The Space to Go Deeper

How shrinking your life can actually make it feel more whole.

It’s 1:00 a.m. You were supposed to be asleep two hours ago.

Tomorrow, you’re set to wake up at 7:30. Unless, of course, you skip your morning reading. Then you could squeeze in an extra 30 minutes.

But you already made that compromise today. Two days in a row feels like a line you don’t want to cross.

You check WhatsApp without thinking. A reflex more than a decision. Mid-scroll, you catch yourself—What am I doing?—and lock the phone.

Your mind starts to race:

Tuesday, the schedule is a little less busy. Maybe I can use that to finally get that project started. Or I could stay up a little later tomorrow night.

And there you are... another night where you find yourself negotiating against your own exhaustion...

Maybe this sounds a bit neurotic. But I have a feeling it’s closer to reality than most of us like to recognize.

We live in a time of unmatched technological progress: calendars, productivity tools, optimization hacks, each promising more efficiency, more output, more control.

And yet, life feels more rushed than ever.

Days collapse into a relentless series of tasks and requests. Schedules tighten until there’s no margin for error. Miss a beat, and the day spirals into chaos.

Even simple chores—taking out the trash, answering a friend's text—feel like obstacles in the way of getting things done.

Meanwhile, the important work sinks lower on the list. Crowded out by the small urgencies of everything you’ve agreed to maintain.

At the end of the day we collapse into bed, tired but restless. Our bodies aching for sleep. Our minds sprinting toward tomorrow.

I know this pattern way too well. Not just intellectually, but viscerally.

I’ve moved through whole stretches of life like that—efficient, but disconnected. I could check every box and still feel like I hadn’t been in the day at all. It’s a strange kind of emptiness… to be productive and absent at the same time.

And while it’s easy to blame the systems, the world, and the demands... an unsettling question sometimes surfaces:

What if this is happening because of my own choices?

Your Surface Area

A few months ago, I came across a piece by Shane Parrish called Small Surface Area.

It offered a simple but profound idea:

"As a rule, the larger your surface area, the more energy you have to expend maintaining it."

Surface area isn’t just about the physical spaces we manage. It’s a metaphor for life itself—the gradual accumulation of everything we agree to carry: possessions, commitments, relationships, goals, responsibilities.

For writers, that surface area expands almost without notice.

Maybe it’s the extra freelance project you pick up for a little more income. The extra platform you decide to test to grow your reach. A fresh topic you feel pulled to write about because it worked for someone else. Another step you tack onto your process in pursuit of a higher standard of "quality."

Individually, none of these choices seem wrong.

But slowly, they stretch the edges of your life. Each one draws a little more energy, demands a little more attention, and quietly expands the ground you’re responsible for maintaining.

At first, the cost is easy to ignore: A frayed morning routine. A restless mind at midnight. A slow, creeping sense that no matter how much you do, you're still falling behind.

Eventually, though, you crash into a limit no ambition can outrun: the hard, immovable boundary of the twenty-four hours in a day.

We might even convince ourselves that all this is manageable—just a little tired, just a little more reactive. But over time, it becomes the water you swim in.

And if you ever want to step outside that current, maybe the question isn’t "How can I be more productive?"

Maybe it’s "How can I create a smaller surface area?"

The Drivers Behind Our Surface Area

Before we talk about shrinking our surface area, it’s worth asking: Why did it grow so much in the first place?

There are many forces at play. But if I had to name one, it would be this:

Expectations.

From early on, we learn that our value lies in achievement. Not in how well we understand ourselves, but in how well we perform. That lesson only deepens as we grow older.

In the workplace, value is measured in output, speed, and availability. Productivity becomes a proxy for worth. If someone next to you does more, it feels like you somehow matter less.

And the pressure doesn’t stop when you leave the office.

Whether it’s a group chat or a social media feed, we are constantly measuring ourselves against everyone else. Who has the better job, the more followers, the more curated life? Hustle becomes identity. Wellness turns into a competitive sport. Even leisure becomes something to optimize.

And almost everywhere you look, someone is managing to do more, and making it look effortless.

So you feel the pull to cover more ground. To optimize every minute. To cram more into your day so you can keep up, and build the image of a life that proves you're doing enough.

Still, when you pause to ask yourself what real progress you’ve made, the sense of falling behind remains.

No wonder we’re exhausted.

And yet, exhaustion isn’t just a symptom. It’s a signal.

It tells us that something in the system is broken. That the game we’ve been playing isn’t actually working. And that maybe the rules were never really ours to begin with.

That’s the hidden opportunity inside the fatigue: Clarity.

Because if these feelings are the byproduct of expectations we’ve absorbed...

Then we have the power to examine them. To ask whether they belong to us at all. To set them down.

And one place to start is with your surface area: everything you’ve agreed to carry—often without even realizing it.

Going Back to a Small Surface Area

Eventually, it hits you: all this managing comes at a cost. The constant juggling, the mental checklists, the background hum of anxiety—it becomes your default. You’re always a step ahead, but never fully present.

And then you realize:

You can’t solve this with another system. You can’t optimize your way out. The only way to shrink your surface area is through subtraction.

Not to do less for the sake of it, but to make space for the things that actually matter. Space to think clearly. To focus. To feel connected to your own life again.

But subtraction can feel uncomfortable. Because once you start letting go, you’re forced to confront the questions you’ve been avoiding:

• What is truly essential?

• What have I agreed to that no longer fits?

• What desires am I chasing that aren’t really mine?

• What demands am I creating that are simply illusions?

Still, subtraction is only the first step...

Because if you’re not deliberate, the space you cleared will quietly fill back up—driven by old habits, creeping fear, or the need to prove you're still doing enough.

That’s why subtraction isn’t the end. It’s the invitation to something harder: protecting that space. Becoming the gatekeeper of your surface area.

That means saying no to good ideas that aren’t aligned with your path. Letting go of roles you’ve outgrown. Ignoring shiny distractions that pull you away from what matters most.

It’s about choosing how you spend your time, your energy, your attention—with intention, not obligation.

And maybe, at the end of a long day, that’s what lets you rest. Not because everything is finished.

But because you’ve chosen what’s worth carrying.

I’m still learning how to do this. Still tempted to say yes to too much. Still pulled toward performing. But I'm paying closer attention now.

And sometimes, that’s enough.

Enough to close the tab. Turn out the light. And sleep.

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