To everyone,

About twelve months ago, my therapist recommended a book called The Ruthless Elimination of Hurry by John Mark Comer. It was a game-changer for me. I think it exposed something I hadn't fully recognized about myself: that I suffer from what Comer calls "hurry sickness."

This hurry sickness was leading to different periods of anxiety about not getting everything done and constant worry about falling behind or missing something important. But hurry sickness is more than just being busy. It's a condition of the soul where you're always mentally rushing to the next thing, never fully present where you are. It's the feeling that there's never enough time, that you're always behind, and that you need to optimize and systematize everything to squeeze more productivity out of every moment. And when we inevitably can't do it all, it leads to shame about not measuring up, which then leads to isolation, pulling away from the very people and connections that could sustain us.

I was obsessed with productivity, constantly trying to manage it all or create a system that would optimize my output. That's what I was working toward: organizing my entire life around efficiency and achievement.

However, this past year has been a significant change. Instead of doing more, I've decided to do less. To slow down and be more thoughtful about what I'm doing and what I'm focusing my life on. I've taken some of that newfound time and focused it on God, re-enforcing that foundation of my life, alongside loving the small circle of people who are closest to me.

My wife, Lauren, says I'm entering my "monk era," which I find both amusing and fascinating. I've even adopted something called a "rule of life," a practice that was popular in monastic orders. It's not a law or anything legalistic, just a gentle rule for how I order my days. A regular rhythm and flow to daily life create space for what matters most: keeping the Sabbath, regular and intentional community, times of solitude, regular exercise, scripture, and prayer. One of our favorite things to do on Sabbath is to walk through the Missouri Botanical Garden as a family.

One of my favorite discoveries has been my morning walks. After my family heads off to school or summer camp (usually around 9 AM), I take our dog for about a mile and a half through the neighborhood. I've stopped listening to podcasts or audiobooks during these walks and have come to appreciate the contemplative silence instead.

There's something about walking in that quiet space when the neighborhood has settled into its daytime rhythm that opens up room for prayer, reflection, or just being present with what's around me. It's become this perfect transition from the morning energy of getting everyone ready to a more centered, contemplative space that carries me through the rest of the day.

Dallas Willard has a quote about how "the biggest enemy of the spiritual life is hurry." That resonated so deeply with me. Many people want to hear from God, yet they complain when they don't, feeling detached and distant. But I think it's because they've filled their lives with so many things that God becomes yet another item on the list. In all that noise and rush, they miss the still, small voice that speaks in quiet spaces. I've grown spiritually so much more by cutting things out and focusing on what matters than I ever did by adding more spiritual activities or commitments.

This principle extends beyond just spiritual growth. When you're constantly busy and hurried, you fail to be present for the people who matter most. I used to think I needed to engineer special moments, plan activities, and create elaborate experiences to have "quality time" with my kids. But I've been reading stoic philosophy, particularly Ryan Holiday's work through The Daily Dad, where he writes about the myth of quality time. The truth is simpler and more demanding: all time is quality time when you're truly present. My kids don't need me to manufacture perfect moments; they want my presence. Since slowing down, I've started noticing more of the times when my kids make what the Gottmans call "bids for connection," those subtle moments when they're reaching out, often in ways I would have missed when I was caught up in my internal hurry.

This shift toward presence has also opened up space for other discoveries. I've found myself reading longer books, the kind that require sustained attention rather than quick consumption. I'm trying to write more, finding words for thoughts that used to just rush by unexamined. I've started roasting my coffee beans, something I never would have had patience for in my hurried days. On Fridays, our family makes homemade pizza together, and I've discovered an unexpected joy in making my own pizza dough: the tactile pleasure of kneading, the satisfaction of creating something from scratch, and the unhurried rhythm of letting it rise.

There's been a new kind of joy in these slower pursuits. Not the quick dopamine hit of checking things off a list, but something more profound: the pleasure of sustained attention, of craft, of being fully present to whatever I'm doing.

As I enter my 42nd year, I've come to realize that the most important thing I've learned is that presence, not productivity, is where life happens. That depth and meaning come not from doing more but from paying attention to what's already here. The space created by saying no to good things allows us to say yes to the most important things.

This isn't about perfection or having it all figured out. It's about recognizing that the way our culture defines a meaningful life (through busyness, achievement, and constant optimization) might be missing something essential. Maybe the monk tradition understood something we've forgotten: that contemplation, focus, and being present are not luxuries but necessities for a life well-lived.

I'm not sure if this resonates with you, but I wanted to share it. In a world that never stops moving, the most radical thing we can do is learn to be still. To amble through our neighborhoods. To notice when the people we love are reaching toward us. To make space for whatever is most sacred in our lives actually to breathe.

Here's to another year of learning what it means to live unhurried.

With love and presence,

Justin