A couple of months ago, I started reading a book recommended by my Kindle. I’m surrounded by technology all day, so there’s something so appealing to me about a physical book. I felt optimistic about this one, so I bought the hard copy.
Turns out, that was a mistake.
Only a few chapters in, I realized it was one of those books — the kind that promises to deliver on something then falls completely flat. The author was completely out of touch with reality, and by the time I got halfway through his writing had devolved into not-so-thinly veiled contempt for people who didn’t fit the author’s worldview.
Without exception, the worst book I’d ever read, yet I persisted until I only had three chapters left. By then, the hatemonger masquerading as some kind of patriot was more than I could handle.
I threw the book in the recycling bin.
You have to understand. There’s only been one other time in my life that I’ve picked up a book to read and not finished what I’ve started and if you’ve ever tried to read Bill & Dave: How Hewlett and Packard Built the World’s Greatest Company by Michael S. Malone, you’d understand why I stopped reading that book too.
There was no “maybe I’ll donate it” or “leave it in a Little Free Library.”
Straight into the actual, blue-lidded, roll-out bin.
I know it was just a book going in a recycling bin but I had this weird sense of satisfaction.
Why do I bring this up? This isn’t some bold act of rebellion (though it kind of felt like that), but because it was so unusual for me to quit something that I’d already started. Especially something that had technically made it onto my mental to-do list.
For reasons I’m still trying to uncover, I’m wired to keep things on “the list.” Half-read books. Half-written software (I have a lot of this these days). Notes for a meeting that never happened. Notes for meetings that happened years ago that I’m going to summarize. Someday. Business ideas from decades ago. That one email from last April I still haven’t replied to.
The list goes on, and you get the idea.
There are tasks I’ll never finish. I know that. But I almost never know how to make peace with it.
There’s a strange comfort in seeing or thinking about my list — even when I know it’s impossible to do it all. It’s like a mental game I play, tricking myself into believing I’m still in motion. Still productive. Even when all I’m doing is thinking about how much I have on my to do list.
I tell myself things are just on hold, and that I’m still capable of tying up every loose end… eventually.
Truth: some of those things are not on hold. Some of them will never happen. And the part of me that still ties worth to accomplishment doesn’t like that.
Not at all.
I know this isn’t just a me problem. There’s something about life today that glorifies doing for the sake of doing — all the time, in every direction. Hustle culture, productivity hacks, habit trackers, inbox zero… it’s a world built for the illusion of movement. You don’t actually have to get anywhere — you just have to keep moving.
And I’ve been moving for decades.
Sometimes forward. Sometimes sideways. Mostly in circles.
My to-do list has become a weird reflection of that. There are items on my list that stopped being relevant five years ago, but taking them off feels like losing the part of myself that once thought that thing mattered.
Weird, right?
Letting go of a task shouldn’t feel like a funeral. But sometimes it does.
I recently mentioned rereading a journal entry from several years back. It was titled “Done Adulting.” I wrote it on a Sunday morning after a particularly exhausting Saturday of family logistics, drama, work spillover, and what really came down to emotional overload. There were no tragedies — just one of those slow-burn days where nothing goes according to my plans, and every one ends up frustrated.
The part that keeps resonating: “I’m going to bed and starting over tomorrow.”
That was the plan. No clarity or resolution. Just the resignation of someone who had hit the wall and knew the best thing to do was to stop climbing for a bit.
I’m reminded of that line when I stare at the pile of things I haven’t finished yet. A few nights ago, with anxiety gripping my chest, I just crawled into bed next to my wife and let the exhaustion take over.
Not everything on the list is “fluff.” There are things on there that need attention: the stuff that’s broken, replying to people who matter, reversing years of bad habit formation. So many things I told myself I’d get to when I “had the time.”
But the truth is, time’s not the issue.
Things go unfinished because I’m tired and spread too thin. They pile up on my list because I’ve taken on too much. Because I overestimate what I can hold, and underestimate what it’ll cost to carry it all.
Because I confuse value with volume.
Somewhere along the way, I convinced myself that leaving something undone meant I’d failed.
That book in the recycling bin? That was a small, silly thing — but it reminded me what it feels like to quit something on purpose. To decide that it wasn’t worth my time. That my energy is better spent elsewhere.
Perhaps the deepest realization is that the real peace I’m looking for isn’t in finishing everything. It’s in forgiving myself for the things I won’t.
It’s hard for me to accept that unfinished doesn’t mean unworthy. That resting isn’t quitting. That my value isn’t tied to whether or not that thing on that list gets done.
Because the list will never get done. That’s just life.
I’ve got five kids. Two businesses. A marriage I care so deeply about. Health that I want to want to take more seriously. Friends who matter. A church I love. Neighbors who deserve some of my time. Projects that light me up, and deadlines that don’t.
I can’t do all of it. Not well, and certainly not all at once.
Some things will get left behind. Some things already have.
And I’m starting to believe that’s okay.
Climbing out of the canyon isn’t about reaching the guru mountaintop where everything’s finally finished. It’s about finding peace in the middle of the climb. Looking down at the gear you don’t need anymore, and choosing to leave it behind.
I still struggle. I still fall for the illusion that one more push will bring balance. One more productivity tool. One more weekend where I “catch up.”
But lately, I’m trying something different.
I’m trying to look at the pile and say, “That can wait.” Or even better: “That doesn’t need to happen.”
Not every task is a promise. Not every loose end needs to be clipped.
Some things I can just let go.
And the space that creates — the quiet where guilt used to live — is maybe the clearest path forward I’ve found in a long time.
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