I love you. Please stop.

When you’ve bitten off more than you can chew

Public Domain CCO image from Raw Pixel

It is so easy to lose your way. I bet you can do it without even trying. Just remember — the trick to getting unlost, as any friend of Winnie-the-Pooh will tell you, is to be still and quiet enough that you can hear your hunny pots calling you home. 

I launched this newsletter for a variety of reasons, one of which is to encourage you, dear reader, to slow down, pause, and give yourself time and space to explore your inner wilderness — to get to know yourself better, to discover what truly brings you joy, and perhaps to get a little closer to creating a life you really love. 

Ten weeks in, I have published 35 posts, and am loving the experience and the community. I did a lot of blogging back in the early aughts, and I had forgotten how much I enjoy sharing my thoughts with readers, and having them share theirs in return. 

But the workload has been heavier than I anticipated. 

It’s my own fault. 

I started this project with the intention of posting three topically related pieces each week — a bit of inspirational music in a Monday Moxie teaser post, an essay on Thursday, and finally the Saturday Side Quest (which is an invitation to take a small action or have yourself a little adventure). I still like this cadence, but I’m not sure it’s something I can realistically sustain right now. 

It’s a little like that Ira Glass quote about taste — you know, the one where he talks about the gap between our killer taste and our technical skill (or, more to the point, lack thereof). He says,

“But it’s like there’s a gap, that for the first couple years that you’re making stuff, what you’re making isn’t so good, OK? It’s not that great. It’s really not that great. It’s trying to be good, it has ambition to be good, but it’s not quite that good. But your taste — the thing that got you into the game — your taste is still killer, and your taste is good enough that you can tell that what you’re making is kind of a disappointment to you, you know what I mean?”

If you’ve never heard this bit of wisdom, or you’d like to hear it again, here’s a cool video by Brien Daniels: 

While I most definitely relate to what Ira is saying about the “taste gap,” I think there’s also another gap that no one ever talks about: the Time Gap. 

In the three months leading up to sending my first newsletter, I was able to dedicate a lot of time to brainstorming and writing. Due to the random whims of the ineffable freelance gods, there was an unexpected lull in my client work. This was both fortuitous and frightening. As any freelance writer will tell you, ours is an uncertain way to make a living. BUT … despite the usual worry about the temporary scarcity of assignments, I very much enjoyed having the extra bandwidth to invest in my Substack project. 

There were moments during that time when I could almost taste the writer’s life I hope to build — days filled with chasing my curiosity down rabbit holes, connecting with other readers and writers, and — of course — wrestling my own thoughts into writing I can be proud of. 

My days felt expansive and deliciously well paced. I was busy, but not rushed. There was time to think. There was time to putter. There was time to let ideas breathe and to set drafts aside for later editing. 

I felt, for the first time in a long time, like a Real Writer. 

But then things started to get busy, and I started to lose my way.

My client work picked up, which is objectively a good thing since I am a single mom with, among other things, a mortgage to pay. I also took on a few more clients in my dog-walking side hustle because: dogs (and also cash). At the same time, I signed up for a Substack course and a writing class, both of which came with their own communities, Zoom sessions, and homework. 

And on top of all the work- and project-related things going on in my world, I was really enjoying spending the last bits of summer with my daughter — savoring every moment before she headed back to school. 

And just like that, the Time Gap swallowed me up. 

There simply weren’t enough hours in a day to hold everything I wanted to do. I started to feel rushed, and my to-do list started to feel like Hercules’ Hydra — each task I completed spawning at least two more in its place. The word “overwhelmed” was loitering in the wings, just waiting to step out and take center stage.

Funny that I’m writing this in the past tense as if I have magically escaped this situation. That’s not even remotely the case. 

Ira Glass says that the only way to close the taste gap is to “do a huge volume of work … because it’s only by actually going through a volume of work that you are actually going to catch up and close that gap.”

I’m sure this is solid advice in the vein of Malcolm Gladwell’s 10,000 hours. 

But closing the Time Gap requires a very different — almost opposite — strategy. 

My dad has this really annoying saying that always pops into my head at times like these. It’s annoying because it’s irrefutably true. He says,

“You can have anything you want. You just can’t have everything you want.”

In other words, you have to decide what you want most, and then make sacrifices to get it.

I told you it was annoying. 

When I sat down to write this, I asked myself why I was writing it. Was I asking for permission to slow down? Was I asking for forgiveness for falling short of my original goals? Was I apologizing? Justifying?

Ultimately, I wasn’t doing any of those things. Honestly, I’m going to guess that you didn’t even notice my absence this week. And that’s totally okay. I’m the only one cracking the whip here. 

I wrote this because I needed to have this conversation with myself. I needed to stop and figure out where I am. I needed to get quiet and listen for those hunny pots. And when I gave myself permission to pause, the self-talk that popped into my head was this: “I love you. Please stop.” 

• Please stop pushing so hard even when you’re so tired. 

• Please stop sacrificing rest and sleep and play to hit arbitrary deadlines that you inflicted on yourself. 

• Please stop assuming everyone else has the answers, and feeling compelled to consume every expert’s advice.

• Please stop choosing endless productivity over restorative meandering. 

• Please stop allowing your insecurities to slash and burn the boundaries you worked so hard to establish.

• Please stop biting off more than you can chew.

Please. Just stop. 

And as I gave myself this tough-love talking to, I realized you might need to hear it too. That’s why I’m sharing all of this. 

Another point Ira Glass makes in his iconic bit about the taste gap is that it is the reason a lot of people quit way too soon. We’ve all seen this, you may have even experienced it yourself. You muster the courage to try something, but when you don’t succeed right out of the gate, you walk away. 

Ira begs you not to do this. He points out that the taste gap is totally normal. Everyone goes through it. It’s part of the process. 

The same is true for the Time Gap. 

I can see the work and life I want to create; I just don’t have the resources to get there. Yet. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to give up. And it doesn’t mean I should feel obligated to deliver on a vision that’s currently unrealistic. It just means I may need to reassess the plan.

The good news? This is an opportunity to plunk myself down on a tree stump and listen for those hunny pots. It’s a chance to stop walking in circles, following everyone else’s advice, and to quiet the inner voice that keeps shouting, “Go big or go home!” 

I’m not sure how this journey will evolve from here. What I do know is that I want to do a much better job of walking the walk. This means cutting myself some slack and being okay with stumbling, changing my mind, and even pulling back (a little). 

I want to create something of value that I can sustain over the long haul. I’m willing to do the work, but I have to stop being my own worst enemy. 

On that note, I offer a counterpoint to Ira Glass. 

The opening lines of Mary Oliver’s poem, “Wild Geese,” are perhaps some of the most often quoted on the internet, but that doesn’t make them any less potent of a balm for a tired soul. Here is a recording of the poet herself reading these comforting lines, which take on new meaning for me in this moment of recalibrating toward my “place in the family of things.”

Be well. Take care. I’m not sure what I’ll bring to share, but I look forward to seeing you next week!

WILD GEESE
by Mary Oliver

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
For a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting —
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.