When Excuses Appear, Pay Attention
The other day I noticed how easily excuses can pile up.
Nothing dramatic. Nothing catastrophic. Just a series of small disruptions that knocked the day slightly off rhythm. A schedule interruption. Feeling physically off. The temperature not quite right. A handful of perfectly reasonable reasons to wait, delay, or decide that tomorrow would be better.
And that’s usually how it happens.
Most of the things that keep us from moving forward aren’t big, obvious obstacles. They’re subtle discomforts. Minor inconveniences. A quiet internal negotiation that convinces us it makes sense to pause.
What caught my attention wasn’t the excuses themselves, but how familiar they felt.
I’ve seen this pattern so many times, in myself, in the people I’ve worked with, and even in my children. We don’t stop because we can’t do the thing. We stop because we suddenly see everything it will take.
The full picture.
The long road.
The hundred steps.
When the mind jumps too far ahead, the nervous system often responds with overwhelm. And in that state, even the smallest action can feel like too much.
But the truth is, no vision is built all at once.
It’s built through small, consistent movements that rarely look impressive in the moment. Sometimes what we call “one step” is actually a collection of micro steps taken slowly, patiently, over time.
That kind of progress doesn’t feel dramatic. It feels almost invisible. And yet, it’s the only way anything meaningful ever comes into form.
This has been especially present for me as I reflect on long-held dreams. The ones many of us carried when we were younger. The visions that once felt so clear and alive, before life pulled us into responsibilities, expectations, and survival.
When you’ve spent years walking a path shaped by what was required or expected, it’s easy to assume that those early dreams are now out of reach.
Sometimes they are.
And sometimes they aren’t meant to look the same.
That’s where discernment comes in.
Not forcing clarity. Not rushing to reclaim an old vision just because it once mattered. But taking time to sit quietly with yourself and ask whether it still belongs to you, whether it still feels aligned in your body, not just appealing in your mind.
That kind of listening requires space.
For many years, especially when my kids were young, space didn’t come in long, uninterrupted stretches. So I learned to use what was already there. The in-between moments. The mundane tasks. The parts of the day my body could move through almost automatically.
Washing dishes. Sorting laundry. Folding clothes.
Instead of filling those moments with frustration or mental noise, I began using them intentionally. Sometimes for gratitude. Sometimes for quiet inner conversation. Sometimes simply to be present and receptive.
Gratitude, I learned, doesn’t have to be lofty or poetic. Often it’s very practical. Appreciation for hot water. For working appliances. For shelter. For the quiet luxuries that become invisible when we’re rushing or resentful.
I spent time living without many of those conveniences years ago, and that experience reshaped how I relate to the ordinary comforts of daily life. Shifting from “I have to” into “I get to” changed not just my mood, but my openness.
Resistance softens when gratitude enters.
And softened resistance creates space.
That space is where guidance tends to show up.
I also learned the value of what I think of as “wonder questions.” Gentle prompts that don’t demand immediate answers but invite curiosity instead of pressure.
I wonder how this could unfold.
I wonder what someone already living this life would focus on today.
I wonder what the next small step actually is.
These questions keep the body relaxed while the mind stays engaged. They help orient us forward without forcing outcomes.
At the same time, there’s a deeper layer to all of this, one that has to do with surrender. Holding a vision with care, but not with rigidity. Staying open to the possibility that what wants to emerge may be even more aligned, more expansive, or more surprising than what we originally imagined.
That openness is where transformation happens.
Not by denying difficulty. Not by pretending gratitude erases hardship. But by allowing both truth and appreciation to coexist.
When we’re constantly resisting what is, we create friction. And friction tends to block movement. Sometimes grace breaks through anyway. That’s part of the mystery. But we don’t have to rely on miracles alone.
Often, what’s being asked of us is much simpler.
Notice the excuses.
Acknowledge the overwhelm.
Then choose the next small step anyway.
That’s how change begins.