know what’s most important. It usually revolves around attention, followed by winning at whatever we are doing, which we think will get us more of that attention we crave. Everything feels urgent. Every disappointment feels permanent. The world revolves around us, and that’s exactly as it should be for a child learning to navigate life.
Teenagers start to focus on freedom, independence, and figuring out what they’re going to do when they grow up (whatever that means). They often reject what their parents value. Sometimes for good reasons, sometimes solely because rebellion feels necessary for finding their own path. What matters most is breaking free from the constraints that feel suffocating, even when those constraints were designed to protect them.
As young adults, we’re getting started, establishing our independent life, our financial foundations, our career foundations…at least we’re trying to get these things established. We’re in acquisition mode: getting the job, the apartment (maybe a house), the relationship, the respect (something we crave more than attention at this stage). We often dismiss advice from older generations, convinced they don’t understand how different the world is now.
Then something interesting happens.
As the decades flow by, what was important a few years ago, isn’t. We start to think about how to serve others, help our kids flourish, help their kids flourish. The shift is gradual but profound. From getting to giving, from proving ourselves to improving the lives of others.
Major life events accelerate this evolution. A health scare makes us realize that all the success in the world doesn’t matter if we’re not here to enjoy the fruits of our labor. The birth of a child or grandchild suddenly makes legacy more important than achievement. The loss of a parent reminds us that time is finite, and relationships are irreplaceable.
Sometimes the shift happens more quietly. Earlier this week, two co-workers were discussing the NBA finals and asked me what I thought of Game 2. I had to admit that I haven’t followed basketball since the Magic Johnson era of the Lakers. As we talked, it became clear to me that I haven’t followed any sports—except for the Savannah Bananas baseball team’s shenanigans—in many years.
What captures my attention now? I’m drawn to watching people live their best lives in rural settings, building homesteads for themselves and their families. I find myself rooting for others to succeed in their chosen vocations, nothing more, nothing less. It’s not that sports became unimportant because they were bad. They just became less important than something else that feeds my soul more deeply.
As we get older, preserving our health, and the freedom that comes with it, moves toward the top of our priority list. Interesting how the freedom we sought as teenagers is still important to us in our senior years, but for different reasons. Then, we wanted freedom and thought we were ready for responsibility.
Now, we want freedom to focus on what truly matters. Freedom to be present for the people we love, freedom to contribute in meaningful ways, freedom from the noise that once seemed so important.
There’s a beautiful irony in how we often spend the first half of our lives accumulating things, achievements, and accolades, only to spend the second half learning to let go of what doesn’t serve us. We chase complexity when we’re young and value simplicity as we mature.
Questions worth considering:
– What would happen if we could skip ahead and see what our 70-year-old self considers important? What about our 80-year-old self? Would we make different choices today knowing what they know?
– Why do we have to learn the hard way that some of the things we chase don’t matter? Is there wisdom in the struggle, or are we just stubborn?
– How can we be more intentional about evolving our priorities on our terms instead of waiting for time to do it?
– What if we could honor the lessons each life stage provides without completely losing face and dismissing what came before?
The evolution of importance isn’t about getting it right or wrong at any particular stage. It’s recognizing that growth means what we value will shift.
That’s not a bug in the system. It’s a feature. The teenager’s desire for freedom isn’t foolish. It’s necessary for their development. The young adult’s focus on building a foundation isn’t shallow. It’s essential for future stability.
Perhaps the real wisdom comes in staying curious about what matters most. Knowing that the answer will keep evolving. And maybe, just maybe, we can learn to trust that each stage of life has something valuable to teach us about what’s truly important.
The key is staying awake to the lessons, even when they challenge what we thought we knew for certain.
Too often, teams spend endless hours preparing, refining, and perfecting—only to stall before real work begins. In this post, we explore why starting matters more than perfecting, and how progress—however imperfect—moves us forward when perfection holds us back.
Ready, Aim, Aim, Aim, Aim…
It feels less risky to just keep aiming. After all, once you fire, that metaphorical bullet is gone. You can’t take it back.
But if we spend all our time aiming and never actually fire, nothing gets done.
Even worse, the constant cycle of preparation builds stress and anxiety. Teams begin to feel the weight of endless discussions—about what we’re aiming at, how we’re aiming, which methodologies to use, and why aiming itself feels so overwhelming. Meetings start to focus on the aiming process.
Meanwhile, the work sits untouched, and pressure continues to build. Time marches on. Deadlines loom ever closer.
In the pursuit of the perfect solution, we lose sight of the real goal: progress.
We obsess over the “best” approach, the most thorough analysis, the fully optimized plan. We begin documenting the aiming process as if it were the actual deliverable. And in the process, we forget the tasks we were meant to complete.
While chasing perfection, we miss the opportunity to deliver something good, something useful, valuable, and real.
“The way to get started is to quit talking and begin doing.”
Walt Disney
Call it version 1, a prototype, a pilot program, or a minimum viable product. If perfection keeps us from taking the first step, the process is no longer serving its purpose.
Progress beats perfection every time.
Photo by Norbert Braun on Unsplash – Like the baby sea turtle, we don’t need to know every step of the journey before we start. The important thing is to move in the right direction, and let the momentum carry us forward.
I heard a quote recently from Tony Xu, the CEO of DoorDash:
“What we’ve delivered for a customer yesterday probably isn’t good enough for what we will deliver for them today.”
It’s not about failure. Xu isn’t saying we got it wrong. He’s pointing to something more subtle that applies not only to tech companies like DoorDash, but to every business in every industry. Regional banks. Manufacturers. Educators. Consultants. Entrepreneurs. Even nonprofit leaders. No one is exempt.
It’s tempting to believe that what worked before will keep working. After all, if it’s not broken, why fix it? That quiet assumption that if we keep doing what we’ve always done, success will follow.
But that mindset is quietly dangerous. The world isn’t that simple.
Customers don’t live in yesterday. They live in the now. They’re comparing their experience with us not just to our competitors, but to the best parts of every interaction they’ve had today.
They’re comparing our website to their grocery buying app. Our onboarding process to a streaming service subscription they love. Our customer service calls to the help they received (or didn’t) from their cell phone company.
We’re not being compared to the bank down the road or the business across the street. We’re being measured against the most seamless, most helpful, most human-centered experience our customers have ever had.
That’s a very high bar. It’s unfair…and they don’t care.
It’s easy to forget their perspective from inside our organizations. We become focused on the big system conversion we’re managing, the vendor issue we’re troubleshooting, the reorganization plans we’re working on this quarter, or the new regulatory review that’s keeping us up at night.
These are real and important things. But the customer doesn’t see them, nor should they.
They’re living in their own world, with their own challenges and needs. They’re asking, quietly and constantly, “Are you making this easier, or harder, for me?”
They’re rightfully selfish in that way.
Some important questions to consider:
–What are my customers or team members quietly expecting that I haven’t noticed yet?
–What have I continued doing because it worked before, even though the market has changed?
–What future am I preparing for? The one I’ve known in the past, or the one that’s unfolding in a new direction?
–Am I making excuses that only make sense inside our organization?
I don’t think leadership is about chasing every trend. But I do believe it’s about staying awake. Staying open. Listening for what’s emerging and not just reacting to what someone else has made clear.
The fact that something worked yesterday doesn’t make it sacred. It makes it a foundation. And foundations are meant to be built upon…not celebrated as finished.
If we truly care about the people we serve, we’ll stay curious about how to serve them better. Because they’re not standing still. Their lives are shifting. Our job isn’t to cling (desperately) to relevance. It’s to keep earning it.
So, we never stop building. We keep asking the hard questions. We stay close to our customers so we can hear what they’re not saying yet. And we must choose to meet tomorrow’s expectations before they arrive at our doorstep.
Yesterday’s work mattered. It carried us here. But it’s today’s effort—and our willingness to keep stretching—that will decide if we’re still invited to serve tomorrow.
As Shunryu Suzuki once said, “In the beginner’s mind there are many possibilities. In the expert’s mind, there are few.”
It’s great to be an expert in our field. But sometimes, a beginner’s mindset is exactly what we need to see things from the most important perspective. Our current and future customers’ perspective.
Photo by Bayu Syaits on Unsplash – I love the imagery of these two climbers at the top of a mountain. They may take a short rest to celebrate their achievement, but that next peak is already in their sights.
The other night, over a casual taco dinner, one of my grandkids hit me with a question I wasn’t expecting.
“Grandpa, how old will you be in the year 2100?”
Without missing a beat, I shot back, “Nearly 140. Way too old to still be around!”
I may have been off by a few years, but we all agreed: the odds are stacked against me making it to 2100.
Then we started doing the math together, and that’s where things got interesting. They’ll be in their 90s by then. Their children and grandchildren—my great-grandchildren and great-great-grandchildren—will be alive and thriving in that future world. A reminder that we’re part of something much bigger. Connected to the past, but carried forward by those who will come long after we’ve gone.
“Okay, but how old will you be in 2050?”
That one felt closer, more real. “Well,” I said, “not quite 90, but almost. And you’ll be under 50.”
“What will we be doing in 2050, Grandpa?”
That’s a question only they can answer. I won’t pretend to know. I hope I’m there for at least part of it. I hope I get to laugh with them, to listen, to remind them where they came from, and to cheer them on wherever they’re headed.
Our conversation turned into something more than tacos and timelines. We started talking about how every generation builds on what came before. We carry what we’ve learned from our parents and grandparents, along with our own experiences, and hand all of that to our children and grandchildren. And they, in turn, will do the same.
Their children, my great-grandchildren, aren’t here yet, but I already have high hopes for them. I look forward to holding them, hearing their stories, and watching them discover the world just as their parents are starting to do today.
I hope they’ll learn the big things:
-How a starry sky can quiet our soul.
-How to throw and catch with confidence (it’s baseball season, so this one is top of mind right now).
-How warm and magical a campfire can be…and that S’mores taste better when your hands are sticky.
-How good it feels to help without being asked.
-How to sit quietly with someone we love and say nothing at all.
-How to cheer for someone else, even when the spotlight isn’t ours.
-The peace that comes from a walk in the woods or along a sandy shore.
But I also know they’ll learn things I’ll never understand. Things I can’t even imagine. And that’s exactly as it should be.
My deepest hope is that they’ll carry forward the timeless lessons. That love matters more than being right. That kindness isn’t weakness. That telling the truth is not only brave, but also the only way.
And that family stories are worth retelling…especially the funny ones.
So, here’s to future taco dinners, to great-grandkids I haven’t met, and to the storytellers of tomorrow.
May they keep the best of us within them always.
A Poem for My Grandkids
We sat with tacos, our chips in hand, When you asked a question I hadn’t planned. “Grandpa, will you still be here in 2100?” “Not likely,” I laughed, “I’d be too old by then.”
And then we wondered who’ll be around, Your kids and theirs, with dreams unbound. Building a world we won’t see, Carrying forward the best from you and from me.
We talked of shooting stars and catching balls, Of S’mores by the fire and the night’s gentle call. Of helping for nothing, of walking alone, And learning to love with a heart fully grown.
You’ll learn things I’ll never know, With gadgets and wonders I can’t imagine. Even so, I hope what we’ve lived still finds its place, In stories you tell with a smile on your face.
Here’s to the moments that grow into more, To questions and memories, and tales we explore. May love be your guide in all that you do, And may our stories stay with you, and echo on through time.
p/c – That’s Charlie (in the cowboy hat) and Marcus from a few years ago, perfecting their marshmallow roasting techniques.
“When I’m in writing mode for a novel, I get up at four a.m. and work for five to six hours. In the afternoon, I run for ten kilometers or swim for fifteen hundred meters (or do both), then I read a bit and listen to some music. I go to bed at nine p.m. I keep to this routine every day without variation. The repetition itself becomes the important thing; it’s a form of mesmerism. I mesmerize myself to reach a deeper state of mind.” — Haruki Murakami
Haruki Murakami has written some of the most widely read novels and screenplays — Norwegian Wood, Kafka on the Shore, 1Q84, and others. His stories are wide and varied. But his process? Based on this quote, it’s as simple as it gets (on first glance).
He wakes early. He works. He exercises. He reads. He rests. Then he does it all again. Every day. Without variation.
What makes that interesting isn’t just the discipline. It’s what that discipline creates. He calls it mesmerism.
He’s not trying to force creativity. He’s building a space, mentally and physically, where creativity knows it’s welcome. And he shows up to that space every day, without fail.
This kind of repetition, over time, can shift your state of mind. It can take you to a quieter, more focused place. It can help you bypass distraction and access something deeper.
He doesn’t wait for inspiration to strike. He prepares for it. He builds a rhythm and shows up to it daily. Over time, his mind knows—it’s time to create. And that, he says, is when the real writing happens.
It’s easy to think of habits as something utilitarian. A way to squeeze productivity out of our day. But what if repetition isn’t just a tool for efficiency? What if it’s a path into something more meaningful?
What if the act of doing the same thing, at the same time, in the same way, becomes a form of permission to go deeper?
Murakami’s routine isn’t about optimization. It’s about entry. It’s a way of reaching the part of himself that doesn’t respond well to noise, pressure, or force. And the only way in is repetition.
This idea of mesmerism applies to more than writing novels or screenplays.
Maybe your “deep work” is building a business, raising a family, managing a new venture, or simply trying to stay anchored when life is anything but steady.
The specific rhythm doesn’t matter. What matters is that it’s yours. That it becomes familiar enough, trusted enough, to lower your resistance and invite your mind to settle.
A short walk each morning before the day begins.
A time and place for reading, thinking, or praying without interruption.
A quiet moment after dinner, before sleep.
These aren’t productivity hacks. They’re entry points. Invitations to go below the surface of reaction and noise. To meet yourself in a more focused, honest way.
Reflecting on this quote, I see it as less about writing and more about living on purpose.
There’s no perfect rhythm. No universal method. But there is something powerful in choosing to show up each day, in the same way, with the same posture of readiness…even if it feels small.
Because over time, that rhythm changes us. It makes us less reliant on inspiration and more connected to our purpose.
Less reactive, more rooted. Less scattered, steadier.
Show up. Repeat. Let the repetition carry you deeper.
That’s where the real work—and the real exploration—can begin.
h/t – once again, Tim Ferris’s 5 Bullet Friday newsletter. He recently highlighted this Murakami quote. When I first read it, it didn’t make much of an impression. Who uses mesmerism in a sentence? Then I decided to re-read it, even though it’s a long one.
On my second reading, the quote sunk in and got me thinking about how his process of mesmerizing through repetition can be applied to anything we’re trying to accomplish (it even showed me how to use the word mesmerizing in a sentence). It takes us past brute discipline and into a rhythm-based approach that prepares our mind to do the work we want it to do; in the space that repetition provides.
A friend called recently. He’s been running his own business successfully for over a decade. Things are going well, really well. That’s why he reached out.
He wanted to talk through some ideas. Usually when I get these calls, it’s because a business owner is thinking about making a major change. Maybe selling, maybe acquiring another business, maybe just trying to get unstuck from a rut. But this wasn’t that kind of conversation.
He explained that his team is doing great work. His own role had evolved into mostly business development and handling occasional fire drills. Lately, there haven’t been many fires. The business is running so smoothly that, for the first time in years, he has time on his hands. Unexpected free time.
That’s usually a good thing, right?
He thought so too at first. He ramped up his business development efforts (always wise to add growth fuel to a business), and then he did something else. He stepped back and watched. Observed. Assessed.
For the first time in a while, he was able to look at the processes and tools his company uses with a fresh set of eyes. The eyes of an outsider.
That’s when he saw the gaps.
Not because things were falling apart. But because, with a little perspective, he realized how much better things could be. He saw inefficiencies, opportunities for automation, outdated systems, and new tools that could transform how they operate.
His brain lit up. Ideas started flowing. He made lists. And more lists. He started thinking through what needed to change, planning what to build, what to retire, and how to bring the team into the improvement process.
That’s when he called me. Not for help solving the problems, but because he suddenly had too many ideas and plans.
He’d become overwhelmed by the possibilities.
So, I asked him: What would it take to give yourself permission to conclude the brainstorming, the planning…and begin?
He paused.
As the boss, no one else was going to tell him to stop generating ideas and to start work on executing them. There’s no urgent deadline forcing a decision. No one asking for a status update. The machine is humming along, profitably. But he can see how much more potential is just sitting there waiting to be tapped.
We didn’t talk about his ideas or operations at all. We talked about how to decide. How to identify the vital few initiatives that would make the biggest difference. How to involve his team. How to get moving.
We talked about starting, and how starting builds momentum.
Our brains love ideation. There are no limits, no constraints. It’s energizing to imagine improvements, design new systems, and sketch out possibilities. We feel smart. We feel alive.
But our minds? They get restless. We lie awake at night, spinning. We second-guess ourselves. We get caught in the loop of “what if” and “maybe later.”
That’s where permission to conclude enters the picture.
It’s the quiet decision that says: “I’ve thought enough. I’ve explored enough. I may not have a perfect plan, but I have enough to begin.”
It’s the green light we must give ourselves. To start, to build, to test, to course-correct.
It’s a commitment. Not to perfection, but to movement.
To gain clarity through execution. To action that reveals what thinking alone cannot.
If you find yourself spinning with ideas, take a deep breath.
Give yourself permission to conclude.
And start.
Photo by Isaac Mugwe on Unsplash – the rider has no idea what lies ahead…only guesses, maybe some visualization of what could be lurking around that dark corner. The only way to find out is to start and figure it out along the way.
h/t – I learned about the concept of the “vital few” over 20 years ago from MAP Consulting. A simple yet powerful realization that we can only work on a few things at any one time. Choose the vital few, work on them, then move to the next set of vital few items after that.
Grandpa Bob Encouraging Leadership 
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