The Gentle Art of Effortfulness
 

The table was a mess. Not the kind of curated, artful mess you see on Instagram, but a chaotic jumble of half-used jars, crumpled paper towels, and a single onion rolling dangerously close to the edge. My plan for Christmas dinner had unravelled spectacularly—an ice storm had trapped me at home, and the intricate menu I’d spent hours crafting was suddenly irrelevant.

I stood there, frozen, staring at the pantry shelves, lost and anticipating failure, when a quiet thought whispered: Just start cooking.

So, I did. I grabbed the onion, a can of tomatoes, and a few spices I barely remembered buying. Slowly, something began to take shape—a meal that had no blueprint, no plan, just the skills that I had honed over the years and inspiration that was enhanced by the glass of Chablis. What I thought would be a quiet evening turned into an impromptu gathering; those who braved the storm lingered in the kitchen glowing with the warmth of candlelight, the air heavy with the scent of garlic and rosemary, sharing stories over what I still remember as one of the most joyful meals of my life.

It wasn’t planned. It wasn’t laboured. But it was unforgettable.

That night sticks with me because it whispers something I’m still trying to learn: not everything beautiful needs to be hard-won.

And when we sat down to eat, something shifted. It wasn’t just the food. It was the joy—a joy that didn’t feel forced or manufactured but light and unbidden. A joy that asked for nothing in return.

I think about that night often, especially when I catch myself clinging to the belief that effort is the only path to success.

I was reminded of this recently during a coaching session at the National Gallery. My client and I were wandering through the contemporary exhibit when she stopped abruptly in front of a minimalist installation—a single brushstroke painted on a vast white canvas.

Her reaction was immediate. “How does something like this end up in a museum?” she demanded. “It looks like it took the artist no time at all to make.”

Her words hooked something deep in me. I recognized that indignation, that discomfort with ease.

I asked her, “Don’t you have moments when everything just clicks? When you sit down to work, and the solution appears as if by magic?”

She hesitated, then nodded. “Sure, but… does that even count?”

Her question felt like a mirror. How often have I dismissed the easeful moments in my own life? The poem that leapt fully formed into my mind, the pitch I threw together in ten minutes that landed the client, the meal created in a storm. If the effort isn’t obvious, do I automatically devalue the result?

I used to believe effort made joy more legitimate. I’d slave over elaborate dinner parties, pouring hours into every detail to create something “worthwhile.” And while those evenings were wonderful, they weren’t the ones that stayed with me.

The memory that hums the loudest is that impromptu Christmas dinner. In the absence of planning and execution, something unexpected emerged: creativity and flow. From that emerged connection, laughter, and a quiet, unearned joy that felt as though it had slipped in sideways, unnoticed.

Now, I’m trying to make more room for spontaneity.

I’m learning to trust the effortless moments—the ideas that land in a flash, the impromptu text to a friend, the messy beauty of a day without a plan. They don’t feel controlled. They don’t feel earned. But perhaps that’s where their magic lies.

So here’s my new definition of success: It doesn’t have to be hard. Joy doesn’t have to be earned. Effort doesn’t always make it better.

And if anyone asks why my life feels lighter these days?

I’ll just smile and say, “Because I finally stopped trying so hard.”