I’ve always been someone who moves.
Not necessarily fast, but often.
I like having purpose woven through my day- tasks to complete, people to check in on, places to be. I don’t do well with long stretches of unclaimed time, and if you ever catch me “relaxing on the sofa,” it’s only a matter of minutes before I’m fast asleep.

So my default, the place I retreat to without thinking, is action.
Clear the cupboard.
Wrap the gift.
Send the birthday card.
Organise that sock drawer with military style precision.

This version of busyness has always felt productive to me. Useful, even grounding.
But lately, I’ve had to admit something a little uncomfortable:
Sometimes my busyness isn’t productivity…it’s avoidance dressed up in sensible shoes.

I used to believe procrastination only looked one way.
Doom-scrolling.
Watching videos of people rescuing stray dogs or influencers sharing their step by step skin care routines.
Sitting frozen at the dining table while an untouched task loomed like a shadowy doorway.
That wasn’t me. I was doing things. Plenty of things. My days were full.

But avoiding a task by doing other tasks?
That’s still avoidance.
It just looks deceptively responsible.

And I’ve learned that it’s not the difficulty of a task that decides whether I avoid it.
It’s the emotional weight.

Give me a dry, bureaucratic phone call to the bank? Fine. No fear there.
But ask me to write a vulnerable email to a senior colleague- one that means advocating for myself, risking misinterpretation, loosening the grip of perfection just enough to be human?
Suddenly laundry becomes urgent.
Suddenly the skirting board needs polishing.
Suddenly I’m “too busy” for the very thing that’s quietly swallowing my peace.

What’s worse is that the longer I leave it, the heavier it grows.
Three days of a small email sitting unsent can feel like carrying a backpack made of fog- light to the touch, but somehow suffocating. It follows me around the house, whispering reminders at the least convenient moments.

You know that feeling?
When the background hum of unease becomes louder in the quiet spaces?
When the thing you’re avoiding shows up not as loud panic, but as a gentle, persistent tug at the edges of your attention?
That’s when I know I’m stuck.

So what do we do when we notice this pattern?
When we realise the fear, not the task, is what’s stopping us?

For me, the answer came back to something simple:
Action breeds motivation.
Not the other way around.

We wait for motivation like it’s a visitor we need to impress.
But it’s action- small, imperfect, sometimes shaky action- that wakes motivation up.
Every single time.

So I wrote the email.
Not all at once.
Drafted it. Walked away. Came back. Edited. Sent.
Eighteen minutes of actual work.
Eighteen minutes that held three full days of dread.

It made me wonder:
How many hours of my life have been given away to things that would take minutes?
How much emotional weight have I carried unnecessarily, simply because I didn’t want to feel uncertain?

And here’s what I noticed:
Once I took the first step- even a tiny one…the fog lifted.
Not completely, but enough to move.
Enough to breathe again.

Practical Ways to Take the Next Step (Even When It Feels Too Big)

1. Let go of perfect.
The first draft doesn’t need to be good.
It just needs to exist.
Mark-making matters more than the masterpiece.

2. Chunk it down.
Big tasks shrink when you break them into smaller ones.

• Make a list.
• Do one thing.
• Then another.

Ticking things off can give your brain a little dopamine spark and sometimes that’s all you need to keep going.

3. Talk it through.
Sometimes saying the thing out loud unravels the knot.
A friend, a partner, a colleague- someone who can listen while you sort through the noise.

4. Accept your feelings without giving them the wheel.
Fear is valid.
Overwhelm is valid.
Uncertainty is human.
But if we let those feelings decide the direction, we’ll stay right where we are- stuck at the starting line.

5. Do the smallest possible thing.
Open the document.
Write the subject line.
Type one sentence.
Set a five-minute timer.
Small steps are still steps and they’re enough to crack the ice beneath your feet.

Life will always offer us moments that feel too big.
Tasks that feel heavier than they should.
Emotions that rise before logic has a chance to speak.

But forward motion doesn’t come from staring at the whole mountain.
It comes from noticing the next foothold.
Taking the next breath.
Choosing the next, tiny, doable action.

Because sometimes the best way to keep from being swept up in the overwhelm…
is simply to keep moving- one small step at a time, exactly the way I’ve always done when I’m clearing out a cupboard or straightening a sock drawer.

It turns out the thing that helps me in the smallest corners of my life is the very same thing that helps in the biggest ones.