Originally written on Medium.com here.
My longest-running client regularly asks me to build reports. Usually something simple: “We need to see X, Y, and Z. Can you do that?”
And every time, I respond enthusiastically that I can. Then, the thinking starts. Wouldn’t it be bettter if I also included A, B, C, D, E, and maybe F? And while I’m at it, I’m sure I can turn this into a dashboard, maybe throw in some slicers, some trendlines. Maybe I’ll even throw in a drill-down tab to a report they didn’t even ask for.
I send it over, fully polished and future-proofed, according to my specifications. The client looks at it, pauses, and then says the same thing he always says:
“That’s too much data.”
It’s his version of “Thank you, but no.” It doesn’t sting anymore. At this point, it’s basically our bit.
But still — I find myself doing it. Building delis when all they wanted was a sandwich. Not because I don’t know better. But because it’s a reflex. Somewhere along the way, I internalized the idea that doing a little (or a lot) more is what makes me valuable.
And this habit didn’t start in adulthood. It started in childhood. With a go-cart.
I was ten. My younger brother was eight. And together, we dreamed up what may have been the most over-ambitious neighborhood transportation plan in pre-adolescent history.
The vision? A motorized cart that would carry us to all points in the neighborhood. The corner store. The park. Our friend Ryan’s house. A luxury shuttle built from scrap wood, bike parts, and an old lawnmower engine.
We had no idea how to build a drivetrain. We didn’t know what torque was. Or how to gear down a motor. But we had that old ½-horsepower gas motor we’d just salvaged from our deceased lawnmower, and that felt like destiny.
In our heads, this wasn’t a simple project. It was a platform. It would have a steering wheel, maybe a radio, and definitely some cup holders.
What we built instead was a glorified pallet on wheels that barely rolled. We couldn’t figure out how to attach the motor to the axle. The weight of the cart was all wrong. And even if we had figured it out, that little motor would’ve burned out in seconds under the load of our expectations.
We never got it running unless you counted one of us running behind the cart pushing the rider around. But we spent hours designing it. Planning it. Over-imagining it.
We didn’t want a simple cart. We wanted a the Indy 500.
That instinct followed me.
It shows up every time a client asks for a simple report and I give them a live-updating, filter-enabled, color-coded dashboard with summary statistics and built-in projections. All they needed was a list. But I had to make it sing.
I like to think it’s generosity. Anticipating their needs. Future-proofing. Being thorough. But sometimes it’s something else.
Sometimes it’s this deep, invisible need to prove that I bring more than what was asked.
Effort, to me, has always equaled value. If I worked harder, thought further ahead, built something extra… then I could rest easy knowing I was worth the check.
Never mind that simplicity is often more helpful. Or that I’ve had clients respond to a dashboard with, “Can you just give me the numbers in a spreadsheet?”
Never mind that the deli makes it harder to find the sandwich. (This is literally the dashboard paradox. A dashboard so beautiful and full of information that it’s useless.)
If any of this resonates with you, I wrote a book you might appreciate.
It’s called You Don’t Have to Escape to Be Free — a collection of my reflections on identity, meaning, and building a life I don’t want to run away from.
You can check it out here: https://books.by/aaronpace
There’s a scene in the movie Amadeus where the king listens to Mozart’s latest composition and responds with: “Too many notes.” It’s meant to be laughable — how can you tell Mozart that his music is too… musical?
But I’ve come to appreciate that critique. It’s not always about brilliance. Sometimes it’s about clarity. Simplicity. Enoughness.
The client isn’t wrong. He didn’t want the whole deli. He wanted a sandwich.
And the hardest part for me — professionally, emotionally, maybe even spiritually — is learning to believe that giving just what’s needed is enough. That I don’t have to pack in extra value, extra data, extra flair just to justify my presence.
That doing good work is different from doing more work.
I think about that go cart sometimes — the one we never finished. I think about all the time we spent planning something that never rolled an inch under its own power. It was never a functional go cart, but it taught me how seductive big ideas can be. And how exhausting it is to keep proving your worth through complexity.
I’m learning to stop doing that. Slowly.
I’m learning to just make the sandwich.
No dashboard. No bonus insights. No predictive modeling or exportable filters.
Just the thing that was asked for.
And maybe, on a good day, that’s enough.
Thanks for reading, and before you go. . .
I’m Aaron Pace. I write from the middle of things — life, business, fatherhood, faith, and the slow work of becoming someone I can live with. Not as an expert, but as someone trying to pay attention.
If this piece resonated with you, I’d be honored if you followed along here on Medium. I write — not because I’ve arrived, but because I’m finally moving again.
No comments:
Post a Comment