The Pace I Learned to Live At
When slowing down doesn’t feel like an option
I went to Tofino with my kids recently.
We spent the day out on the water, whale watching.
Hours of it.
Cold air. Open ocean. The kind of day that feels full on its own.
By the time we got back, there was nothing left to add to it.
That should have been enough.
When we got back to where we were staying, the kids drifted into their own things.
Quiet settled in.
Not silence exactly, but space.
The kind that shows up when nothing else is required.
And almost immediately, something in me shifted.
What now?
Not really a question.
More like a reflex.
I opened my laptop.
At the time, it didn’t feel wrong.
There was nothing urgent. Nothing that had to be done right then.
But it felt like the next thing.
Like there wasn’t really another option.
That’s the part I keep coming back to.
It didn’t feel like a choice.
When things are quiet, my mind doesn’t slow down.
It moves.
What haven’t I done yet?
What needs attention?
What’s waiting for me to pick it up again?
Even when there’s nothing pressing… it feels like something is.
Like I’m already behind on something I can’t quite name.
It seems like the only thing I know is the pace.
Not just being busy.
Something more constant than that.
The pace feels like it has a life of its own.
And somewhere along the way, I convinced myself this is what I wanted.
To be reliable.
To be competent.
To be someone things move through.
To have a lot to do.
And for a long time, that worked.
There’s a belief underneath it that I don’t question very often.
That there’s never enough.
Time.
Money.
That if I slow down, even for a bit, something starts to slip.
Not all at once.
But enough that I would notice.
Enough that I would feel it.
If I stop the pace, who am I?
That question doesn’t usually show up directly.
It sits underneath everything else.
If I stop moving, do things flatten out?
Does my career stall?
Do I lose ground I’ve already fought to gain?
Or maybe more honestly—
Do I stop being the competent one?
Because competence does something for me.
It protects me.
From criticism.
From being the one people focus on when something goes wrong.
We notice the things that work.
But we focus on the things that don’t.
And I’ve built a life where I’m rarely the problem.
Or at least… that’s how it feels.
At one point, this pace gave me something I didn’t have.
It gave me a way forward.
It made me look capable of more than I probably should have been.
An addicted grade 10 dropout doesn’t usually end up here.
That’s always been part of the story.
And maybe part of the pressure.
Because if that’s true…
then it could all disappear just as easily.
Not just parts of it.
All of it.
Income.
Direction.
Control.
Credibility.
The sense that I know what I’m doing.
That I’ve built something that holds.
It all feels more fragile than I like to admit.
Not always.
But enough that I keep it moving.
Because as long as it’s moving, it holds.
Or at least… I haven’t given it the chance to prove otherwise.
I notice it in small moments.
Working on my laptop in between steps of making dinner.
Thinking about work while I’m trying to exercise.
Thinking about exercise while I’m working.
Nothing is ever just the thing I’m doing.
There’s always something else pulling at it.
Something unfinished. Something next.
And when there is space—
real space—
I don’t settle into it.
I move.
Not always because I want to.
But because it feels like I have to.
I’ve always thought of myself as someone who values freedom.
That I was creating my life.
Choosing it.
Lately, I’m not as certain of that.
Because when it doesn’t feel like a choice…
I’m not as free as I thought.
And I don’t know what would happen if I stopped long enough to find out.