Welcome to this week’s 1-2-1 newsletter. A small pause to reflect, reconnect, and pay attention to what matters.
Inside you’ll find one idea I’m sitting with, two voices I’m learning from, and one question or practice to carry into the week ahead.
A movie trilogy I’ve come to admire over the past few years is Richard Linklater’s Before Trilogy. Each film was made nine years apart, with the same actors returning to play the same couple as they move from their early twenties into middle age. Watching them age in real time makes their hopes, disappointments, and relationships feel remarkably honest.
I recently revisited the first film. After the story ends, the camera quietly returns to the streets where it all happened. The cafés are empty. The characters are gone. Morning has arrived, and life simply carries on.
That brief sequence stayed with me far longer than I expected. It made me think about memory, time, and a lesson I’ve spent the past few years learning the hard way:
The main thing is not to hurry.
Every Tuesday I share one idea that's been changing how I think. If you'd like the next one, subscribe below.
Nothing Good Gets Away
I’d always assumed the final sequence in Before Sunrise existed because of the film’s modest budget. A quiet way to end the story without filming anything elaborate. This time, though, it landed differently. Instead of seeing empty streets, I saw a reminder that places remain long after we leave them.
When we’re young, we often imagine life unfolding according to a plan. A certain career. A certain home. A certain relationship. A certain timeline. Looking back from my mid-thirties, it’s easier to see the naivety in that. Life rarely unfolds the way we imagined it would.
Who you’re with often matters far more than what you’re doing.
You’re always there as well.
Those two ideas completely reframed the film for me.
The story takes place in Vienna, one of the most romantic cities in the world. At the beginning of the movie, Jesse is simply trying to pass the time before catching his flight. By chance, he meets Céline, and together they share what they both later describe as one of the most meaningful nights of their lives.
Was it really Vienna that made the night unforgettable? The streets, cafés, and musicians certainly played a role. But what made the evening extraordinary was the connection they built together. The place mattered. The relationship mattered more.
That’s incredibly special, and I don’t think everyone gets to experience something like that.
Time moves forward. If we’re fortunate, maybe we build a life with someone we love. Maybe we achieve some of the goals we dreamed about when we were younger.
This is where my mind really started to wander.
Because even in that ideal future, we still bring ourselves with us.
For the past week, I’ve been settling into my new one-bedroom apartment. After years of constant movement, difficult decisions, and more than a little chaos, life has suddenly become very quiet. It’s just me and my cat.
By all accounts, this should feel peaceful.
Clearly you’ve never spent a day in my head.
That’s where everything starts to unravel. My mind fills with regrets, worries, guilt, grief, doubts, and endless questions about the future.
That realization changed something for me.
It’s easy to believe that a better city, a better relationship, a better career, or a better experience will finally quiet the mind. I’ve had remarkable experiences. I’ve loved deeply. I’ve built businesses. I’ve failed spectacularly. And yet my own mind can still become an uncomfortable place to live.
The quality of my life isn’t determined only by what’s happening around me. It’s also shaped by what’s happening within me.
Over the past year, I’ve come to accept something I probably wouldn’t have admitted before.
Anxiety seems to be part of how I'm wired. That's okay.
I’m also curious, thoughtful, kind, hardworking, and optimistic. I’m not where I imagined I would be at this stage of life. That’s difficult to accept some days. At the same time, I’ve learned lessons I don’t think I could have learned any other way.
The most important one, at least in this season of my life, is not to hurry.
When I was younger, life always felt like sand slipping through my fingers. Every opportunity felt like it needed to be acted on immediately before it disappeared forever.
Now I see that not all time is equal.
Years can disappear in fear, stress, and worry. A single conversation, decision, or ordinary evening can stay with us for the rest of our lives.
I've learned that I'm at my best when I slow down enough to hear what's actually true for me.
That usually means stepping away, letting the anxiety settle, and returning with greater clarity. It’s an ongoing practice, and failing to respect that process has cost me dearly. I’ve rushed my way into financial debt, out of meaningful relationships, and through experiences that I wish I had lingered in a little longer.
A few years ago, I had my first therapy session. I spent the entire hour talking about everything that was wrong in my life. At the end, the therapist observed that I was very clear on what I didn’t want.
Then she asked me what I did want. I could only cry. “I don’t know.”
I had spent so long trying to escape the life I didn’t want that I’d stopped asking what kind of life I was actually trying to build. She suggested I think about the opposite of my problems.
The words that came to me were calm, ease, and delight.
Today, I think the opposite of hurry is calm. And if I’m honest, calm is exactly where I need to be right now.
2 Voices I’m Learning From
1.
The main thing is not to hurry. Nothing good gets away. - John Steinbeck
This is the line that inspired today’s newsletter. Steinbeck wrote it in a letter to his son about love, but I think it reaches much further than that.
Of course there are moments in life that call for urgency. This isn’t an excuse to procrastinate or avoid difficult decisions. For me, though, this quote has become an anchor.
When I feel myself rushing toward a decision, I try to ask a simple question.
Is this moment actually calling for urgency, or am I manufacturing it?
More often than I’d like to admit, it’s the second one. My anxiety wants certainty. It wants closure. It wants relief. That doesn’t necessarily mean it wants what’s best for me.
2.
Many people report getting distracted and coming back… All of a sudden, something changes. And they find themselves in this beautiful state of peace and clarity… They feel relieved of all the things they normally need to do. - Henry Shukman
I heard this during one meditation in The Way app, and it stayed with me all week.
As someone who has always loved sports, I’m familiar with the idea of flow. I’d never really considered that the same quality of attention might also shape everyday life. Conversations. Relationships. Decisions.
I don’t think peace is a destination that you eventually arrive at. I think it’s a practice. A willingness to notice when you’ve drifted into hurry, and gently return to the present. Again and again.
1 REFLECTION / ACTION
Where in your life are you hurrying when making space for a pause would be most helpful?
As I sit alone in my apartment tonight, I know my anxious mind isn’t going anywhere. It will still whisper that I’m behind, that I should decide faster, that I should already have everything figured out.
I’m hoping I’ll remember to pause instead. To breathe. To listen to those worries without handing them the steering wheel. To notice that calm has always been available to me, even if I don’t always recognize it. Maybe that’s what I’m really learning.
The main thing is not to hurry.
If this resonated, share it with someone who might need it.
Thanks for being here.
Jack
P.S. I’ve been thinking a lot about pressure and freedom lately.
I recently published a short essay called The Freedom Paradox.
It goes deeper into some of what I’ve been working through.
eBook + audiobook here:
https://jackjohnstonwrites.gumroad.com/l/freedom-paradox