Things I no longer do (to think, feel, and work better)

There’s a lot of talk about what to do. What to add. What to build. What to start. Most goal-setting conversations are centered around doing more. But what about the things we stop doing? What about the daily decisions, habits, and patterns that quietly drain our time, our clarity, and our presence—and go completely unchecked?

We often assume progress is additive. More inputs, more systems, more effort. But sometimes clarity comes from subtraction. From the quiet decision to opt out of what no longer aligns—even if it looks impressive on the outside. This is the kind of progress that’s harder to measure, but it’s where my real momentum has come from.

Here’s a short list of things I’ve consciously stopped doing—not as a productivity tactic, but as an act of mental protection.

I no longer check my inbox before I’ve checked in with myself.

Mornings used to start with notifications. Email, Slack, calendar invites. My day would begin in reaction mode—before I’d even decided how I wanted to feel, or what I wanted to focus on. Now, I don’t open my inbox until I’ve done three things: moved my body, asked myself what actually matters today, and looked at my own to-do list. It’s not about being strict. It’s about protecting my ability to think before I respond.

I no longer aim to be “on” all day.

There was a time I believed that showing up well meant being constantly available. Responsive. Switched on. Ready. Now, I’m interested in rhythm. I give myself permission to step away between deep work sessions. I take walks during calls. I ignore the pressure to reply instantly. I build in deliberate pauses—not to disconnect, but to stay anchored. Being useful doesn’t mean being endlessly accessible.

I no longer multitask through tension.

It’s easy to stay busy when something feels hard. Open a new tab. Check your phone. Refresh your inbox. Pretend that speed will make discomfort go away. I’ve learned that most of my best thinking happens when I stay still in the discomfort. When I don’t rush to distract myself. When I let the awkward question sit for a minute longer. Insight doesn’t live in motion—it shows up when I stop fidgeting with the edges and actually face what’s there.

I no longer say yes because I feel I “should.”

This one took time. I used to agree to things just because they sounded like the right next step. Or the smart move. Or the polite thing. Now, I pause. I ask: Does this expand me, or drain me? Am I saying yes out of alignment or avoidance? If the answer is hesitation, I choose space instead.

I no longer treat every hour as equal.

Not all time is created equal. I used to block my calendar in 60-minute chunks, assuming my energy could stretch to fit it. But some work needs quiet. Some decisions need margin. Some days ask for less. Now I protect a few “non-linear” hours each week. Time where I don’t schedule. I don’t produce. I just think, read, rest, wander, or plan. It’s this space—unscheduled and unproductive on the surface—that supports all the deeper clarity underneath.

I no longer wait until I’m exhausted to rest.

For a long time, I didn’t rest until I hit a wall. I’d power through, then collapse. Rest felt like something you earned—rather than something you built in to sustain clarity and care. Now I think of rest as strategy. I schedule it. I don’t over-explain it. I know I’m sharper, steadier, and more honest in my work when I’m not operating on empty.

I no longer force clarity in the wrong conditions.

There’s a version of me that believed every decision could be solved with more thinking. That if I just sat with it longer, forced the logic through, clarity would arrive. But I’ve learned that real clarity isn’t the result of mental pressure. It’s what shows up when the pressure drops. Now, when I feel stuck, I don’t push harder. I shift the environment. I go outside. I move my body. I change location. I do something that feels unrelated—like rearranging the fridge or watering a plant. Because often the block isn’t in the question itself—it’s in how I’m holding it. We don’t need more pressure to think clearly. We need more space.

I no longer ignore what my body is trying to say.

Sometimes the brain is too noisy to hear the message. But the body always knows. Tension in the chest. A tight jaw. Shallow breath. Those are signals, not side effects. When I feel like I’m pushing through everything, I now pause and ask: Is this a signal to keep going, or a signal to shift something? My nervous system isn’t a productivity tool. It’s the foundation for how I show up—calm, focused, clear, or not. So now I listen to it. I check in with it. And when I care for it, everything else flows better.

This isn’t a list of rules. It’s a practice. A reminder that sometimes, the most powerful changes aren’t what we do—but what we stop doing. You can still keep your to-do list. Just write a not-to-do list alongside it. Start with one habit, one pattern, one thing that feels heavy for no good reason. Don’t wait for a full system overhaul. Just let something go. See how it feels. Notice what kind of thinking shows up when you create a little space. You don’t need more discipline to do more. You need more discernment to do less—and mean it.