Missing What Matters Most
Systemized living—and a near-religious commitment to efficiency—govern nearly every part of my life. It kinda has to. I’m raising two kids, managing three businesses, and navigating the red tape of healthcare and insurance at 42. If something doesn’t have a system tied to it, it probably doesn’t happen. My systems bring order, predictability, control, safety, and success. They keep the chaos in check.
But it begs the question: can living with this kind of structured focus come at a cost?
On a random evening in the Kazbour household, I found myself sitting on the living room floor stretching. Hans Zimmer was playing through my headphones, drowning out the world. No to-do list. No schedule. Just a pause. Unplanned, unproductive, and oddly peaceful.
Then, as if stepping through the most magnificent portal the universe has ever carved, my two daughters walked in. They were completely unaware of my presence—just as I was unaware, at first, of the significance of what was unfolding.
My music kept the world out, leaving only sight to take in the scene. Time seemed to slow. Their eyebrows raising and falling, noses scrunching, eyes wide, smiles exchanged like whispered secrets. I was transfixed. My body shifted from doing to being. As if the operating system I rely on—built on planning, scheduling, measuring—surrendered to something ancient and human. Presence.
It was a moment I could never have created on purpose. It wasn’t repeatable. It wasn’t efficient. It just was.
We’re surrounded by mechanisms that prioritize speed, output, and visibility: automation, profit-driven platforms, social media’s dopamine loops. These aren’t inherently evil, but they’re rarely designed with space for slowness, for stillness, or for real connection. And when we live within systems that don’t account for our humanness, we begin adapting to survive them, at a cost.
Like the proverbial frog in the pot, we don’t always feel the heat rising. We just look up one day and realize we haven’t had a real conversation in weeks. We’ve optimized our calendar but hollowed out our afternoons. We’ve measured every metric, but can’t remember the last time we sat still long enough to notice how we feel.
What gets lost isn’t loud. It’s not some grand moment being stripped away. It’s the small stuff:
The glance that turns into a conversation.
The eye contact that doesn’t need words.
The silence that is welcomed, not rushed to be filled.
I don’t think the answer is to abandon systems—they’re what keep my life from collapsing under its own weight. But I do believe there’s something sacred about learning to step outside of them, even briefly. To leave a little room in the day for what can’t be scheduled or optimized.
Sometimes that means pausing when one of my daughters starts talking, even if it’s inconvenient.
Sometimes it’s choosing to sit with discomfort instead of rushing to solve it.
Sometimes it's remembering that presence isn’t something I need to earn—it’s something I can return to, if I’m paying attention.
When I notice those rare moments that cut through the noise—when I choose to stay with them just a little longer—I remember that living well isn’t just about what I get done. It’s about what I don’t miss.
~ Rich Kazbour
