Issue No. 94

Life often feels like a race, doesn’t it? From the moment we wake up, we’re moving—rushing to meet deadlines, chasing goals, ticking off boxes on our endless to-do lists. We tell ourselves that if we just keep running faster, work harder, or push longer, we’ll eventually arrive at some mythical destination where everything will finally make sense. But what if all this frantic movement isn’t actually taking us anywhere? What if we’re simply spinning our wheels, exhausting ourselves without ever truly progressing?

When I was younger, I equated busyness with success. If my schedule was packed, if I was constantly “doing,” I felt accomplished. I prided myself on how much ground I could cover in a day—how many emails I sent, how many tasks I completed, how many people I impressed, how many productivity apps I download. Yet, despite all this effort, there was always an underlying emptiness. No matter how far I ran, I never seemed to reach the finish line I imagined. Instead, I found myself stuck in a cycle of striving, perpetually dissatisfied and searching for something more.

It wasn’t until later in life that I came across this quote:

These words struck me like lightning, illuminating a pattern I hadn’t fully understood before. Movement is easy—it’s the act of doing, of staying busy, of checking items off a list. Progress, on the other hand, requires intention, clarity, and purpose. It’s not about how much you do but whether what you’re doing aligns with your deeper values and goals. You can run forever and still end up exactly where you started if you’re not mindful of where you’re headed.

Think about it this way: imagine someone climbing a ladder as quickly as possible, only to realize too late that it’s leaning against the wrong wall. All their effort, energy, and determination won’t matter because they were focused on the wrong direction. This metaphor resonates deeply with me because I’ve been that person more times than I care to admit. I’ve poured hours into projects that ultimately didn’t serve me, maintained relationships out of obligation rather than love, and pursued achievements that left me feeling hollow once attained. Each step felt productive in the moment, but looking back, I see now that I was merely treading water.

The danger lies in mistaking activity for accomplishment. Society glorifies hustle culture, convincing us that constant motion is the key to success. We wear our exhaustion like badges of honor, (“I slept only 4 hours today! I’m better than you! Sleep is for the weak!) boasting about how packed our schedules are, as if sacrificing rest somehow proves our worth. But true growth doesn’t come from running endlessly—it comes from pausing to ask yourself: Why am I doing this? Does this bring me closer to where I want to be? Am I building a life that reflects who I am and what I value?

I began to notice this disconnect when I hit a breaking point—a moment when the relentless pace of my life caught up with me. I had a panic attack in college. Physically drained and emotionally depleted, I realized I had nothing tangible to show for all my efforts because at the end of my university tenure, I decided not to pursue engineering. I’ve lost my passion for it. My brain was telling me, “you spent 4 years studying one of the most difficult degrees and ultimately decided not to use it?” I graduated but I decided to pursue a different path. I wanted to build a legacy.

This shift didn’t happen overnight. At first, slowing down felt unnatural, almost uncomfortable. The silence was deafening, and the absence of constant motion left me feeling unmoored. But over time, I began to notice subtle changes. I started paying attention to the small moments—the warmth of sunlight streaming through the window, the laughter shared during a quiet dinner, the satisfaction of completing one meaningful task instead of ten meaningless ones. Life became less about reaching some distant goalpost and more about savoring the journey itself.

There’s a certain kind of freedom in realizing that you don’t have to run anymore. It’s not about giving up or settling; it’s about choosing where to direct your energy. Some days, progress looks like finishing a project. Other days, it’s simply allowing yourself to rest. Both are valid, both are necessary. The beauty of this approach is that it strips away the noise, leaving only what truly matters: the present moment.

The present moment is a gift that contains another gift. It’s a gift on itself because being able to live is a miracle of the every day. The gift that it contains, however, is often overlooked—the birth of new opportunities. Every single moment is an opportunity to move towards another direction of your choosing. Where will you go? Where are you headed? If all this time what you have been doing is just moving, ask yourself where you are. You could be near a cliff, or nearer than you thought towards where you truly aspire to be.

Until next week,