It started with a well-meaning comment at a work conference. "You should really write a book about productivity," a colleague said after Maya's presentation. "The way you get so much done while staying so calm – people need to learn your system."
Maya smiled, but something shifted inside her. A system? She hadn't thought of it that way. She'd just been noticing her windows of natural capacity, working with them rather than against them.
The suggestion stayed with her though. Back at work, she started paying more attention to when these windows opened. But instead of just noticing, she found herself trying to predict them, plan them, optimize them.
She began taking notes about her best moments. Tuesday morning's presentation had flowed effortlessly — what had led to that? Her morning coffee felt especially good some days — what made the difference? Instead of just enjoying these windows when they opened, she started analyzing them, trying to figure out how to make them happen more often.
The insights seemed helpful at first. Noticing she often had good ideas during her morning coffee, she started bringing her notebook, ready to capture anything important. When she realized her creative periods often followed quiet time, she started scheduling small breaks before big projects. But something subtle shifted in how these moments felt. Her coffee time became less about the simple pleasure of watching the sunrise and more about what might come from it. Her walks in the park became less about following her interest and more about setting up her next productive window.
The insights themselves were valuable — noticing patterns in when she felt most creative, when collaboration felt easiest. But soon she found herself turning these observations into rules: "Always take morning meetings because that's when I'm most present" or "Never schedule deep work after 3pm."
These rules worked, sometimes. But other days she'd feel a spark of inspiration late afternoon and catch herself thinking "But this isn't my creative time." Or she'd notice genuine enthusiasm for a morning collaboration but hold back because she'd designated that as solo work time.
In meetings, she'd find herself checking her "optimal schedule" instead of checking in with how she actually felt. When her colleague sparked an unexpected brainstorming session, she caught herself hesitating — this wasn't in her designated "creative block."
One morning, rushing to stick to her carefully structured schedule, she passed her elderly neighbor struggling with groceries. The same neighbor she'd naturally helped before. This time, she felt the familiar pull to help but noticed the thought "this isn't my connection time," which dimmed her desire.
The absurdity of that thought stopped her mid-stride. She stood there, watching her neighbor wrestle with paper bags, and suddenly saw what she'd done. She'd taken her observations about natural rhythms and turned them into barriers against actually feeling what each moment was asking of her.
Without another thought, she turned back to help. As they carried the bags up together, chatting about the neighbor's grandchildren, Maya felt that familiar ease return — not because it was the "right time" for connection, but because she was finally listening to what felt right again.
That evening, looking at her schedule with its carefully labeled blocks, she saw how each rule she'd created had become a little wall between her and her own experience. Her morning coffee didn't need to be "optimal" — it just needed to be real. Her creative moments didn't need to be scheduled — they needed to be welcomed when they arrived.
The next day, when an idea sparked during her designated "email time," she followed it. When she felt tired during her "productivity block," she took a break. Not because any schedule said she should, but because she was back in touch with what each moment was actually asking of her.
Her windows hadn't needed optimization — they had only ever needed her attention.
A month later, after another presentation, the same colleague who'd suggested she write a book caught up with her by the coffee station.
"Another great session," her colleague said, genuinely warm. "Have you thought any more about writing that book?"
Maya noticed something different in her colleague's tone this time — not just polite interest, but real curiosity. She stirred her coffee, considering. "You know, that suggestion of yours sent me down quite an unexpected path."
"Oh?" Her colleague pulled up a chair, coffee in hand. "How so?"
Maya smiled, recognizing the irony of what she was about to share. "Well, I spent weeks trying to turn everything into a perfect system — exactly what not to do."
"What do you mean?"
"I started making all these rules about when to do everything. And you know what happened? The more I tried to control it all, the less it worked." Maya paused, noticing her colleague lean in slightly. "The windows just... closed."
"Windows?"
"Those moments when everything flows naturally. I used to just notice them, work with them. But trying to optimize them..." She let out a soft laugh. "What I discovered was that the moment I turned my observations into rigid rules, I lost the very thing that made those windows work."
Her colleague nodded thoughtfully. "How do you mean?"
"I did learn useful things about my rhythms — like how I'm sharper for presentations in the morning. But the moment I turn that into rules, I lose touch with what's actually happening. Everything becomes about following the system instead of staying attuned to reality."
Her colleague's eyes lit up with understanding. "So not a system exactly..."
"More like... Using what I know about my rhythms as a gentle guide, but staying open to what each moment is actually asking for."
Her colleague smiled. "Still sounds like a book I'd read."
Maya felt the genuine warmth in those words. "Maybe someday." She took a sip of her coffee, appreciating this unexpected moment of connection.