Hey you,
Do you know there’s a little lie we keep telling ourselves: if it’s not fast or if it’s not going the way we expect it to be, then it’s not happening.
We scroll online, we compare ourselves to our friends, and when we don’t see a clear result—likes on our posts, promotions, applause from people—we quietly assume the work we did was for nothing.
That assumption is everywhere. I’ve been seeing a few posts and write‑ups lately with the reminder that, “slow doesn’t mean delayed,” and just on Wednesday I posted something on my Instagram about 15 things I'm learning as a 20-something girl in a transition phase.
One of those things landed the hardest: most change happens in the quiet in‑between, long before the visible moment everyone celebrates.
So why do we make these mistakes? Two simple human tendencies conspire here:
Visibility bias. We only reward what is visible. A finished product is satisfying but the messy middle isn’t. So when the change we want looks invisible, we say “nothing is happening.”
Instant‑result culture. I feel like we’ve been trained to expect quick wins. And when they don’t arrive, we question the process instead of the timeline.
But the truth is, slow change isn’t the absence of progress — it’s progress happening where progress usually lives. Which is in repeated small choices, in tiny corrections, and in habits that accumulate over time.
Why slow change is often the better change
This is what I’ve noticed about why slow change is often the better change:
Skill grows with repetition. Doing something a little bit every day trains your brain and body more reliably than bursts of intensity. The day you finally “get it” is usually the result of hundreds of small practices beforehand.
Habits reduce friction. When something becomes a habit, it no longer eats up your mental energy. It frees you to do more without deciding every time.
Small failures are usually safer. When you move slowly, failure is cheaper. You course‑correct early and rarely have to rebuild from scratch.
Identity shifts are gradual. We become people by repeating actions that align with who we want to be. Those tiny acts — the 10 minutes writing, the short walk, the polite boundary — all add up to a different you with time.
Consistency > Intensity
I feel like intensity usually gives a rush. It feels productive because you see the immediate output. But it’s sometimes hard: burn out and exhaustion would follow. But you see consistency, it’s usually quieter. It’s not glamorous, but it’s sustainable, and it compounds.
This is how consistency wins in practice:
Momentum beats adrenaline. A small action every day creates momentum. Momentum lowers the activation energy for the next session — it becomes easier to continue.
It builds feedback loops. Regular habits let you measure, adjust, and improve incrementally. Intense bursts give you big feedback too late.
It changes how you see yourself. Doing something reliably nudges your identity: “I am someone who writes,” “I am someone who keeps appointments with myself.” Identity is the secret engine behind lasting behavior.
This weekend and next week, I’m challenging you to pick one small thing you want to build (writing, reading, stretching, planning, anything really). Try this for 7 days:
Daily minimum: 10–20 minutes, or a very small measurable action (e.g., 200 words, 5 push‑ups, 2 pages).
Stack it: Attach it to something you already do (very early in the morning, before going to bed).
Track it: Tick a box in a notebook or phone — the act of recording magnifies progress.
Weekly review: On day 7, note what felt different. What was easier? What resisted you?
That’s it. No pressure to make it perfect. Just show up.
If you’re in a slow season, let this be permission: the quiet work is doing its work. You don’t need a dramatic evidence to be moving forward.
If anything here landed, reply and tell me one tiny thing you’ll try this week. I love hearing real experiments — they make this less lonely.
P.S. If you found this comforting, forward it to a friend who thinks the silence means nothing is changing. We’re all growing, just on different clocks.