Learning to Slow Down When Everything Feels Urgent

For the past few weeks, I’ve been sitting with the feeling that I’m always rushing. Even when I have time, even when there’s no immediate deadline, my brain still pushes me to go faster, to do more, to keep moving. Stopping feels like failure. Resting feels like I’m falling behind. And when I do stop, the noise in my head gets louder, reminding me of everything I could be doing, everything I should be doing.

Lately, I’ve been trying to understand where this urgency comes from. Why do I feel like I’m in a race against myself? Why do I push through discomfort instead of pausing? Why is slowing down so difficult when I know I need it?

This month has been filled with moments where I’ve had to confront that pattern head-on. A long drive back to Hertfordshire that left me exhausted and dysregulated. The endless cycle of tasks for my business, where even small things like writing an email or updating my shop felt like monumental efforts. The pressure to make everything “productive,” to justify my time, to prove (to whom, I’m not even sure) that I’m doing enough.

I am enough

And, underlying all of it, the realisation that I’ve been treating myself as a task to be managed rather than a person to be cared for.

The Weight of Grief and Distance

Amongst everything else, I’ve also been navigating something entirely new to me—grief within my close family, all while living 300 miles away. I didn’t realise how much distance could complicate grief, how it could make me feel both too far removed and yet entirely responsible at the same time. I’ve been feeling the weight of not physically being there, the guilt of continuing my life as normal when things back home are shifting.

Grief has a strange way of creeping into everything. It sits in the pauses, in the in-between moments when I think I’m fine and then suddenly, I’m not. I’ve found myself on edge, more irritable, more tired than usual. I’ve noticed the way my brain has latched onto other things to control—rushing, pushing, filling my time—because sitting with the sadness feels like too much. I’ve had to remind myself, over and over, that grief isn’t something to fix. That I don’t have to do anything with it. That it’s okay to feel lost in it.

A walk from this morning, quiet and early before the chaos of other people takes over.

I don’t have answers for this one. Just an acknowledgment that it’s there. That I’m learning how to hold it, even from a distance.

The Anxiety of Unexpected Costs

On top of everything, money anxiety has been hitting hard lately. It feels like every time I turn around, there’s another unexpected cost—repairs, replacements, things I have to pay for but hadn’t planned on. I can feel the familiar panic rising in me, the scarcity mindset creeping in, making me question every little decision.

When you’re self-employed, money is never just money. It’s safety. It’s proof that you’re doing okay. It’s the thing that lets you breathe. And when it feels unpredictable, it becomes a constant background noise of worry. Every big expense feels personal, like I should have planned better, like I should have seen it coming. But I couldn’t have. That’s the thing. Life is unpredictable.

A piece I made that encapsulates everything

I’m trying to remind myself that I have been through money stress before, and I have found my way through it. That I am capable of problem-solving. That not every cost is a catastrophe. But that’s hard to hold onto when the numbers don’t add up the way I need them to.

Feeling Unmoored Without My Studio

Something else I’ve been navigating is not having access to my studio right now. And it’s really messing with me.

My studio has always been my space—not just for work, but for grounding myself. It’s where I can spread things out, get messy, step back and see things properly. It’s where I feel most like myself. Without it, I feel unmoored, like I’ve lost a part of my rhythm. Trying to work from different places, moving materials around, not being able to settle—it’s making everything feel ten times harder.

I had 24 hours notice to move half my studio and haven’t had access to it for a month

It’s not just about logistics. It’s about identity. So much of how I process the world happens through my hands, through making. Without my usual setup, I feel disconnected from that part of myself. Like I’m floundering, trying to keep up with everything without the one thing that usually keeps me steady.

I know this isn’t forever. I know I’ll find my way back to a routine. But in the meantime, I’m trying to be gentle with myself. To remember that my creativity isn’t tied to a place, even if it feels that way right now.

The Small Steps That Help

There have been a few small moments this month where I caught myself before the spiral fully took over.

One of them was during my drive back to Hertfordshire. I was exhausted, hungry, and overwhelmed. My instinct was to just keep going, to push through the discomfort and get home as quickly as possible. But I knew that wouldn’t actually help. So instead, I stopped. I bought a cup of tea. I sat in my car and ate lunch. I tried to let myself be for a moment rather than rushing onto the next thing. And it helped. Not in a huge, life-changing way, but in a small, gentle way that reminded me I could choose differently.

Another moment was when I was struggling to get started in the studio. My brain was racing through everything I should be doing, and I could feel the shutdown creeping in. Instead of trying to force my way through, I broke it down: What’s one thing I can do right now? Just one. Not all of it. Not the whole project. Just one small step. I put on a song. I moved my hands. I started. And that was enough.

I’ve also been experimenting with giving myself neutral affirmations—something that acknowledges how I feel without shame. Instead of “I should be able to do this,” I try, “This feels hard right now, and that’s okay.” Instead of “I’m wasting time,” I try, “I am allowed to go at my own pace.” It’s a small shift, but it helps.

Learning to Be Gentler

I’ve been thinking a lot about self-compassion lately, how foreign it still feels, how unnatural. I’m used to pushing myself. I’m used to measuring my worth by what I accomplish. But the more I push, the more I realise: This isn’t sustainable. And more importantly, I don’t want to live like this.

I don’t want to feel like I’m constantly running from something. I don’t want to treat myself like a project to be optimised. I don’t want to spend my whole life rushing.

I’m not saying I have it figured out. I don’t. But I’m learning, slowly, that I don’t have to go at full speed all the time. That stopping doesn’t mean I’ve failed. That rest is just as valuable as action.

So, if you’re feeling that same pressure, the rush, the urgency, the fear of stopping, I hope you can give yourself permission to pause. Even just for a moment. Even just long enough to take a breath, drink a cup of tea, or remind yourself that you are enough exactly as you are.

No proving necessary. No rushing required.