Woke up feeling tired today. More tired than usual. An off day. And underneath the fatigue was something heavier: dread. Dread for the thing I told myself I’d do this morning.
Yesterday, I caught up with a coworker. We talked about running — how it’s something I wish I did more of, and something I’ve been avoiding. Not out of laziness, but because my mornings have become sacred. For over 100 days now, they’ve belonged to my coffee, my desk, and these blog posts. (Well… me talking into a mic and transcribing them.)
This ritual replaced another one. My ritual of reflection replaced my ritual of running.
My coworker suggested I do both. What a terrific and terrifying idea. “Feed two birds with one scone,” as a friend likes to say. I told them I’d try it. I wrote it on a sticky note so I wouldn’t forget — and now it’s staring at me from the edge of my desk, while I sit here in my office… not running.
Why am I here and not out there?
The shortest answer: I don’t feel like it.
The slightly longer answer: I don’t feel like it — and I’m choosing the thing that’s ultimately best for me right now. The thing that takes care of me in this moment.
That kind of self-honesty and self-trust — still and always a work in progress — took me a long time to discover and develop. To recognize when to choose care over compulsion. This morning, as I got out of bed, the motivational slogans I’ve absorbed over the years were on repeat. The greatest hits of grind culture that once pushed me through lazy days… weren’t helping me now.
“Yesterday you said tomorrow!” (Thanks, Nike.)
Those voices didn’t just remind me about running. They reminded me about every unchecked box on my lists. Every “I’ll get to it.” Every task I’ve been putting off because “I didn’t have enough time.”
Here’s what I realized (or rather, what I was reminded of): the motivation behind those thoughts comes from a place of care. I want to do better. I want to be better. Funny how often — too often — care shows up as suffocating criticism. A bat wrapped in a red bow. The voice that’s meant to lift you up ends up beating you down.
And in those moments, you have to cut yourself some slack. Give yourself breathing room. Grace.
Grace is softness, yes — but it’s also strategy. It’s not the absence of standards; it’s the presence of timing. Knowing when to sprint, and when to breathe. The challenge is knowing the line: pushing yourself far enough to grow, but not so far you break.
It’s about breaking up with that voice in your head that confuses punishment for progress. About noticing that the part of you that nags you into “improvement” is often the same part that drains the joy out of it. About replacing the reflex to push with the reflex to check in.
And it’s not just about you. If you work with people — especially if you lead them — you have to see that same push-and-pull in the work, in the team, and in the people using what you make. To really see it. To really get it. To move with it. To know when to press the gas and when to ease off with grace.
This morning, I said tomorrow. And tomorrow is okay with me.
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P.S. Let’s swap that critical (but caring) soundtrack for something else. How's about... "Grace" by Devin Townsend. One of my favourites.
(Warning: Loud heavy music)