Slow is a Speed, Too

Photo: @belart84

Making Peace with a Life That Takes Its Time

We’re taught to move fast. To answer quickly. To keep up. To reply to the email, return the text, check the notifications, hit the deadline, chase the goal.

We live under the tyranny of urgency, and we wear our exhaustion like some sort of badge of honour. "I'm so busy. I'm so tired. I’m so behind. I’m overstimmed. I need a vacation." It means we're paying attention to it all like good little boys and girls are supposed to.

But after a while, you realize that you can't pay attention to it all. We never could. There's simply too much.

So then I wondered, what would happen if I stopped trying to outrun time and instead tried to appreciate it?

Because slow, I’ve realized, is not the opposite of productive. Slow is not lazy. It’s not indecisive or indulgent. It's not selfish or tuned out or woke. Being slow and selectively inattentive can be quite liberating. Nourishing even.

Because in today's onerously hyperactive world, slow is still an option.

It’s just one we rarely give ourselves permission to use.

The modern world, with all its capitalist trappings, is simply not built for slowness anymore. It rewards instant gratification, always-on reachability, on-demand, quick turnover, next-day delivery. It praises decisiveness over discernment. But when I started letting myself move a little more slowly in how I shopped, how I made choices, and how I spent my time, I found something I didn’t know I was missing.

Clarity. Calm. Freedom. A kind of quiet confidence.

When you stop rushing, you hear things. You notice more. You remember what you actually need, not just what’s trending or urgent or convenient. You begin to question the systems that tell you your worth is tied to how fast you can produce or consume. That you better hurry up, that you’re going to be late, that you’re going to miss out.

Slowness is a form of resistance. It’s a refusal to participate in the panic. It’s trust in your body, in your rhythm, in nature’s rhythms, in the unfolding of things.

I’ve found that when I give myself time whenever I possibly can, I make better decisions. I buy less, but buy better. I keep things longer. I edit more ruthlessly. I give myself space to change my mind. I enjoy things more. I get the chance to luxuriate. Even in the simplest things. Like drinking a cup of coffee. Try drinking it slowly and notice how different it tastes. You might realize that you don't even like coffee. Speed drowns out our ability to evaluate, slowing down frees us up to reflect.

I still get caught in the rush. I wasn't born into the 1% so I have to work. Trade panic and productivity for a paycheck. And old habits die hard. But I’m learning to see the value in the pause. In empty moments. In letting your mind wander. In letting something take the time it takes. In lingering. Lounging. Breathing.

Because what are we rushing toward, really? What mammal is born onto this earth in a hurry to be productive? It's not a natural state. And productive at what, really? How many of the items on our to-do lists are the unnecessary obligations of an over-complicated life? How many of our jobs are a net positive for society, and how many are actually a net negative when you peel back the curtain? That's another issue entirely, but the question remains: why are we in such a rush to do things?

The good things, the truly meaningful ones, tend to grow slowly. Relationships. Skills. Gardens. Businesses. Healing. Children.

Even your identity takes shape over a lifetime of joy and pain and learning.

We are all still becoming. And that can’t be done at warp speed.

So I’m trying to make peace with a life that takes its sweet-ass time.

Trying to choose the slow burn over the flash in the pan. To measure time not just in output, but in delicious, luxurious presence.

Because maybe being deliberate isn’t some radical approach to living, maybe it’s a way of returning to ourselves. And that’s not a delay. That’s the destination.