My company’s still small enough that I don’t have to spend any time studying invoices. I know the work I did and how much I billed for it.
That didn’t stop me from staring the invoice down as though I was afraid of something bad happening if I looked away.
It wasn’t about what I’d been paid. I love my work and find it remarkable that I’ve got happy clients willing to pay for the work I do.
This invoice, though, was all about what I gave away.
The client asked me for a nice Toyota Camry. Entry level. I built them a Rolls-Royce. With all the extras.
I tell myself all the time that it’s generosity. Pride in my craft. That I know better than the client how this data should be visualized. But if I’m honest, it’s probably fear—the fear that if I don’t give them everything, they’ll think I’m holding back. So I bury them in dashboards, charts, and metrics, convinced that if I just add one more layer, they’ll see how much I care.
Here’s the thing: the more I give, the less they see.
This particular client took one look at what I’d built and said, “This is beautiful, but where’s the information I asked for?”
That one stung.
I keep thinking about it because I know he was right. They didn’t need a fancy dashboard integrating real-time data from five different sources. They needed a 5-column table of results with numbers they knew they could trust and see the next steps clearly.
They wanted the story.
I gave them the library.
It’s like building a whole deli just to make a sandwich.
Simplicity, especially in the software world, is not less effort. It is, however, less noise.
When my oldest son got married, we drove down to Chandler, Arizona, for the first reception.
It was small, warm (hot, actually), and unpretentious. At the center of it all was this simple wooden arch they’d rented, wrapped in flowers and fabric.
It wasn’t ornate. It wasn’t expensive. It didn’t try too hard. And yet it was perfect — because it left room for the things that actually mattered: the couple standing under it, the laughter, and the family and friends who were there to support them; some all the way from Alaska.
When we came back to Salt Lake City for the second reception, I decided to build an arch for them myself. Nothing fancy. Just wood, some bolts, and a Saturday morning in my garage. I kept it plain enough that it could be dressed up however we wanted.
And sure enough, on the night of the reception, it was transformed. It didn’t compete for attention. It just held space for everything else.
I keep thinking about that arch.
How much of my life I’ve spent carving details no one asked for. How rarely I leave enough blank space for the things that matter to stand out.
I’m circling that lesson now.
I sit in front of my over-packed calendar some days, wondering why I keep overcomplicating everything, but especially my work. I fill my weeks with more projects than I should. I over-prepare for conversations that probably need more listening than strategy. Even when I’m with my kids, I sometimes catch myself trying to orchestrate the moment instead of simply being in it.
Maybe that’s why the arch won’t leave me alone. It’s just a simple decoration, but it’s also a reminder that sometimes the frame doesn’t need to do anything more than hold the picture.
I don’t have this figured out.
Part of me is still convinced that the next client call will demand another overbuilt solution. Part of me wants to rip out half the complexity in my work and see what’s left. And I’m not sure which part is right.
But I keep coming back to that simple arch—the one I built with my own hands—and the way it felt to stand under it with my son, his wife, and all the people we love. It wasn’t grand. It wasn’t perfect. But it was enough to hold the moment. No complexity required.
And maybe that’s the question I’m still holding: What would my life look like if I stopped trying to impress people with the frame and just trusted the picture?
I don’t know the answer yet.
But I’m learning.
And that is 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.
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:
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