I started this Monday morning a little cranky and confused about what to prioritize. I have a list, but today everything felt both equally necessary and possibly futile. I texted a friend a gif of a fainting Elmo, walked my dogs with a barely concealed impatience (sorry to my dogs), and then found one task that was truly time-sensitive. Otherwise, it was a dealer’s choice situation.  

There are plenty of projects whose priorities are crystal clear, and their timelines unfold before you in a nice, neat line. First you do this, then that, then you do this other thing that has grown out of the first two activities. And those projects are great because you sort of know how they’ll play out. Even if they don’t blow the roof off your work, the very understanding of their limitations and their small, predictable result is enough to give you a sense of satisfaction. At least you’ve done the thing everyone’s expecting and it’s out of the way.  

But then there are projects that don’t show you the way that easily. They’re exciting, sure, but also terrifying and sometimes exhausting. What if it doesn’t work? What if I make things worse? Handled carefully, with respect for the anxieties and pitfalls, they can feel expansive and thrilling. Handled too casually, and people walk away feeling frustrated or demoralized.  

This is a theme that keeps popping up lately with people I work with. What’s the most important aspect of the project? How do I know when to start? Who do I tell? Don’t I need to complete this part before I start that one? You can ask yourself so many questions that you walk away all together, go back to the simpler, clearer project, and let the more challenging one languish. You can tell yourself that it took too much time, or resources, or the whole idea was flawed to begin with. You can tell yourself all these things before you even try, which means you’ll never actually know. 

So here’s a bit of permission for a Monday: try a small thing. You can spend five minutes emailing someone a question that’s been bugging you, or writing a list (not a to-do list, but something more off-task: a list of the five best songs that mention Ohio, or whatever), or doodling until your mind settles. That five minutes is to clear your head. Did you learn anything? Did it make you laugh? Both of those results are important, even if they don’t lead to something you might think of as productive. 

In the course of ten minutes, you can snap and post a photo that shows a different side of your work, or just a different side of you—something that maybe prompts people to ask questions or explore your website. The caption doesn’t need to bring them to tears, it just needs to be simple and genuine. After you post it, sit for a minute and let all the versions of the question, “What if I did it wrong?” bubble up, then settle, and then go back to your day. If you have a bit more time, take twenty minutes to figure out how to do whatever it is on Canva that you can never seem to get right. Or write one sloppy, but very true paragraph of that bio/course description/webpage you know you need and keep avoiding. 

And in thirty minutes—who knows what you could accomplish? Thirty minutes feels like an eternity and a blip at the same time, but you’d be surprised. Maybe you finally finish that thing you were making in Canva. Maybe that social post leads someone to contact you and now you need that slot to discuss a proposal. Maybe that five-minute doodle is a messy first draft of your next best idea. 

You never know. Try it out. Give yourself five minutes. See if you can surprise yourself.