The Season You’re In: On boredom, restlessness, and knowing what deserves your attention

A friend said something to us recently that I haven't been able to stop thinking about.

We were catching up over the weekend, talking about life, family and the things we've been doing. She asked about our plans and upcoming trips and then, almost casually, said, “You've been a bit boring lately.”

She didn't mean it badly. And she was probably right, at least according to one particular definition of boring.

We haven't been travelling much. We haven't been jumping on planes or filling the calendar with adventures. We're raising a small human and building a business, so life is full, but it is full in a very different way.

Her comment got me thinking about boredom, and more specifically, about how often we confuse activity with engagement.

We have become remarkably good at measuring whether someone is living by looking at what they are doing. Where did you go? What did you see? What are you planning next? How busy is your calendar? How many experiences can you fit into a year?

We have even created a strange social shorthand for it. If you're getting on a plane, you're having an adventure. If you're climbing a mountain, you're living. If you're constantly doing something, you must be engaged with life. And if you're not, you might be boring.

But all of those measures are external. They tell us very little about what is happening inside someone.

That distinction matters because I've travelled a lot. I've lived in different countries, visited more than seventy countries and had extraordinary experiences that I wouldn't trade for anything. I've also been bored in some of the most interesting places in the world. I've been somewhere beautiful and wanted to be somewhere else. I've been surrounded by people and still felt restless. I've had the experience and still been looking for the next one.

Which makes me wonder whether boredom is always a lack of stimulation.

What if, sometimes, it is restlessness?

Years ago, after spending time at Thich Nhat Hanh's monastery, I decided to strip some of the usual distractions from my life for a while. For nine months, I gave up alcohol and sex. Not because I thought either was inherently bad, but because I wanted to understand why I was doing the things I was doing. What was underneath the behaviour? What was I actually looking for?

People around me sometimes responded with a variation of, “How boring.”

But something strange happened. For perhaps the first time in my life, I wasn't bored.

I could sit still. I didn't need the next thing. I didn't need to fill every gap. I didn't need constant entertainment to make a day feel worthwhile.

And that made me realise something uncomfortable. Perhaps some of what I had previously called fun had actually been restlessness in disguise. I had been moving, doing, planning and experiencing, but I hadn't necessarily been inhabiting my life.

There's a difference.

I think we make a similar mistake with our seasons.

We live as though every season should contain everything: the business, the family, the travel, the health, the adventure, the creative project, the social life, the perfect morning routine. We've become very good at optimisation.

But life isn't a spreadsheet.

There are seasons. A season to plant, a season to tend, a season to harvest and a season to rest.

The farmer doesn't decide that planting corn has become boring halfway through the season and abandon the field to plant wheat somewhere else because it looks more interesting. The corn needs attention. It needs water. It needs time. It needs someone to stay.

Sometimes I wonder whether we've become so restless that we've forgotten the value of staying.

We plant something, then we get bored. We look sideways. Someone else seems to be having more fun. Someone else is travelling more. Someone else has built a bigger business. Someone else is running a marathon, renovating a house, writing a book, launching a podcast or moving overseas.

So we reach for the next thing.

Not because the next thing is necessarily wrong, but because the thing we're currently doing has stopped giving us the immediate emotional reward we were hoping for.

That is where discernment becomes important.

The question isn't simply, “What do I want to do?”

It's, “Why do I want to do it?”

What feeling is underneath the decision? Curiosity? Joy? Fear? Comparison? Restlessness? Ego? A genuine desire for change? Or simply an inability to sit with where we are?

The behaviour might look exactly the same from the outside. The internal experience can be completely different.

I think about this a lot now because of the season we're in.

We're not travelling much. We're raising a young child and building SwiftReporter. My wife and I work around each other so that one of us is always present with our daughter. There are fewer spontaneous adventures, fewer long lunches and fewer weekends where we simply decide to go somewhere.

From the outside, perhaps that's boring.

From the inside, it doesn't feel boring at all. It feels deeply alive.

There is something happening here that won't happen again. Our daughter will only be this age once. This company will only be at this stage once. This particular version of our family will only exist for a brief period of time.

Why would I rush through it because another season looks more exciting?

That doesn't mean I don't want to travel again. I do. It doesn't mean I don't want adventure. I do. It means I've started to understand that wanting something isn't the same as needing it right now.

There is a time for everything, and wisdom might partly be knowing which time you're in.

I think this applies to leadership too.

Good leadership isn't just knowing what to do. It's knowing what not to do.

Not every opportunity belongs in this season. Not every idea needs to become a project. Not every problem needs to be solved immediately. Not every discomfort is a signal to change direction.

Sometimes the most strategic thing you can do is stay with something long enough for it to mature.

We talk constantly about growth, but growth requires patience. Businesses need seasons. People need seasons. Relationships need seasons. Ideas need seasons. Sometimes the most important work is invisible for a while.

You plant. You water. You wait.

Nothing appears to be happening.

Then, eventually, something does.

I think back to that period after the monastery, and the lesson feels even clearer now.

I wasn't trying to make my life smaller. I was trying to understand what was driving it.

Perhaps that's the deeper question underneath boredom.

Not, “Am I having enough fun?”

But, “What am I trying to feel?”

Because if we're constantly restless, we can spend an entire lifetime treating the symptoms. Another trip. Another purchase. Another achievement. Another project. Another goal. Another distraction.

Each one gives us a temporary change in emotional state, and then the restlessness returns.

The answer isn't necessarily to stop doing things. It's to become conscious of why we're doing them.

There is nothing wrong with travel. Nothing wrong with ambition. Nothing wrong with adventure. Nothing wrong with wanting more. I've spent much of my life doing all of those things.

The question is whether they are expressions of a life you're engaged with, or escapes from one you're not.

Perhaps that is what I've started to appreciate about this particular season.

It isn't the most exciting season from the outside, but it may be one of the richest from the inside.

I'm learning that a meaningful life isn't necessarily the one with the most experiences. It's the one in which we're awake to the experience we're actually having.

Maybe that's what it means to know the season you're in: to stop asking whether this moment is as exciting as the next one, to stop measuring life by how much we can fit into it, to stop confusing movement with progress, and to ask a more difficult question:

What does this season require of me?

Perhaps it requires me to build. Perhaps it requires me to rest. Perhaps it requires me to stay. Perhaps it requires me to let go. Perhaps it requires me to plant something that I won't get to harvest for years.

And perhaps that's okay.

Not every season is supposed to feel exciting. Some are supposed to make you stronger. Some are supposed to make you wiser. Some are supposed to deepen your relationships. Some are supposed to teach you patience. Some are simply supposed to be lived.

The trick, I think, is knowing which one you're in, and having the courage not to run from it simply because another season looks more interesting.

I've spent a lot of my life looking for the next thing. Now I'm becoming more interested in understanding the thing I'm already doing.

Maybe that's not boredom.

Maybe it's maturity.

Maybe it's presence.

Maybe it's simply learning to stay.

Perhaps the good life isn't about having more seasons. It's about being fully present for the one you're in.

What season are you in right now, and what might it be asking of you?

— Evan