In Defense of Thinking Small

I’ve got a habit I can’t shake. I’m obsessed with thinking big. Really big. If something is good, can it be better? If there’s enough, can there be more? If I can, why shouldn’t I? These are the philosophies I’ve married myself to. But where does that mindset come from? Is it a way of living I designed for myself, or a concept I was unconsciously sold?

Recently, over dinner with a close friend, somewhere between courses and gossip, she said, “I have to start a podcast.” I’d heard this before, from nearly everyone I know. We’ve reached a point where it feels like everyone thinks that they have something to say. And it made me wonder: Do we all really have grand opinions that deserve a spotlight?

I’m not so different. On any given day, I’m served more newsletters than I can possibly keep up with, spending hours deciding which channel resonates with whichever version of me feels loudest that day, then wondering if I should start something of my own. I often find myself questioning whether my online reach is big enough. But big enough for who? These ideas and ambitions feel inescapable, especially when it seems like everyone else is executing them effortlessly, at least according to the internet.

Somewhere along the way, we decided that the only acceptable form of communication is a main-stage monologue. Virtual validation has become currency, and every thought must hold weight. One version of me has bought into that. It’s compelling, competitive, and best of all, within reach. But another, quieter and better version wonders whether “big concepts” are just a facade, a distraction from our inability to conquer the small, steady things. Is it possible to move slower, see softer, and want less?

For me, a lot of this comes back to critical thought, or more accurately, the lack of it. Is critical thinking the enemy of big concepts? Not exactly. But while critical thinking is studied, disciplined, and deliberate, big concepts, especially online, are often open-ended, malleable, and directionless. It’s not that the two are incompatible. It’s that big ideas without critical thought tend to stay shallow. To grow a thought to its full maturity and make it truly yours requires time, substance, and perspective. And that piece of the puzzle is often skipped, simply because part of the picture is visible.

But what do we even mean when we say “concept”? In conversation, the word is usually sandwiched between theories and delivered with conviction. Yet our friend Merriam-Webster exposes its vagueness: abstract, general, an idea. That hollowness reveals a flaw in our logic when we glorify concepts that haven’t been lived in, tested, or grounded in anything real.

There’s a difference between big ideas, like quitting your job to start a company or taking on impossible fitness challenges instead of going for a walk, and meaningful ones. A meaningful idea might be building a community because you genuinely can’t imagine doing anything else, or telling a story because it’s all you can think about. Not because others have or expect you to. And certainly not because it looks good online. Meaningful ideas reflect what we can’t help but care about, not fantasies of who we could be.

Consider this: If it takes a prolific author like Toni Morrison years to publish back-to-back masterpieces, or a director like James Cameron more than a decade to fully execute a vision, why do we pressure ourselves with things like a “rebrand” every few months? Who and what are we rebranding? These examples remind us that perhaps having something to say aloud is only worth pursuing when it resonates deeply. Because if everyone’s an expert, who’s actually putting these concepts into meaningful practice?

There’s a phrase making the rounds online: “The more I heal, the less ambitious I become.” I’ve been wondering if its resonance reveals a quiet fatigue with the constant push for more and a longing for lives that are simpler, quieter, and more self-directed. Not smaller in value, but in volume. To me, that’s not regression. That’s freedom.

I believe we’re all captive to our ambitions, but how we pursue them sets us apart. We need structure in our pursuits. Even more than that, we need permission to unsubscribe from a life where every thought is for sale, every opinion a performance, and every move an attempt to keep up. There’s strength in being a thoughtful observer, in riding in the back seat, in not broadcasting every idea the moment it appears.

The small stuff is the magic. It’s infinitely harder to stay consistent in a quiet life than to be the loudest voice in the room with nothing to say.

So, who are big ideas really for? For the brave, those willing to build foundations strong enough for others to stand on. Idea-building demands a willingness to be wrong. Perhaps concepts live longer when we let them grow privately before presenting them publicly.

Big ideas need framework, real action, and depth to move beyond surface-level daydreams. And if those building blocks are missing, there’s no requirement for permission to do your version of just enough. In fact, there’s power in it.

I think we’re all capable of greatness. But in a time when our attention spans are polluted with noise of our own creation, maybe we need to ask ourselves if our ambitions are actually serving us or just keeping us busy. Maybe there’s a more sustainable version of life we’ve forgotten about. One where achievement isn’t the default, and where smallness isn’t a failure to grow, but a new way to define what greatness really looks like.