The Rush Feeling Without a Reason

The Lunchtime Errand

It’s 1:15 pm. I’ve just finished lunch with my wife. The kind of lunch where you linger at the table a little longer than usual because there’s nowhere pressing to be.

We decide to pick up some groceries before fetching our daughter from school. A simple errand. A Tuesday afternoon ritual that millions of people do without thinking twice.

But somewhere between the produce section and the dairy aisle, I notice something tightening in my chest.

I’m moving fast. Faster than the space requires. My eyes are scanning shelves with a kind of urgency, as if I’m searching for a life-saving medicine instead of a carton of eggs. I’m dodging other shoppers, arms wrapped around a handful of items like I’m late for something.

The Invisible Clock

I have no meeting after this. No deadline. No notification pinging in my pocket. I’m on a break — a real one, the kind I intentionally carved out for myself.

And yet my body hasn’t received the news.

It’s operating on an invisible clock, the kind that ticks in the background of years spent optimizing every hour. I was once proud of this. The efficiency. The focus. Getting in and out with only what you need. No dawdling. No browsing. Treat every errand like a mission.

For a long time I believed this was a good trait. It saves money. It saves time. It keeps life tidy and contained.

But standing there in the fluorescent hum of the grocery store, I suddenly feel how exhausting it is to be at war with time when time isn’t fighting back.

The Pause

I stop walking.

Right there between the ice cream and the refrigerated products, I slow down. I’m not sure why this moment, on this day, something breaks through. Maybe the meditation practice I’ve been inconsistent with has actually been doing something beneath the surface. Maybe the body finally screamed loud enough for the mind to hear.

I ask myself: Why the hurry here?

No answer comes. Or rather, the answer that comes is silence. There’s no threat. No consequence for moving slowly. No one is keeping score.

The Questions That Follow

I ask myself: What are you rushing for?

The words land like a soft challenge. Almost tender.

You’re on a break, man.

There’s no agenda waiting. No task list burning. No meeting that starts the moment the groceries are unpacked. The afternoon is wide open — by design, not by accident.

And yet I’m acting like there’s a fire somewhere. Like rest is something I need to speed through so I can get back to the real work of being busy.

What Rushing Costs

It makes sense to rush when something important follows. If I had a flight to catch, a sick kid to pick up, a deadline breathing down my neck — then yes, hustle through the grocery store. Efficiency serves love and responsibility well.

But not today. Not now.

Today, the rushing serves nothing. It’s just a reflex. A muscle memory from years of treating every gap in the schedule like it needs to be filled, optimized, or rushed past. I’ve trained myself so thoroughly to move fast that I’ve forgotten how to recognize when the race is over.

Slowing Down Is the Work

I realize something as I’m walking out of the grocery store: slowing down takes practice.

It’s not a switch you flip because you finally have free time. The body doesn’t trust free time immediately. It suspects it. It waits for the other shoe to drop. It fills the silence with phantom urgency because silence feels foreign.

So it’s okay if I can’t do it perfectly yet. If my pace still stutters between hurry and presence. If I have to keep reminding myself that there’s nowhere else to be.

Every great thing took patience. It required time. And the time it requires is different for everyone.

Today, I’m working on slowing down my pace.

One grocery aisle at a time.