I didn’t slow down because I’m naturally serene. I slowed down because pain became a teacher I couldn’t ignore. My body started telling the truth faster than my calendar did. In that space, I noticed how much of my life ran on hurry, not purpose. Hurry gave me little hits of progress (another message, another meeting), but it starved the parts that make a life: attention, connection, wisdom.

One small shift surprised me: I began finishing books again—not summaries, not someone else’s highlights. I wanted my mind to have longer thoughts, so I traded some scrolling for turning pages. The research tracks with the experience: Switching tasks leaves attention residue that degrades performance (Leroy, 2009), and even the presence of a smartphone drains cognitive capacity as part of the brain stands watch (Ward, Duke, Gneezy, & Bos, 2017). But I didn’t change because of studies; I changed because reading slowly made me feel human again.

I also kept thinking about leaders I admire—less for their titles than their libraries. They read widely and slowly. Their decisions seem to come from a quieter place. Kahneman would call that System 2 thinking—deliberate, effortful thought that improves judgment (Kahneman, 2011). My old pace had crowded that out. Slowing down also softened how I teach. I pause more, let a silence breathe, and aim for shared attention—the conditions that often invite flow (Csikszentmihalyi, 1990).

Lately, I’m asking longer-horizon questions. There’s a line often attributed to Bill Gates: We overestimate what we can do in a year and underestimate what we can do in a decade. A year rewards hustle; a decade rewards habits. A year is sprints; a decade is becoming. When I ask, Who am I going to be over the next 10 years? the answers are gentler and braver: a teacher who finishes books, a dad who is unhurried, a colleague who listens, a leader........

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