I’ve been thinking about space lately. Not just the kind of space you create when you’re completely overwhelmed and something finally has to give.
I’m talking about creating space before you need it.
Before you’re burned out.
Before you’re resentful.
Before your body starts telling you what you were unwilling to hear.
Before life makes the decision for you.
This summer, I experimented with something I don’t always find particularly easy:
I left some things open.
Not everything.
I still had plans. Trips. Camp. Work. Things that needed to happen.
But instead of filling every available inch of the calendar, I created a little more room to see what the day might hold.
And surprisingly, I needed some structure to be able to do that.
I needed bookends, not a box.
I started my mornings the way I usually do—with a page of journaling: Gratitudes. Plans. What I’m striving for. What I need. Affirmations.
And then I left the rest of the day fairly open.
At night, I had another simple bookend: magnesium, a fiction book, and no screens while I wound down for sleep.
That’s it. Nothing elaborate.
But those little anchors gave me enough structure that the unstructured parts of the day didn’t feel quite so unknown. And at first, the unknown made me feel a little anxious.
I was coming off a school-year schedule where everything runs on a clock—where there is always somewhere to be and something that needs to happen next.
Then came summer.
Trips here and there.
Beach days—some solo, some with a ridiculous number of friends.
Impromptu bike rides.
Hikes.
Boat rides.
Days that didn’t have a particularly compelling reason to exist other than… it was a beautiful day.
And slowly, I settled.
Not all at once.
It was more like the three clicks of lowering the speed on a ceiling fan.
Click–from high to medium speed.
Click–from medium to slow speed.
Click–from slow to finally off.
A little less movement, less urgency, a little more air—and eventually, I noticed something.
I was more present.
I wasn’t constantly thinking about where I was supposed to be or what I was supposed to be doing next. I had more room to notice what I actually wanted to do. I felt calmer and more creative. And more available to the moment I was actually in.
Space gives us information.
When we’re constantly moving, it’s very easy to stay focused on what’s next. But when things slow down, we can start to notice what’s happening now.
What feels good.
What doesn’t.
What we’re tired of.
What we’re excited about.
What we’ve been tolerating.
What we’ve been avoiding.
What we’ve been carrying.
That last one surprised me.
There were things I’d been carrying for a long time that became much harder to outrun when I wasn’t constantly busy.
And some of what found me in that space was painful. But it was also clarifying.
Because I think sometimes we stay busy because we’re busy.
And sometimes we stay busy because being busy keeps us from having to feel, question, or acknowledge what’s underneath it.
When the noise gets quieter, you might hear something you’ve been trying not to hear. You might realize that something isn’t working anymore. You might notice that you’ve outgrown something. You might have a maybe….
Maybe I don’t want to do this anymore…
Maybe I want something different…
Maybe I need more…
Maybe I need less…
And here’s the thing:
You don’t have to know the answer yet.
You just have to be willing to notice the question.
What if you made space before you needed it?
I think we’re pretty good at creating space when we’re forced to–when we’re exhausted, when something falls apart, when we’re sick. When we finally realize we can’t keep doing things the way we’ve been doing them.
But what if space wasn’t something we earned through exhaustion?
What if it was something we intentionally created because we understood its value?
Not a completely empty calendar or abandoning responsibility.
Not opting out of ambition. Just…room.
Room for an afternoon to unfold.
Room for an unexpected invitation.
Room for a new idea.
Room to hear yourself think.
Room to notice what you’ve been feeling.
Room to imagine what your life could look like if you weren’t automatically organizing it around everything you’ve always done.
Because maybe that’s the real gift of space. It’s not that it makes life easier.
It’s that it gives you enough distance from the life you’re living to actually see it.
And once you can see it, you can start asking better questions:
Do I like the way I’m living?
What would I change if I weren’t so busy managing everything?
What have I been saying “maybe someday” about?
What would I want more of?
What would I want less of?
You don’t have to blow everything up or have to have a five-year plan or even have to know what comes next.
Maybe, for now, just create a little space and then pay attention to what you find there. Because sometimes the thing we need isn’t another answer. It’s enough room to finally hear the question.
