What if there's no problem to solve? A musing on productivity.

For years, my entire professional life felt like a series of problems in search of solutions. My inbox was a problem to be solved with a new filtering method. My messy notes were a problem to be solved with the latest app. Even my relaxation time was a problem to be optimized. I was a connoisseur of digital tools, a dedicated follower of any framework with a catchy acronym, and honestly, I was exhausted.

The productivity hamster wheel

I now see this as the great productivity hamster wheel. You identify a perceived flaw, research a \'solution\' (a new app, a different planner, a complex tagging system), and then spend hours implementing it. There\'s a short-lived rush—that feeling of ultimate control. But it never lasts. Soon, a new \'problem\' emerges, the system reveals a tiny crack, and the cycle begins again. It’s an addiction to the idea of fixing things, not to actually getting things done.

I remember one week where I spent more time migrating tasks between two different to-do list apps than I spent on the tasks themselves. I was perfecting the system, but the work wasn\'t moving forward. It was a sobering realization. My obsession with solving problems had become the biggest problem of all.

A moment of accidental clarity

The shift for me came unexpectedly. I was on a project with an incredibly tight deadline and no time for my usual organizational rituals. My notes were a chaotic jumble in a single text file. My tasks lived on sticky notes. It should have been a disaster according to my own rulebook. But it wasn\'t. We delivered, and the work was good. I realized that my elaborate systems weren\'t the source of my success; sometimes, they were a beautifully crafted form of procrastination.

That\'s when the question hit me: What if there\'s no problem to solve? What if a messy inbox is just… a busy inbox? What if a chaotic brainstorming session is just… a creative process? By labeling everything a \'problem,\' I was creating a state of constant, low-grade anxiety that I then tried to soothe with the false promise of a perfect tool.

Shifting from problem-solver to observer

This insight changed everything. Now, instead of immediately trying to fix a perceived flaw, I try to simply observe it. Instead of thinking, \"My file structure is a mess, I need to fix it,\" I think, \"I\'m having trouble finding a specific file.\" The first statement creates a huge, daunting project. The second identifies a small, immediate need. This subtle shift in language has profound effects:

• It encourages \'good enough\' systems. My system doesn\'t need to be perfect for every hypothetical future scenario. It just needs to work for me, right now. A simple folder structure is often better than a complex, multi-layered tagging system I\'ll abandon in a month.
• It reclaims mental energy. The constant background process of \'system optimization\' consumes an incredible amount of brainpower. Dropping it freed me up to think about the actual work, the creative challenges, and the bigger picture.
• It makes tools servants, not masters. I still use digital tools, but my relationship with them has changed. A tool is there to perform a specific function, like a hammer. I don\'t spend my weekend building a better hammer; I just use it to hit the nail and then put it away.

This isn\'t an argument against productivity or organization. It\'s a musing on the \'why\' behind it. I\'ve found more peace and, paradoxically, become more effective by accepting a certain level of imperfection. I\'ve stopped searching for the one perfect system to solve everything and started embracing a more fluid, resilient, and human way of working.