What reaching for the remote can reveal about the overwhelm we carry.
Claire sat down to watch a movie. She had answered enough questions, made enough decisions, and figured out dinner despite having figured it out just yesterday.
Now she wanted to be entertained.
Unfortunately, the people on television had other plans.
Someone was keeping a secret. Someone else was about to make a terrible decision. The music suggested that opening that door would be a mistake.
Claire reached for the remote.
“Can we just skip to the part where everyone is okay?”
Claire is a fictional character, but perhaps you’ll recognize something of yourself in her story.
Lately, she had noticed herself doing this more often. Looking up the ending. Fast-forwarding through the uncomfortable parts. Abandoning a perfectly good series because enjoying it apparently required enduring six episodes of emotional distress.
She used to like a good drama.
Now she wanted everyone to resolve their misunderstandings, find their missing dog, and go home.
At first, she wondered what had changed.
Then she thought about her day.
The phone calls. The appointments. The favor she had agreed to before checking whether she had time. The decision she kept postponing because every option seemed to create three more decisions.
Perhaps she simply didn’t have much room left for suspense.
Especially suspense she was paying a monthly subscription to experience.
On her way to the kitchen, she passed the mail.
Not tonight.
In the bedroom, she looked at the clothes on the chair. The chair had been purchased for sitting, although there was little evidence of that anymore.
This weekend.
Then she noticed something.
The movie, the mail, and the chair seemed to be asking for the same thing: attention she didn’t feel she had left to give.
“I don’t have room for one more thing.”
Perhaps you’ve said it yourself.
Sometimes that “one more thing” is so small that we feel ridiculous admitting it’s too much. An envelope. A return. A phone call that will supposedly take “just five minutes,” according to someone who has never been placed on hold.
But a small task can contain more than meets the eye.
Opening the mail may mean dealing with a bill. Sorting clothes may mean deciding what fits, what feels good, and whether you’re finally ready to let go of the pants that have been negotiating with you since 2019.
Even figuring out where to begin requires a decision.
This is why, in my work as a life coach and professional organizer, I’m interested in what happens before someone says, “I’ll do it later.”
Sometimes there’s no useful system. Sometimes the next step is unclear. Sometimes a person has spent the entire day responding to everyone else and has very little left for herself.
Understanding what makes a task difficult helps us choose a more useful way to approach it.
For Claire, that meant opening one envelope without committing to an evening of administrative work. It meant putting away a few clothes without declaring a complete bedroom transformation.
And it meant choosing a familiar comedy.
The kitchen counter would still need attention. But she could approach it without adding a lecture about her personal shortcomings.
If you’ve been walking past a pile, postponing a task, or wishing life came with a fast-forward button, pause for a moment.
Ask yourself:
“What am I already carrying—and what would make this next step feel more manageable?”
Perhaps you need help. Perhaps you need a smaller task or a little rest before you begin.
You’re allowed to take that information into account.
And if all you have energy for tonight is a familiar comedy, enjoy it. Even the remote has a pause button. You’re allowed one, too.
These everyday moments inspired Somewhere Under This Pile Is My Life—A Funny, Honest Look at What Women Keep—and What They’re Really Looking For.
With humor and compassion, we look at the clothes, the counters, the expectations, and the lives we’re trying to make room for. If Claire sounds a little familiar, you may recognize yourself in these pages, too.
