Somewhere Between Problems and Solutions
Finding calm in the chaos: how panic gives way to peace when we stop over-solving.
(🎧 Prefer to listen? Audio dropping next Tuesday, 11/18)
I’m laughing — and honestly, I’m unsure if I’ve crossed the line into delusional.
Have you ever had those moments where everything around you feels enormous? The ones where problems start piling up, walls you thought were solid suddenly turn to sand, and you’re left wondering how the hell you’re supposed to hold it all together?
If you’re alive and living on planet Earth, you know exactly what I mean.
For me, this season has been that. We’re launching a new business — the same one I’ve been writing around for months here in Somewhere Between — and every time something feels stable, something else collapses. We patch one leak and another pops open. It’s like an endless game of entrepreneurial whack-a-mole.
And yet — this time — I’m trying not to grab the mallet first.
I’m sitting back in my chair, laughing.
Not because the chaos has stopped, but because I’m trying not to let it drag me under.
Half of me feels oddly calm — maybe the kind of calm that comes when you’re in the eye of a storm. The other half wonders if I’ve gone completely mad.'
Last month, I went to the member preview at MoMA for their new Ruth Asawa exhibit. I wasn’t prepared for the sheer scope of her work — wire sculptures, ink drawings, forms suspended in space that seemed to breathe. What struck me most wasn’t necessarily the art itself, but her philosophy:
That calligraphy, one of her earliest influences, isn’t about the ink on the page, but the way each brushstroke shapes the white space around it.
That idea — that the mark is only half the art, and the space around it is what gives it meaning — lodged itself in me.
The following Monday, one fire after another popped up in our world of start-up chaos. Normally, that would’ve sent me into panic mode: heart racing, adrenaline surging, fingers flying across my keyboard. But this time, inspired by Asawa’s lesson, I leaned back and watched the space around the problems.
At one point, my business partner texted, “Omg oh f*ck” with a screenshot that, in another era, would’ve sent me spiraling too. Instead, I replied with a laughing emoji. Partly because I was laughing and shaking my head at the insanity of yet-another shipping error — and partly because I also wanted to inject some lightness into her world.
Of course I didn’t leave her handing to handle the solutions-dreaming herself and followed the ‘😂’ emoji with something like, “this is not something we can solve right now because the people who need to help with this are asleep. And also, whatever it is, it’s all going to be ok!” because I truly believed that! And then I added some colorful, comedic ideas of “worst-case” problem with a solution that was weird, ridiculous and honestly, something we would truly turn into fun if we needed to pivot and bring that idea to life.
While even more things came in, I did something unexpected for myself and closed my computer, threw some samples in a bag, and took the subway to a friend’s office. Once there, I guided her and her colleague through a tasting, during which we laughed and danced as I blared ‘Golden’ from KPop Demon Hunters so we could have a moment to release. By the time I got home, resolutions were already in place for most of the things AND the one issue that was an “omg oh f*uck” turned out to be just a clerical issue (not a physical in-progress issue)!
The space worked.
I meditated on this the next morning:
Problem-solving isn’t always about doing more. Sometimes it’s about doing less.
When we lean in too fast, we lose perspective. We raise our cortisol, mute our intuition, and rob others of the chance to rise. When we lean back — create space, breathe, let others act — solutions can start to reveal themselves in new and different ways.
It’s not detachment. It’s trust.
And trust is an art form — one that is shaped by how we manage the negative space around our lives.
So this week, maybe try it:
When something goes wrong — when you feel yourself clenching — pause.
Don’t rush to fix. Create space. Turn on a song that makes you laugh or dance. Call a friend. Let your nervous system reset.
Then look again.
The next right step will likely be sitting there for you — waiting to be seen.
I used to white-knuckle every decision, gripping the wheel of my life until my palms ached. That version of me burned out so completely it took years to recover. Now, I’m somewhere between shedding that old way and practicing a lighter touch — trusting that what’s meant to hold, will.
Like Ruth Asawa’s sculptures, it’s the space around our efforts that gives them shape.
So maybe this week, instead of forcing a solution, try tending to the space – let things breathe.
You might be surprised by what starts to take form.
