By: Dr. Shaun Lynch
August 16, 2026
Read Time – 5 Minutes

I was looking for one water bottle that would fit on my bike. Instead, I opened the kitchen cabinet and found an assortment of stained Tupperware, old lunchboxes, and eight bottles shoved into the back.

Holding a small flashlight, I pulled them out one by one. Every single one was a different shape, size, and material. Plastic ones, steel ones, and even one with a straw lid nobody will admit to owning. At some point, a stainless-steel bottle slipped out of my hand and hit the hardwood loud enough to startle the dog.

As I emptied the cabinet in frustration, I reminded my wife that the kids had collected too many water bottles over the past few years and we were long overdue for a purge. Six or seven more live permanently on our counters, and I couldn’t tell whether she was listening or just letting me get it out.

A few more drawers came next, followed by the lazy Susan. Some of the storage made sense, but the rest had become a landing place for random utensils crammed wherever there was room. The clutter helped explain why the kitchen always felt smaller than it was.

Once I started noticing things, the signs were everywhere. We’d hit the ten-year mark in this house last spring, and it showed in a few places. There was weather stripping fraying loose from two of the doors, a fluorescent light in the garage that had flickered for years, and a hallway that had needed paint since we moved in. Most of what we had went to a house at the coast, and this one got whatever was left.

I stopped for a few minutes, pulled out my phone, and started taking pictures of the spaces. A tape measure, an AI assistant, and Amazon had solutions on the way within twenty-four hours.

I’d replaced a ceiling fan in one of the kids’ bedrooms, installed the window treatments I had apparently been “getting to” for several years, and attempted some minor electrical work that took three or four times longer than it should have. Home improvement isn’t as hard as it looks, but it’s certainly not as easy as Bob Vila made it seem on TV.

The next day, I felt real relief standing in the kitchen. The drawers opened cleanly and most of the utensils were easy to find. The cabinets also seemed to hold more than they had before, and it wasn’t because I’d thrown out a few water bottles.

I stood there for a minute, looking around for something else that needed fixing. But nothing did. The kitchen was done, at least for now, and I didn’t quite know what to do with that.

I wasn’t exactly bored. I just didn’t know where to put my attention next. Before I had even left the room, I was thinking about what else needed work.

Later that evening, I was sitting in the living room with the notes app open on my phone. Caulking the windows was next.

Most home projects take me longer than they should. I research the supplies, the technique, the fastest way to do it, and the mistake I’m most likely to make, probably because I’ve already made so many. A job plenty of people would finish in an afternoon somehow becomes a three-day investigation for me.

I keep adding to the list because it keeps me from having to sit with the question underneath it:

Who am I when I’m not making something?

I do a version of this at work too. A project ends. A committee finally winds down after four years. Time comes back for a week or two, and then somehow it disappears into something else.

You may have your own version of it. An open position finally gets filled, and you’re able to hand off the extra work you’ve been covering for the last year. For a moment, you think, “This should help.” Then a month later, your week looks almost the same, and you’re not even sure what filled the space.

When something opens in my calendar, I know what I’m supposed to say. More time with family. A hobby I keep saying I want to return to. Rest, which always sounds like the responsible answer. I’ve said all of those things too.

The more honest response, at least for me, is that I’m not sure. Imagining what I would do with more space is easy when I don’t have any. But when it actually opens up, the answer becomes less clear.

I’m not sure I’d enjoy the empty version as much as I imagine I would. Maybe that’s the strange part. Nothing is really wrong. There’s no crisis and no obvious problem to solve. It’s just a regular Thursday morning in your forties. Something feels a little off, and you can’t quite explain why.

I’ve finished degrees and projects I worked toward for years and stood there afterward wondering what came next. But it doesn’t always take something that big. A task drops off the list, a room finally feels finished, or a responsibility belongs to someone else again. And for a little while, there’s nothing obvious rushing in to replace it.

What filled your space the last time you got some back?

And if the space had stayed open, would you have wanted it to?

I notice the difference every time I cook in the kitchen now. Things are easier to find, the drawers open without catching, and the cabinets hold more than they used to.

As my wife said recently, we probably should have done it a long time ago.

I still don’t know what I would do with a week that stayed open. I’ve never let one get that far.

I write The Impact Brief twice a month for mid-career faculty and professionals whose roles have grown around them, one responsibility at a time. If this is the kind of thing you think about, you can subscribe here.

Until next time.