There’s that moment when an idea lands in my lap and lights me up like the Fourth of July.
It’s thrilling, expansive. I can see it all so clearly: the colors, the steps, the faces of the people it’s meant to reach. My whole body says yes.
So I start.
I write the notes, sketch the vision, maybe even buy the domain (you know how that goes). I’m moving forward, making it real.
But then… something shifts.
Not all at once. At first, it’s just a little friction. I avoid opening the doc. I procrastinate on the next step. And then one day I realize: I’m bored.
Not tired, not scared just bored. The spark is gone. And yet, I keep pushing forward.
Why?
Because I was excited. Because I should finish what I start. Because I told people about it. Because I already put in the time.
But here’s the thing I’ve learned (and am still learning): Boredom is a message, not a failure.
It’s a quiet, honest nudge that says, This might not be it anymore. Your body knows. Mine always does. I feel it in the drag of my feet, the tightening in my chest, the way my energy leaks every time I sit down to “just get it done.”
When I finally stop and listen, the boredom isn’t just about this one project. It’s a mirror. It shows me where I’ve outgrown an old version of myself.
Where I said yes from a place of proving rather than a place of alignment. Where I tried to squeeze myself into something that no longer fits.
So lately, I’ve been practicing the art of the honest pause.
Asking:
- What is this boredom trying to reveal?
- Is this a “not now” or a “not ever”?
- Who am I doing this for?
- What would feel more alive?
Sometimes, I do finish the thing but from a new angle, a lighter way. And sometimes, I lovingly let it go.
There’s a deep kind of integrity in changing your mind when your body gives you new information.
So if you’re there, halfway through something you thought you wanted, feeling guilty for not feeling it anymore this is your permission to pause.
Let the boredom speak. Let your body speak. They’re wiser than the voice of obligation.
I’m learning to trust that what’s meant to move through me will keep its spark long enough to carry me home. Everything else was just part of the practice.
