The Art of Almost Finishing Things

 “What if the problem isn’t that I don’t finish things… but that I’ve been measuring success all wrong?”

I’ve been sitting with that question lately—usually while looking for my lost coke that I set down for the third time and wondering where I set my phone down (it’s almost always somewhere unreasonable, like the pantry).

Here’s the thing about me: I love routines. Not in a color-coded, perfectly laminated schedule kind of way—but in a “this is how I keep the wheels on the bus” kind of way. My routines are my guardrails. They help me make sure the important things happen: seminary, school drop-offs, doctor’s appointments (for me too, because apparently that matters), planning dinner, picking kids up, remembering to eat lunch somewhere in there.

But when that routine gets shaken? Even just a little? It’s like someone took my neatly stacked mental index cards and tossed them into the wind. Suddenly, I’m way more likely to drop the ball… or forget I was even holding one.

Some mornings I wake up ready. I have a goal. A plan. A vision of myself as a person who completes tasks in a logical, timely order.

And then… life.

Sometimes my goal depends on someone else, and when they don’t follow through, that task just… lingers. It sits there. Waiting. Mocking me a little. Days go by, and then suddenly my brain decides this non-urgent task is actually a five-alarm emergency.

Nothing like a completely self-imposed, completely imaginary deadline to really get the adrenaline going.

Once I’m home from the morning whirlwind, it’s go-time. Lunch gets made. Emails and texts get answered. I start cleaning, toss in some laundry, check on the dogs, and make sure everyone is still alive and functioning.

Including my husband.

Now, he doesn’t have ADHD—but he does have an incredible ability to get so deeply focused on something that he forgets basic human needs… like food. So naturally, I step in. Because apparently part of my daily routine is “keep fully grown adult nourished.”

Honestly, it’s a miracle any of us survive the day, and yet—here we are.

By the time afternoon rolls in, I feel it. The fatigue. The mental fuzziness. The overwhelming desire to just… not be needed for five minutes.

Not by tasks. Not by people. Not by the dog who suddenly must go outside right now.

I’ve learned (sometimes the hard way) that I have to step away. Rest isn’t optional—it’s survival. But wow, is it hard.

Because resting when you have a never-ending to-do list feels a little like trying to relax while your brain stands behind you tapping its foot.

One thing that helps? Making a list and checking things off. Not because I’ve completed everything—but because I’ve completed something. Sometimes I need to see it in writing to believe I’ve earned a moment to breathe.

This past year, I’ve had to take a long, honest look at what progress actually means.

Some days, it is knocking out a bunch of tasks and feeling on top of things.

But other days?

Progress looks like stopping mid-task because one of my kids needs me—not as the scheduler, the organizer, or the reminder system—but as their mom. The one who listens. The one who pauses.

Sometimes progress is carving out a little time for myself. Sitting down with a basket of laundry and some reality TV, letting my brain exhale while my hands stay busy.

And sometimes… progress is a whole collection of almosts.

Almost finished the laundry.
Almost replied to that message.
Almost got through the entire to-do list.

And maybe that’s not failure.

Maybe that’s a full, messy, meaningful life.

I’m starting to believe that success isn’t about perfectly completed lists or neatly wrapped-up days.

It’s about showing up. Adjusting. Trying again. Loving my people well. Taking care of myself somewhere in the middle of it all.

It’s about recognizing that even in the unfinished, the interrupted, and the “I’ll get to it tomorrow” moments… there’s still progress.

So here’s to the almosts.
The halfway-dones.
The beautifully incomplete days.

Turns out, there’s an art to this after all.