There comes a moment on every path when what looks less like a clear road looks more like a junk drawer mired in mess. That’s what cancer side effects, brain fog, neuropathy, autoimmune, GI, and vision issues, has looked like for me – roads that are still not cleared. But doubt also shows up not just in the big things. It can show up in the ordinary and it does.
Can you relate to the feeling? You have a goal. You have ambition. You may even have a fresh notebook – which can stymie me on the spot with too many possibilities for those endless pages. It’s that feeling as fall looms on the horizon facing those blank pages which we have been trained to believe is the place where the first stage of greatness begins – whatever that looks like. And yet, when it comes time to decide what to write on that first page on that first line, and to decide what to do next, your brain responds with the same confidence as a squirrel in a roundabout. And I loathe roundabouts.
This is usually when one starts asking enormous questions:
- What is my purpose?
- What if I choose wrong?
- Where do I see myself in five years?
- Why did I open the fridge again?
These questions may be interesting, but they are not always useful in the moment, except maybe the fridge. I’ve lived long enough to know when I’m stuck the best move is rarely to solve my entire life in one heroic burst. The best move is usually smaller, much less glamorous, and suspiciously available.
I have to remind myself. Take the next step.
Not the perfect step. Not the impressive step. Not the step that will make my future biographer underline the page.
Just the next one.
Small steps are underrated because they do not arrive wearing a cape. They look ordinary. Send the email. Wash the mug. Open the file. Write the bad first sentence. Put on the shoes. Make the list. Read the first page. Apologize. Ask the question. Drink the water before becoming a haunted houseplant.
The magic is not that small steps fix everything instantly. They do something better: to break the inertia.
Movement interrupts that nonsense dancing hazily in my brain.
A small step turns the problem from a fog bank into a sidewalk square. One that I am standing on, that one square – manageable; and I can see the next one. Not the whole map. Just enough. But my CPTSD brain still fights that defensively resorting to ten steps ahead and the cluelessness of brain fog is standing there confused and they are both in an epic battle.
This is deeply annoying to the part of me that wants certainty before beginning. I would prefer a detailed itinerary, three endorsements, a weather report, and a guarantee that no one will judge my shoes – I definitely have a thing about shoes, more than 50 pairs. But life, inconsiderate as ever, often gives us only enough clarity for one step.
So, I must remind myself. Take it.
Sometimes that means reducing the step until the almost absurd. Sometimes I have to form little mantras in my head to do the actions – like in the shower, get that hair clean right now, get that hair clean. Write the report becomes open the document. Get in shape becomes walk for five minutes. Fix my life becomes clear off the loveseat where the Amazon boxes and packing have taken up residence. Who else has trouble getting rid of those perfectly good boxes until you have a pile? Why not recycle them immediately? I don’t know.
Tiny counts.
For me, tiny is the whole point. I’m going to put off and ignore the overwhelming. Tiny I can do. Smaller actions are easier to repeat, and repetition is how momentum sneaks in wearing sensible shoes. It’s common knowledge that research on behavior change often emphasizes that breaking tasks into smaller steps help people to build consistency, monitor progress, and feel rewarded by small wins. The humble little step is not a consolation prize; it is a strategy.
Of course, taking the next small step does not mean abandoning big dreams. It means refusing to let big dreams intimidate you into becoming furniture.
A novel is written one sentence at a time. A business begins with one conversation. A healthier routine starts with one choice. A repaired relationship may begin with one honest message. Even the most dramatic transformation is usually just a long parade of unglamorous little actions wearing a trench coat.
So the next time you do not know what to do, do not demand a thunderbolt. Thunderbolts are rare, loud, and terrible for your electronics.
Instead, look around and ask:
What is the smallest, useful thing I can do next?
Then do that.
Afterward, ask again.
This will not make life perfectly clear. But it will make it less stuck. And often, less stuck is where everything good begins.
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