“Aaron works himself to death.”
It’s been a recurring theme throughout my career. I don’t know exactly when I developed the mental model, but somewhere along the way I became convinced that if something wasn’t working, the solution was almost always to increase my effort.
Over the last twenty-four months, I’ve gained nearly forty pounds. In May, I decided it was time to start running again. Rather than change the way I ate, I simply added running to my already bloated routine.
The results were impressive. I logged many miles and lost exactly zero pounds. What I gained instead were sore knees, aching hips, and another thing I felt obligated to accomplish everyday.
Naturally, my first instinct was to run more. It’s engineering by addition rather than subtraction. I do this everywhere.
Just over a year ago, I started a company. I believed in the product, believed in the team, and believed investors would arrive before our runway ran out.
Unfortunately, they didn’t, and the company ran out of cash. I let everyone go, myself included.
Except, I didn’t want the company to die. So what was my answer?
“Aaron works himself to death.”
For the last two months I’ve tried to rebuild my company while working forty hours a week somewhere else to keep food on the table. At the same time, I’ve tried to write, exercise, pay down debt, repair relationships, bury a family member, raise five children, launch a product that’s within spitting distance of completion, sleep five hours a night, and somehow become more present.
Looking at that list now, it’s almost funny.
Almost.
One of the reasons I became an engineer is because I love the scientific method. I love testing ideas against reality. Unfortunately, I’ve been running the same experiment for years. The hypothesis has always been the same: If life isn’t working, add more effort.
The data has been remarkably consistent, but somehow the hypothesis keeps failing.
Lately, finally, I’ve started paying attention to a deeper current through all of this. I spend a great deal of time thinking about who I want to become.
- Healthier.
- Smarter.
- Kinder.
- More grateful.
- A better writer.
- A better husband.
- A better father.
- A more devoted disciple.
- A better business owner.
Those are all worthwhile pursuits.
In paying closer attention, the thing that surprises me now is how many years I’ve spent believing that becoming more required doing more.
I even wrote a book on that very subject called You Don’t Have to Escape to Be Free. (You can buy a copy here.)
Apparently the author needs to read it again.
A few days ago, I talked to my brother-in-law about taking blocks of aluminum and subtracting material to make some things and adding material to make others.
Human growth, as it turns out, seems to have a lot less to do with addition than subtraction.
I’m pretty sure I underlined about 30% of Greg McKeown’s Essentialism. The frustrating part is that none of the advice is particularly complicated. Delete the time-wasting app. Turn off the notifications. Say no to the meeting. Eat the apple instead of the ice cream. And, for the love of all that is good in this world, just go to bed.
Here’s the problem: I know what to do, but I don’t do it. I don’t leave enough empty space in my life that the things that matter actually have room to grow.
The lesson I’m learning, but having a hard time implementing, is that becoming more is mostly the discipline of deciding what no longer deserves a place in tomorrow then having the courage to leave it behind today.
Doing less doesn’t necessarily mean lowering your standards. What it does mean, though, is removing everything that keeps your desired standards from becoming your reality.
Now if you’ll excuse me, there’s a bowl of ice cream calling my name.
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