I Thought I Was Lazy. I Was Just Working in the Wrong Conditions

For the longest time, I thought I was just lazy.

Not disciplined enough.

Not cut out for this.

I spent years beating myself up for not being productive enough.

And underneath that was another fear: that what I do for a living would never be seen as a real job.

Something about dismantling my entire life over the last six months changed that.

Moving countries. Traveling constantly. Living out of suitcases. Catching trains and planes. Filling out endless paperwork. Getting married. Ending up in questionable Airbnbs. And now, temporarily back in Montreal, living in my mother's hoarded apartment with my husband, surrounded by moving boxes (but that’s another story for another day).

All of it forced me to confront something I had spent years dismissing.

The things I thought were luxuries… were actually needs.

The need to write facing a window with a view of nature.

The need for silence around me, but piano in my ears.

The need for perfume in the morning.

The need for a tidy room.

The need to know I won't be interrupted.

For months, I worked without any of it. And every time the work felt harder, I blamed myself. I told myself I needed more discipline. More resilience. More focus.

But what shifted everything was a simple thought:

Nobody questions the landscaper who needs his tools.

Nobody questions the surgeon who needs a specific operating room, precise lighting, and the right team in place.

We accept their requirements without discussion.

So why was I treating my own requirements as evidence of weakness?

You have a real job. So do I. And real work requires conditions that allow it to exist. They just don't always look like anyone else's. For years, I confused that difference with a personal failing.

The silk kimono is not an indulgence.
The window is not a preference.
The silence is not a luxury.

They are how the work gets done.

Maybe your list looks completely different from mine.

Maybe it's a specific coffee shop with the right level of noise and the table by the window. Maybe it's the first two hours of the morning before anyone else wakes up. Maybe it's a desk clear of everything except the one thing you're working on. Maybe it's a particular playlist that tells your brain it's time. Maybe it's the walk you need before you can sit down and think clearly.

It doesn't matter what it looks like.

What matters is that you have one, and you've probably been calling it something else. A preference. A routine. A quirk. An excuse.

It's not. It's your operating system.

And the most productive thing I've done this year was finally learning the difference.