The Art of Doing Less

I spent 40 years building myself into a machine that was constantly capable of doing more, buying more, earning more, and consuming more. I fine-tuned myself every month, getting more efficient, squeezing more juice from each pound of flesh. And at some point I realized that simply because I was good at more didn’t mean it was good for me.

In fact, it was going to kill me. I was running a race designed to exhaust me, chasing goals I didn’t set, so people I didn’t even like would be impressed with things I didn’t need.

Growing up as an American in suburban Southern California meant that more is always better. More cars, more money, more status, more vacations, more clothes, more everything.

Somewhere along the way, as we crossed from healthy competition into the dog-eat-dog reality of late-stage capitalism, we lost the plot (and ourselves).

I stopped the machine.

Five years ago, I lay on the carpet of my art studio, staring out the big window into the Pacific Northwest sky. Giant clouds drifted across a backdrop of bright early spring blue. Birds cartwheeled and dove. The fibers of the carpet pressed into my skin, tickling slightly. My seedlings were sprouting in little red Solo cups, lined up on a metal baking rack in the sun.

Everyone wondered what my plan was. Would I apply for another job? How much was I making? Where was I going?

I dug my fingers into the carpet and breathed deeply like they tell you in yoga - from the lower belly first then up past the ribs and into the upper chest. I exhaled in reverse, from my collarbones down to my belly button. For years, I don’t think I actually breathed. I don’t think most people do. We’re panting, we’re hyperventilating. We don’t have time for full belly breaths, and God forbid your midsection looks inflated.

I was fucking over that.

I need oxygen. I need space. I need a little room between my rib cage and my spine.

I was good at start-up culture.

I can hustle hard. I can make something grow from nothing and turn an idea into money. But I didn’t know where to stop, and corporate culture is designed to consume everything in its path. The harder I worked, the more I had. The more I had, the more I needed. The more I needed, the more I spent. The more I spent, the more I had to make - around and around, like an ouroboros of greed and consumption.

It seemed like everyone around me was enraptured by the same idea, and stopping felt rebellious.

And when you’re in the middle of the pack, running with the herd, stopping and turning around is terrifying.

But I’ve always been an outlier. When I began to realize that eventually the machine or the herd would consume me, I decided that it was time to opt out and think about what I was spending so much effort on.

It felt strange that doing less could feel like such an act of rebellion.

The whole system is designed to keep you so occupied that you don’t have time to think.

You say, “I’ll worry about this later,” or “I’ll do it when I retire,” or “When the kids are older.” But that day might never come. And because everyone else has bought into the same narrative, we reassure each other that “this is how it goes,” and “work hard, play hard” becomes the motto. The idea of suffering, grit, and “no pain, no gain” is hyped up and marketed to us, and we absorb it calling ourselves strong instead of exhausted.

Doing less changed my life in a way that more never could.

I was terrified that I would become lazy. Unmotivated. That I would be worthless. I stopped setting my alarm and some days I woke at 3am to paint for hours before the sun rose. Other days I took luxurious midday naps. I made a weekly to-do list instead of daily, and I prioritized only 3 things a day. I worked out when I felt like it, not at rigid times. I turned my phone ringer off completely and I disabled notifcations on all my devices.

I was so tired of shit dinging at me all day.

I began to be more conscious of what was entering my space physically, my consumption both materially and digitally, who I was allowing in my time and life. How I allocated my energy. All of the sudden I had this overwhelming amount of time in each day that I could spend in any way I wanted.

This was true wealth - endless time and complete sovereignty over how I spent it.

I planned field trips for myself - waterfalls I wanted to see, hikes and runs I thought looked fun, I drove out to the tulip fields in spring, and to the coast to explore rocky windswept beaches. I built stuff at my house - garden beds and a fireplace wall in my living room and my bedroom. I bought a saw and learned how to use it - half-terrified, half-empowered. I marveled at the sheer variety of wildflowers. At how if you paid attention you could smell if it was going to snow. I looked up why the soil was so rocky and learned about ancient floods. I wondered what my intrinsic value was now that I’d untethered my worth from relationships and productivity.

My happiness increased visibly. People switched from saying, “So, what’s your plan?” to, “Must be nice!”

And it was nice, however…

It wasn’t an accident or luck or random fortune as the ‘must-be-nice’ tone often implied. I marveled when folks who saw the whole process acted as if I’d won the lottery. And here’s why this matters FOR YOU.

It doesn’t matter where you are starting from. I didn’t come from wealth.

My parents taught me to be creative, to think, to read, and how to work hard. They did not teach me about investing, compound interest, or asset allocation.

I never believed that my husband should handle the money because “math is hard and money is confusing.”

I believe that my outcome is the end product of my choices, my actions, and my priorities. Much of my success has come from being open to opportunities, starting well before I was ready, choosing steady growth over greed, and basing my decisions off what will move me forward in terms of freedom not having more stuff.

If you’re curious

Put your phone down for a day this weekend. Or an hour. Whatever feels risky. Turn off your notifications. Let no one get ahold of you. Don’t buy anything all weekend. Better yet, donate things you haven’t used in a year. Sit in the sun.

If the idea of less sounds appealing but figuring out how to make it real feels absurd, I’m putting something together for you centered around financial freedom. And if you’re just looking for inspiration, that’s great too. My goal is to show you there is a different way to live - and if it’s possible for me, it’s possible for you.

I promise.

With love,