Moving at the speed of clarity, not urgency

It’s taken me years to understand that not all movement is progress. There are still days when urgency sneaks in, disguised as motivation, and I can feel the pull of “do it now” pounding in my chest, convincing me that action alone means forward movement.

But the truth I keep returning to is this: urgency is often fear cloaked in progress.

Every day, I make countless decisions - some grand, some so small they slip by unnoticed. Yet I know each one carries a ripple.

Sometimes those ripples are small and quiet. Other times, they carry a weight I may not fully see until much later. As a business owner, a mother, a leader, a teacher, a coach, and a woman deeply devoted to her big, bold, beautiful dreams, I feel the significance of those ripples. 

I don’t always get it right. Sometimes clarity feels far away—buried beneath deadlines, dishes, and doubt. But when I pause long enough to listen for truth beneath the noise, something ancient and steady rises to meet me. It doesn’t shout or demand; it simply guides, softly, but unmistakably.

When I move from urgency, it feels like treading water - so much motion, so little direction. Urgency whispers that I’m behind, that time is slipping through my fingers, that if I don’t act now, everything might fall apart. It’s fast, but it’s hollow. The energy is jagged, frantic, and laced with fear.

When I move from clarity, everything slows - but the power deepens. My steps may be smaller, but they land with intention. There’s still uncertainty - but it no longer feels like a threat. Clarity doesn’t rush. It trusts. It reminds me that progress can look like stillness, reflection, saying no, or even letting go.

This is my growing edge. I haven’t mastered it - not in business, not in motherhood, not in life. But I’m learning that clarity isn’t something to chase. It’s something to make space for.

When I stop trying to control what’s next, I start to feel something softer take shape - a knowing that doesn’t come from my mind, but from somewhere deeper. A quiet, unwavering truth that always knows the way home.

So, when I feel that old familiar wave rising within me - I must fix this now. I must find a solution. I must make it okay. Hurry, hurry, hurry... before it’s too late - I notice. I come back to my body. I breathe. I anchor. And I remember: this is where clarity begins.

I can’t rush clarity. I can only prepare myself to receive it.

Now, I try my best to move differently. Not to keep up, not to prove, not to grasp. But to listen. To trust. To follow the pulse of something wiser than urgency.

Because when I do—life expands in ways that hurry never could.

With reverence,

Taryn