The Lost Art of Taking Our Time

I miss the graphic designers I used to work with.

The ones who could take the vaguest brief—"make it feel premium, but not too serious, playful but not childish, fresh but timeless"—and, through some unholy mix of patience, talent, and wizardry, create something stunning.

It was magic.

It is magic.

And I miss being around it.

I think that’s why reading Deep Work has hit me so hard. Cal Newport talks about craftsmanship like it’s a spiritual pursuit. Something you devote yourself to, not just something you do. He describes a woodworker shaping a piece of furniture, working with the grain rather than against it, allowing the material to guide the process rather than forcing it into an unnatural shape.

And I keep thinking: What is the equivalent of that in marketing?

Because it used to feel like a craft to me. The way a message is structured, the way a story unfolds, the way something looks and feels. It used to matter in a way that felt sacred. But over time, the joy got buried under layers of low-hanging fruit, quick wins, and the ever-present how can we 10x this?

Craftsmanship is slow.

It requires patience.

It asks for presence.

But the way I work now doesn’t allow for that.

There’s no time to step back, to refine, to sit with an idea until it’s ready.

Everything is about Speed. Scalability. Maximising Efficiency.

And yet, the more I slow down, the better I get.

I’ve been making space this year. More sleep. More time to just be—to let my mind wander instead of racing through an endless list of tasks. And, strangely, the work that comes out of that space is sharper. More creative. More me.

Maybe that’s the secret. Maybe craftsmanship isn’t just about the work itself, but the space around it. The room to refine, to think, to let something evolve naturally instead of rushing to get it out the door.

And maybe it’s also about who you surround yourself with. I think back to working with the graphic designers, the photographers, the copywriters, the strategists who poured themselves into their craft. I fed off their energy. Their obsession with the details made me care more about the details, too.

And now? Now I have to carve out that space for myself. Because I’m not surrounded by other makers in the same way anymore. The tribe I used to have, the one that made me feel more creative just by being around them, isn’t there.

So maybe that’s the lesson. Maybe craftsmanship, deep work, mastery—it’s not just about skill, but about the conditions that allow it to thrive. The environment. The people. The space.

Maybe the only way to truly fall back in love with the work is to stop treating it like something that needs to be optimised.

It’s about care. About patience. About choosing, actively, not to rush.