Don’t Rush#

The space between what happens and what you do about it is where most of your energy is saved or lost.

I once sent a message I regretted before my thumb had even lifted from the screen. A coworker had written something that stung, and within seconds I had fired back a reply so sharp it could have cut glass. A flash of satisfaction, then a slow wave of dread. By the time I set my phone down, I already knew I would spend the rest of the evening writing an apology.

The whole thing — from sting to regret — took about forty-five seconds. If I had waited five minutes, I probably would not have replied at all.

That incident stayed with me. Not because it was dramatic, but because it was so ordinary. I do some version of it almost every day. Someone asks a question and I answer before I have really thought about it. An email arrives and I respond within minutes, even though nothing about it is urgent. A decision presents itself and I grab the first option that looks reasonable, just to stop the discomfort of not knowing.

Speed has become my default setting. Not because I chose it, but because everything around me seems to reward it. Quick replies get praised. Fast decisions get admired. The person who acts first gets the credit — or at least that is the story I have been telling myself.

But when I actually look at the cost, the math falls apart. The quick reply that missed the point and needed three follow-up messages. The snap decision that created a problem bigger than the one it solved. The instant reaction that bruised a relationship it took weeks to repair. All that speed, and I end up spending more time, not less.

A woman I know makes pottery. I watched her work one afternoon — she had just pulled a bowl off the wheel and set it on a wooden shelf to dry. I asked when she would glaze it. “Not for a few days,” she said. “If you glaze too soon, the moisture inside cracks the surface. You have to let it rest. The waiting is not wasted time. It is part of the making.”

I think about that bowl whenever I catch myself rushing to react. The waiting is not wasted time. It is part of the making.

I have started a small practice. When something happens that makes me want to respond immediately, I ask myself: if I wait two hours, will the outcome be different? Almost always, the answer is no. The email will still be there. The problem will still be solvable. The person will still be willing to talk. And in those two hours, something else happens. The heat drains out. What felt urgent starts to feel merely important. What felt like a crisis starts to look like a question that deserves a calm answer.

I came to see that rushing is not really about saving time. It is about relieving discomfort. The discomfort of not knowing. The discomfort of sitting with an unanswered question. The discomfort of a gap between something happening and something being done about it. We rush to close that gap — not because the gap is dangerous, but because it is uncomfortable.

But discomfort and danger are not the same thing. A seed sitting in dark soil is uncomfortable to watch. Nothing visible is happening. The waiting feels pointless. But the seed is not doing nothing. It is gathering what it needs before it breaks through the surface.

Today, when the next thing arrives that feels like it needs your immediate attention, try letting it sit. Not forever. Just for a little while. Let the clay dry before you glaze it. You might find that the thing you were about to rush toward does not need you as urgently as it seemed. And the energy you would have spent reacting is still yours — unspent, available for something that actually matters.