Being Without Struggle

“We’re human beings, not human doings.”

Unknown

It's Sunday afternoon. Nothing is wrong. No deadlines looming. No fires to put out. The house is quiet, the day is open, and I should feel good about that.

Instead, I reach for my phone. YouTube. A game. Something to fill the space.

And then the guilt: empty calories. Wasted time. I could have done something meaningful. But what? And why does "meaningful" always feel like it requires a problem to solve?

I read a book once where the author realized he was creating problems within his family just so he had something to fix. I don't remember the title, but I remember the jolt of recognition. I've done that. Not consciously, maybe, but I've done it. And even now, knowing it, I still do.

When you're a hammer, everything looks like a nail.

I've built a career on solving problems. That's the engine. I seek out the broken thing, the stubborn knot, the puzzle with missing pieces, and I make it work. It's satisfying. It's identity. It's also, apparently, a trap.

I see problems other people don't. That's useful. But here's where it gets tricky: sometimes I can see a problem and choose not to chase it. It's not the right time, not worth the cost, or just not fixable. But when I name that problem out loud, I give it to someone else. And they might not have my ability to let it go.

Last month, I told a coworker we weren't ready to take on a certain kind of business. I listed the gaps I saw. Now she sees them too. And because of that, we have real momentum to upgrade the whole agency. That's good. But there are still some things we can't change. And unfortunately, that will probably gnaw at her more than it does me.

I spread the pattern without meaning to.

With you, Lyla, I see it too. Our best time together is when we're solving problems. Cooking a new recipe. Organizing a space. Exploring a game that needs to be figured out. Creating a new design for the house. We do best with activity-based play, with something that needs to be done.

We've tried just being bored together. We both get restless.

Sometimes I wish we could just be. No problem to solve. No project to finish. Just sit in the quiet and be okay with that.

But I don't know how.

When there's no problem, I drift. My hours worked drop. My focus scatters. I reach for distractions, and then I feel guilty about it. Like I'm wasting time. Like I should be doing something productive.

But here's the trap: I'm avoiding the discomfort of not feeling productive. And that discomfort? That's where rest lives. Where thought lives. Where boredom lives. And there's real value in those things.

I shouldn't have to put my back against the wall to push forward. I shouldn't have to give myself no other option to reach the next gear. I shouldn't have to become a victim or create something to overcome. I could just show up. Because not all of life is struggle, despite there being plenty of it.

Marcus Aurelius, the Roman emperor and Stoic philosopher, believed that virtue should come from internal choice, not external circumstance. That who you are shouldn't depend on what's happening to you. That you shouldn't need an enemy to know your worth.

So who am I when there's nothing to overcome?

I'm still figuring that out.

But I have learned something. This year, we reimagined and rebranded the agency. It was a beautiful process. We articulated what makes us different, what we want to stand for, what impact we want to have. We let that process take the time it needed. And we landed on something I think the whole group was proud of.

That was building, not fixing. That was running toward something, not from something. And it felt different. Better.

And then there was Zion. (I've written about this trip before, but it matters here too.)

We took a trip to Zion National Park. We planned nothing, other than seeing the park. We found a hotel within walking distance, with a stream our balcony looked out onto. Every day, we visited the park in the morning, swam at the hotel in the afternoon, and just talked and hung out on the balcony through the evening. Very few screens, intentionally. We weren't there to accomplish anything other than just being there.

It felt different. It felt bigger.

Part of that was the nature surrounding us. Part of it was that it was my first national park. Part of it was vacation. But there was also a big part that was us intentionally creating that space to do nothing. A pause button that allowed us to catch up. I guess sometimes the best way to catch up is to slow down.

In some moments we didn't talk at all. Just looked at the shimmering water of the pool, the depth and height of the red rock, listened to the gentle rush of the stream passing by. And in that moment, where we created space to be bored with ourselves, I was anything but bored.

That's what I'm trying to learn. That's what I want for you.

Maybe the work isn't to eliminate the part of me that loves solving problems. Maybe it's to reassign it. To turn problem-solving into building, not just fixing. To find friction in craft, not catastrophe. To practice the discipline of naming a clear purpose when there's no emergency forcing it. And to know when to just stop. To just be.

I don't have this figured out yet. But here's what I want you to know, Lyla:

Your value isn't in what you overcome. It's not in how many problems you solve or how much you produce. It's in who you choose to be when nothing is forcing the choice.

I want you to find internal motivation. The kind that doesn't depend on struggle or deadlines or someone else's expectations. The kind that lets you sit in the in-between without reaching for distractions. The kind that's comfortable, not stress-free but not stressful either. That pushes you in a good way.

I want you to be able to just be. To know your worth without needing to prove it. To rest without guilt. To choose purpose without requiring a crisis.

I'm still learning how to do that. But I'm trying. And I wanted you to know that it matters. That learning to thrive without struggle is just as important as learning to overcome it.

Maybe more important.

Because courage isn't only for the hard days. It's for the quiet ones, where you have to choose to show up, to care, to be present, without anything forcing you to.

That's the work I'm still doing. And I hope, by the time you read this, you're better at it than I am. I hope you can sit on a Sunday afternoon with nothing to do and feel peace, not guilt. That you can be with the people you love without needing a project. That you know your worth without needing to prove it every day.

That would be something worth building toward.