“How do I make time for (marketing) (writing) (business-building) (the escape plan from my day job) when my schedule is already packed?”

It’s a question I hear a lot from coaching clients, from workshop participants, from friends.

A colleague recently asked me this question on behalf of someone she knows—a mother of three who couldn’t imagine carving out more time to plan the future of her business, in between the day-to-day demands of her job and her kids. This busy mom wondered what scheduling techniques would add time for long-term planning to the plates she’s already juggling.

While the answer is different for everybody, the elements are pretty much the same. And, surprise: the big issue isn’t usually “What tools should I use?” The bigger question underneath is more along the lines of, “How can I give anything up? Everything feels equally important! I’m about to burn out here, but it doesn’t feel safe to rest!”

So here’s what I suggested to my colleague.

• Step back.

Before you can schedule with any sanity, you need a little mental space around your commitments and obligations. Otherwise, you’ll be thinking about them from a sense of urgency and trappedness, and it’ll be hard to make decent decisions.

How do you get that mental space? For some people, it’s a hike or a run, or a quick walk around the block. For me, yoga-type breathing helps a lot. Sometimes, bravely taking a day (or a weekend or even just an afternoon) off, away from email and any other reminders of work, is key. In other words, do something time-limited that calms you down and clears your mind. Then…

• Give yourself some empathy.

It’s hard to meet the demands and expectations of contemporary life! For parents, it’s exponentially harder. Most people, no matter how pressed they feel, are actually doing a pretty decent job of keeping it all together. Acknowledge yourself for that.

• Look for the wiggle room.

Ask yourself some questions: What is bugging you the most, and/or bringing you the least gratification? That’s a good place to start.

Another question: For your various commitments, what are your imagined (or feared) risks if you were to let some of them slip a little—by postponing a few of them, or doing them less often, or less well? How real are the risks, and what are some ways of dealing with them?

People get stuck if they think they have to drop their commitments. It’s often less threatening (and more productive) to create space by delaying, or reducing frequency, or doing something less perfectly, or getting some help.

Once you’ve done that—gained perspective, allowed some empathy, asked yourself questions to find where the wiggle room is—the scheduling part is usually pretty straightforward.

If you just throw Prioritizing Techniques at the problem, at best you’ll create temporary change. What most people need, more than scheduling tips, is permission to back off a little and acknowledge the need beneath the scheduling question—the need for sanity and space. Then the solutions get clearer.

I’ve been putting more energy than I would like to into fretting over other people’s behavior lately. I was talking to my friend T. about this—telling him about some recent conflicts with people who are peripheral to my life but whom I nevertheless have some unavoidable contact with, and whose actions and methods have been making me crazy. (I’ve also been getting caught up in others’ reactions to those same people’s actions and methods, which makes me even crazier.)

T. works in a corporate environment in which urgency, self-involvement and tunnel vision are part of some co-workers’ standard m.o.  He told me that his blood pressure, which has been rising as he gets older, has been a wake-up call and that he’s been rethinking his reactions in order to minimize stress. He said that when a situation pulls at him, “I’ve learned to ask myself, ‘If this person didn’t think it was a problem, would it be a problem?’”  He offered the question as one I might want to try.

I like this question. It’s helping. I’ve been using it not only as T. asks it, but also with my own twist: “If I didn’t think this was a problem, would it be a problem?”

And now I offer the question—T’s version and my take on it—to you.

When I wrote about being mindful of my need for breaks, I mentioned that responding to my body’s cues while gardening would be a more advanced challenge. I think I’ve found a simple way to manage it.

What’s been working pretty well, injury-avoidance-wise, is to pay attention to my body the way I would in yoga class, or Pilates. As I snip off sprigs of wild arugula, I imagine that I’m allowing my spine to lengthen between head and tailbone. As I lean over the blueberry bush, hunting for ripe berries, I let the lean become a lunge and feel the stretch. As I haul out the hose, I remind myself to contract my abdominal muscles, protecting my back by engaging my core. I remind myself to notice where I need to adjust, moment by moment, to keep my body safe.

I’m also realizing that gardening while rushed is usually an exercise in frustration and annoyance. (You could make the same point about yoga class, and maybe about doing anything while rushed.) My “quick trips” through the garden are never quick, something I’m working on accepting. Better to let the plants go thirsty a few extra days, than to try to squeeze in the watering on a crowded or imminent-deadline day. As I give myself permission to quit watching the clock, I get to reap more of that benefit that gardeners talk about, the absorption and flow.

Exhale.

Pause.

Trust.

Those were the watchwords that saw me, and my voice, through an intensive week of leading corporate workshops while fighting a cold.

“Exhale” came from my bodyworker, Roy, who observed at our last appointment that my breathing seemed tight. “Focus on exhaling,” he said. “The inhaling will take care of itself.” (He’s good with the aphorisms.)

“Pause” and “Trust” were what I added for jangled nerves—not only my concern over how my scratchy throat would manage all that talking, but also the opening-night jitters that went along with one of the classes being a first-time delivery. I wanted an easy way to remember that it’s OK to wait before answering a question…that I can rely on my preparation and my solid training skills…that it’s OK not to over-prepare.

Exhale…pause…trust…turned out to be a revolutionary combination. Not only did it keep my voice relaxed, it slowed down my usually rapid-fire speech. (An acquaintance once said he had to replay my minute-waltz-style voicemail five times before he understood it. And as my spouse will confirm, I’m wont to interrupt, with all good intentions and enthusiasm.)  As I stood in front of the training room, the watchwords helped me stay calm, present and receptive to students’ needs while also keeping the class’s energy up. Surprise! There are other ways to keep people engaged besides talking fast.

I had more fun, too.

Exhale.

Pause.

Trust.

Now, can I remember to use these watchwords when I’m not training? Like, when I’m writing? Checking email? Talking on the phone?

My back and neck give me hints when it’s time to take a break. A lot of the time, I don’t listen.

I’m quick to take a (long, long) break when I’m creatively stuck. But when my body needs a breather, I keep pushing.

It puzzles me, how I won’t pause and rest when I’m gardening or cleaning house or sitting at the computer. I like breaks. But stopping to rest just because my body is asking me to, feels like a big bother. It takes too long! I’ll lose my place! It’s inefficient! I have to get this thing done!

I’m especially aware of this tendency right now because it’s the time of year when there’s a lot to harvest in the garden. (Blueberries! Wild arugula!)  I’m doing more bending and twisting than usual. If I’m careless, I feel it for days.

What would it be like just to stand up and stretch whenever I notice the urge? Even if this makes the project take longer?

I experimented with this the other day while cleaning out the bathtub, which is a good chore to practice with because it’s time-limited and you can clearly see when you’re finished.

I paid attention to the cues—even before any soreness set in, just the little mental message that said, “You know, this would be a good time to do something different.” Noticed that I didn’t want to. Stood up anyway. Shook myself out, got back to work.

Though I was kind of annoyed by these interruptions, they didn’t make the tub-cleaning any more onerous. My back and neck felt OK the next day. And the amount of time the breaks added to the total task was practically imperceptible. Huh.

Applying the slowed-down approach to gardening, or to sitting at the computer, is a more advanced level—those activities have fluid boundaries and are more fraught.

Next step: See what it’s like to garden while being responsive to my body’s cues for, say, 45 minutes. What kinds of signals tell me I need to pause and change what I’m doing? What’s it like to make that change? Does my impatience continue, go away, take on a different cast? Does the weeding or watering or harvesting take that much longer with breaks? If so, what is that like? How do I feel physically, right then and the next day?

And if I find myself resisting a break, what’s going through my mind? What happens after that?

I want to be more aware of my reaction to my body’s signals—observing the mental sequence, the anticipated consequences, the actual consequences, for a concrete period of time. I guess you could say that I’m opening negotiations between my impatience and my body’s need for a healthier response, and this is the fact-finding phase.