As I walked up to the bus stop bench at Mall of America, a man about my age pointed at my Minnesota Wild sweater and said, “Yeah! We’ve got to represent.” He contorted so I could see he was wearing team gear, too.
One of the great benefits of bus stops is being able to chat without consequence. You’re not there to make lifelong friends. You’re just people bound by the common desire to get somewhere. It’s safe to shoot the breeze without worrying you’ll say something awkward.
We chatted about the playoff game that evening, right here in town. It had been more than a decade since our NHL team had played May hockey, and we intended to drink it in. We discussed the goalie play and whether our superstar defenseman Quinn Hughes was likely to re-sign. Having thoroughly dissected these important issues, our banter petered out.
“The weather’s gorgeous today,” I remarked, wanting to keep it going. “I’m so happy spring is here.”
The man nodded. “I will love summer even more. It’s so short here. We have to enjoy every minute.”
We piled aboard the 54 bus, which wound its way through blocked streets and crushes of hockey fans already surrounding the arena at three in the afternoon before an 8:00 p.m. game. I hopped off at Rice Park to take in the sunshine, flowers, and budding trees. Why ride all the way home when I had the chance to soak up the sun?
I strolled down the boulevard, along the Mississippi River, where a paddle boat chugged eastward bearing passengers assembled on its deck – tourists in town for the hockey, sure, but probably locals, too.
I snapped a photo to send to my sister, Marty. “What a great afternoon I’ve had,” I texted. “So fantastic to get out and have a life for a change.” I added a laughing face emoji and clicked send.
A breeze caught my hair, and a smile spread across my face. The outing had invigorated me in a way I hadn’t felt for a long time.
Back at my apartment, I headed to the computer to check LinkedIn for comments to respond to, look at daily sales, peek at company email to see if anyone needed immediate assistance.
No, none, nope.
The ‘none’ made me sigh. Any business relies on sales, and to see none flowing in made my stomach tighten a little. It reminded me of the sinking feeling I’d get as a freelance writer, when I’d send a blitz of LOIs only to be confronted with an empty inbox day after day.
I shifted my gaze out the window, to downtown Saint Paul spreading below me. Just to my north, green tree tops rose between the buildings where near-indiscernible brown branches had been just days earlier. Another sign of spring. Another park beckoning.
Why am I here? I asked myself. I meant “in the office.” I’d just enjoyed a lovely day away from work, and the first thing I did when I returned was lock myself back in my cage.
Drift
In the spring of 2020, when covid hit, my writing business exploded. It seemed like every editor on the planet wanted a clinician writing about the virus and the rapidly evolving science. In classic freelancer fashion, I accepted nearly every assignment lobbed my way.
And yet, even then, I protected my personal time.
Even then I never worked beyond one or two o’clock in the afternoon.
Even when there was nowhere to go and nothing really to do except work…I didn’t.
Something shifted in 2021, when I became a course creator. The business likewise exploded, commanding my full attention, and I stopped guarding my time with such vigor. I needed to be available to every customer, every student, every employee, every contractor at every minute of every day.
If I didn’t make myself immediately available, my thought process went, my employee would hate me, my contractors would fire me, and I’d get a reputation for bad customer service or…something. I couldn’t really define it, but the knot in my stomach when I thought about it was real.
Then, when I moved to Saint Paul in 2025 the boundaries dissolved altogether. Walking into my apartment was like walking through a door into a world where work was no longer confined to a time or a space. Soon, the recliner became an office, too, as I checked email on my iPad while watching TV.
I worked seven days a week. Sometimes ten hours a day.
I watched the seasons pass from the 12th floor: people striding up the sidewalk to Union Depot, people crowding together with cups of glühwein at the European Christmas Market set up in the field by the train tracks. Busy people.
People with lives.
Where had my life gone?
Amy
I was pondering this question when my friend Amy called. She’s a wonderful conversationalist, a Buddhist nun, and a successful finance writer who lives on the East Coast. We’ve never met in person, but we are bonded by a tragic event: A decade ago we both lost our husbands within two weeks of each other due to sudden cardiac emergencies.
At the time, we both participated in the same online group for freelance writers. When we saw each other’s posts about our losses, we connected offline and became fast friends. It’s fair to say I would not have worked through my grief as smoothly without Amy’s compassionate, insightful conversation during tearful phone calls.
On our recent call, Amy naturally asked about my business.
“I’m frustrated,” I replied. “I keep working harder and harder, more and more, yet I’m not manufacturing sales at the level I’d like. It’s kind of maddening.”
I could picture Amy nodding at the other end.
“There’s a concept in Buddhism: upādāna,” she said. “It basically teaches that grasping at things or trying hard to possess them causes suffering. It’s because everything is impermanent. We never actually possess anything, anyway.”
“You’re saying I’m trying too hard,” I said.
“I’m saying it’s worth thinking about.”
The heart of the matter
That conversation came back to me as I sat there, late on a Saturday afternoon, wondering why I'd locked myself in my office after such a lovely day. Six years ago this would not have happened. Six years ago I knew something I seemed to have forgotten: the more tightly I tried to gather clients to me, the fewer I got. When I loosened my grip and let the process flow, I had more work than I could handle.
But somewhere along the line — somewhere between the course launches and the move and the seven-day weeks — that knowing slipped away. I'd started running a different script: If you're not available every minute of every day to everyone and everything, the business will fail.
Then it hit me.
In trying to control the business, I’d stopped possessing it.
The business now possessed me.
I looked again at the treetops in Mears Park, newly leafed out. The light had shifted while I’d been at my desk. The afternoon was nearly gone.
Summer is short here.
I pushed back from my desk, grabbed my keys and a sweater, and walked out the door.
This is what Sunday Rounds is about.
Each week, I'll share how I'm thinking about business and life — the questions I'm sitting with, the things I'm working out, the moments that change how I see the work. Some stories. Some questions. Some hard-won lessons. I hope we'll solve some problems together, have some laughs, and find a little more clarity along the way.
This leads to my question for you this week:
Are you grasping too much in your business? Have you ever considered letting go and letting things flow a bit more? What scares you about doing that?
Please hit reply to the ShiftNotes email and tell me. Also please know that while I can’t respond to everyone who replies, I do read every response.
That’s all for this week.
See you next Sunday.
