Growing up, I had an obsession with speed.

It was about getting things done in the fastest time possible, with the smallest amount of downtime. There was a false equation stuck in the recesses of my mind that faster equaled mastery.

To say I had (and somewhat still) a heavy foot while driving is an understatement and I bequeath my good fortune of only getting one speeding ticket—ever—to someone really looking out for me. The immature brain lodged in my skull dictated that driving fast meant getting places faster and showed great skill.

Then were the attempts at learning speed reading (more books, faster!), increasing my typing speed (100wpm+ or bust!), dictation, power-gaming, HIIT workouts… and the list goes on.

Perhaps it’s the physical rhythm of my body slowing down, or some wisdom has seeped into the empty space between my ears, but I’ve reversed course.

I’m teaching myself how to slow down.

I can comfortably “speed-read” at 700wpm, but ignore that glorified skimming skill to enjoy the text I’m in. The net result has allowed me to read more complicated works with ease, understanding them more and completing them in greater volume.

I can comfortably type between 90-100wpm, but my mornings are spent with my pen and notebook, enjoying a coffee, with my daughter beside me on the couch as we both wake up. When I sit down at the keyboard, I slow my fingers down to a slower pace to allow my thoughts to get ahead of my typing. The net result has been a greater volume of writing, finishing more and finishing “faster.”

All these attempts to speed-up were not in vain, but merely misguided.

It’s the deliberate actions, taken with care, that gets more done at a faster pace.

However, I’m still working on the driving part.