Slow Does Not Equate to Easy
little lessons of early 2026
Yesterday I summoned every ounce of focus and managed to get myself and Montana out the door by 9 a.m.—grandma ready for a library adventure—and I made it to yoga class. This felt like a miracle. Okay, it WAS a miracle.
It was called a “slow flow.” Given the exhaustion I’ve been working with lately, I figured it would be an “easy” way to move my body.
Midway through the class I had one of those yoga-class ahas:
Slow does not mean easy.
Slow January
Slow has been on my mind. I declared I was having a “slow January” on Instagram—like Dry January, but instead of no alcohol, I was doing my best not to hustle.
So far that has looked like:
Pushing the start of my upcoming Clutter Lab live experience back
Losing our childcare the first week of January to the flu (translation: far less time to work)
Actually contemplating this whole idea of “slow”
I had slow and easy all mixed up in my mind. Slower = easier. Same thing, right?
Wrong.
The slow flow class kicked my ass. When you move fast, you can outrun sensation. Hold a pose long enough while your mind is screaming move and suddenly: oh. Slow just means you have to feel more. Great. :)
Truth be told, I’m more comfortable in speed.
Eat on the go.
Multitask.
Believe that the more productive I am, the more successful I’ll be.
I read The Tortoise and the Hare a lot as a kid. The idea that moving slowly is actually the fastest way to the finish line isn’t lost on me, and—
I’ve gotten good at pushing through. Good at speed. After more than a decade of walking with chronic illness, I made a decision: I would not let pain and physical limitations define me.
And in a way, moving fast has been the solution. When you’re always doing, you don’t have to feel how tired you are. Speed is a buffer. Speed is protection. Speed keeps you from sitting still long enough to notice what’s actually happening: that you’re up three to eight times a night. That your body needs tending. That your husband’s snoring wakes you. That Montana is restless. That the exhaustion is layered—household, toddler, business, hormones, breastfeeding, and yes, chronic illness.
I know what I have—a partner, the baby I dreamed of, support, a beautiful roof over my head. I have a lot I want to do. I am passionate about my work, my home, my mothering. And I feel the pressure of all of it.
But if I’m honest, all I want to do lately is sit and crochet. Let my body rest while my hands satisfy the urge to produce.
A sweater feels like a more reasonable ask than a profitable business.
Back to Slow Flow
Slow is its own kind of hard.
Maybe slow isn’t about making life easier.
Maybe it’s about not outrunning yourself anymore.
Maybe it’s about actually being in your life instead of sprinting through it.
I’m typing this ending with one hand. Montana had a bonk and needed a boob. Life doesn’t wait for you to finish your thoughts about slow.
And maybe that’s the work right now:
moving slower — not because it’s gentle,
but because it’s honest.
It’s winter here. The season of yin.
The world is literally asking everything to pull inward, to rest, to store energy.
Maybe my body isn’t wrong for wanting that. Maybe it’s right on time.