Office Hours

Filed from a trail somewhere between “to-do list” and “don’t worry about it.”

I’m dictating this on my phone, one-handed, walking a trail I’ve done a hundred times before. The path crosses a little bridge over a river, then into a stretch of trees that always feels a few degrees cooler than the rest of the world. I can hear red-winged blackbirds screaming somewhere in the foliage (hopefully not preparing an ambush) and the gonk-gonk of frogs in the distance. The air smells like damp leaves and distant lilacs.

This is where I work.

Or at least, this is where I think about work. This is where half my ideas get sorted out and where problems I couldn’t crack in front of my computer start to soften at the edges. This is where the tangled ball of yarn that is small business ownership starts to unspool, one muddy step at a time.

I used to think that “office hours” meant something fixed: tied to a chair, an inbox, and loads of expectations.

But after leaving my traditional job and stitching together this odd, patchwork creative life: Etsy, eBay, Whatnot, Substack, chaos - I’ve realized that some of my most valuable work happens out here. Not in front of a screen, but outside and moving.

Out here, I write without typing. I troubleshoot. I dream. I build big projects in my head, and I tear down the ideas that need to be let go. It’s all productive, even if it doesn’t look like spreadsheets and whiteboards.

Back in my lawyer days, no one questioned the value of thinking time at a desk. Billable hours were built on things like “evaluate arguments for summary judgment motion.” Had I taken that same thought-work outdoors, I might’ve solved problems faster, or at least breathed easier while doing it. But that wasn’t the norm. And the legal profession is nothing if not built on norms and the sacred creed of “this is how we do it here.”

The subject matter is different now, but the worth remains. These hours still hold value, even if they look like me stomping through the woods with muddy shoes and half-formed ideas.

Sometimes I come home with a fully formed product idea or a solution to a shipping problem that’s been haunting me for days. Other times I come home with nothing but tired legs and a slightly better attitude. Both count.

And some days (this might be the most honest part) what I need isn’t clarity. It’s just distance, and space to remember that I’m not the entire universe. That the pressure I feel to always be creating, solving, scaling, succeeding? That pressure isn’t the universe bearing down on me. The pressure is all mine. It’s self-inflicted, and sometimes I can turn it down a notch and the birds will still chirp, the sun will still rise, the flowers will still bloom.

So I walk. Or I run. Or I sit on a bench with coffee and let the wind do the thinking for a while.

And I call it office hours. Because rest is part of the work. And so is movement. And so is wonder. Because we are allowed, especially those of us doing this business-building, meaning-chasing, patching-it-together life, to choose offices with sky ceilings and bird coworkers and no artificial lighting whatsoever.

We’re allowed to take the long way home if it gives our brains room to breathe.

If only my lawyer-self had realized sooner that the cage I felt trapped in - the desk, the fluorescent lights, the endless expectations - was more self-constructed than required. I could have stepped outside back then, too. Norms aside, I was the only one truly holding the key. But that’s okay. I’ve since found the latch on the door, and these days, I’m much better at spotting the bars I build around myself before they close in.

If you’re feeling stuck, I recommend stepping outside. Not for the hustle, not for Strava, not for the boxes checked, and especially not for the calories burned. Just for you, to listen, and to be.

The good thoughts tend to catch up when we stop chasing them.

***

If this piece gave you something to think about (or reminded you to look for the latch on your own door) I’d be honored if you bought me a coffee.