Stop Racing: Kairos and the Right Time to Write

Why writing momentum comes from listening, not forcing.

Photo by Jossuha Théophile on Unsplash

Starting at the right moment

The first few days of January always feel a little… in-between.

There’s the “what day is it?” All day today, I thought it was Monday and wondered why the garbage didn’t get picked up.

Honestly, I love it. I also love a good, solid routine, too.

Besides not knowing what the heck day it is, there can be a pull right now:

This year, I’m going to write. I’m going to create. I’m going to finally do the thing.

You might not even call it a block, which I wholeheartedly don’t believe in.

You don’t need motivation. You’ve got notebooks filled with ideas.

You need to know what you’re being asked to write next.

And at the same time, there’s a quiet resistance. Should I start now?
A busy brain. An overstimulated mind. The feeling that starting is somehow harder than it should be.
Maybe tomorrow. Or the next day. And before you know it, the week has passed.

Now, I’m absolutely not saying that January 1 needs to be anyone’s starting line. The “new year, new you” story is a real snoozer. A story I quit ages ago. Since I was a teenager, I recall adults asking about resolutions, and I’d reply, full-on snark, “My resolution is to not make resolutions.” Ha!

I haven’t made them for a long time.

And I’m certainly not writing this to tell you that it’s time to get writing because it’s a new year.

No, it’s time to get writing because I see January as two months before the new year. See January like October. There are fewer hours of sunlight, the soil is resting, and it’s time to get quiet and go inward. The Spring equinox is how I see the new year. When we’re emerging, seeing new growth, sparking something new.

Skip the pressure cooker of going all in on a big project right now and let a seed be planted.

For a long time, I knew I wanted to get writing, but couldn’t pick a topic. I blamed my Libra indecisiveness (even though I knew it was bullshit). I thought maybe I lacked discipline, follow-through, commitment.

Now I think it was something else entirely.

I think it’s about timing.

Not calendar time. Not clock time. Not after I’ve had my coffee.

But the kind of timing you feel in your body.

Over the holidays, I’ve been mildly obsessed with a word for this: kairos.

Kairos is an ancient Greek term that refers to the right or opportune moment.

Right place, right time energy. THE moment. And not something you can whip out a calendar and point at a date for. Unlike chronos (also Greek), which is linear and quantitative—minutes, hours, New Year’s in January, deadlines. Kairos is about timing that’s meaningful, mature, and alive.

I didn’t know what I had been practicing had a name.

I’ve also heard this described as living a spherical or circular existence—where time isn’t a straight line you’re racing along, but something you move in and out of, circle back to (hello corporate term!), feel your way through. Whatever we call it, it’s decidedly not linear time.

In practice, kairos looks like this:

• the moment when conditions feel just right for action, like you can’t not make a move

• it’s felt as a pause-and-notice kind of awareness

• the quality of the time just hits different—suspended, weightless

• it shows up in creativity, decision-making, learning, spiritual practice—any place where timing matters more than speed and order

In writing, it’s undeniable.

You’ve probably had this happen before. You sit at your desk at 3:00 p.m., your scheduled writing time, that you’ve been planning for days. Candle lit, frankincense in the diffuser, a quiet room. And yet, nothing flows.

Your mind is buzzing. Some might eke out, but they feel flatlined. And then—later, unexpectedly (away from your desk, of course), a sentence comes through that sparks something.

Suddenly, the work feels alive.

That’s kairos.

We can’t force it. But we can learn to listen for it.

This is why so many people say they have writer’s block. What’s really happening is often a timing and energy issue. If you’re whizzing through your days in full productivity mode—box-ticking, optimizing, pushing—you might not even notice kairos when it shows up. Most people don’t.

Photo by Lieselot. Dalle on Unsplash

I’ve been continually editing my relationship with time over the past few years.

I went from management consulting, billing client time in 15-minute increments, to tracking every minute spent writing, marketing, and doing anything related to my writing business. Thankfully, I stopped that practice a few years ago.

Now I rarely set a morning alarm. I’m a natural early riser anyway. And still, I notice the urge to control time. To rush myself. To rush others. Often for no good reason at all.

This became especially clear over Christmas, when I became an aunt for the first time. Newborns are such a visceral reminder that we’re all walking miracles. They give absolutely zero fucks about your schedule—when they eat, how long they sleep, how many times their diaper has been changed, how cold your coffee is.

They are entirely NOW.

Animals are another great reminder. I watch my dogs, who never think about later.
Look, a gecko! Potato chip on the floor! Must lick my butt, right this moment.

Early January is full of kairos moments.

It’s not a New Year’s resolution thing. It’s a threshold—between what was and what could be. Because of this weird what-day-is-it-and-did-I-eat-yet-today sense of timelessness, we can hear. It’s a space where you can step forward intentionally, without forcing it, without pressure.

This year, I’m approaching beginnings differently.

I’m starting with small, regular actions. Experiments. More to come on this.
I’m moving slowly. I’ve been writing this piece for more than a week. Dipping in and out. It’s a dance between trusting the timing, showing up, and listening for the words.
I now trust myself over deadlines, shoulds, and outcomes.

It looks like: I’m going to write at least one essay a week. And not, I’m writing a book by April 1. (not my actual experiment… I’m clarifying this now. You’ll be the first to know.)

This week, I’m showing my writing community how to do the same.

I’m calling it The Writing Threshold Session. It’s a 90-minute live writing activation. It’s not about productivity or output. It’s about listening for what wants to be written—and taking one small, supported step forward.

Some will leave feeling ready for a longer writing session.
Some will get clarity on the path through their current WIP (work in progress).
Others will feel complete in this single session.

All are fine. All are enough.

Starting 2026 gently, fortifying ourselves from the inside.
Honoring kairos.
Taking action in the right moment.

That’s how momentum actually begins.

When you join the community, we’ll do this live on Thursday, January 8, at 1:00 EST.

Don’t want the commitment of a community? (You can cancel after a month if it’s not for you). You’re welcome to sign up for just The Writing Threshold Session instead here.

Here’s to beginnings that feel possible, aligned, and alive.

What stirring of a beginning are you feeling right now?