It started with a meltdown in the cereal aisle, of all places. I was standing there, phone in hand, trying to schedule a coffee date with a friend while simultaneously choosing between Weetabix and granola. My calendar app glared back at me, a technicolor nightmare of overlapping commitments, back-to-back meetings, and precious few white spaces. My friend had suggested three potential times, none of which I could accommodate without some elaborate reshuffling of my carefully constructed house of cards.
“Any time next month work better?” she’d texted, with a laughing emoji that somehow felt more like an indictment than a joke.
I put my phone away, abandoned my shopping basket in the middle of the aisle (sorry, Tesco staff), and walked straight out of the supermarket. Something had to give.
That evening, I took a hard look at my calendar—really looked at it—for the first time in ages. What I saw was shocking, not because it was unexpected, but because seeing it all laid out so starkly made me realize how utterly unsustainable my life had become. I’d somehow morphed into one of those people who schedule bathroom breaks and pencil in “spontaneous fun” for next Tuesday at 4:15 pm.
The worst part? I’d done this to myself. No one was forcing me to join that committee or attend that networking event or say yes to that coffee catch-up with someone I barely knew from my cousin’s wedding three years ago. I had overscheduled myself into a corner, and my time—that most precious, non-renewable resource—was slipping through my fingers like sand.
So I did something radical. I canceled everything non-essential for the following week. Everything. The world didn’t end. No one died. A few people were mildly inconvenienced, which I felt terrible about, but most were surprisingly understanding. “Good for you,” said my colleague when I backed out of a voluntary project. “I wish I had the guts to do that.”
That week of calendar detox became the foundation of what I now call my minimalist approach to time commitments. Just as I’d learned to be intentional about the physical objects I allowed into my home, I began applying the same principles to how I spent my hours and days.
Here’s the thing about time—we all have exactly the same amount of it per day, but bloody hell, does it feel different depending on how we allocate it. Twenty-four hours packed with wall-to-wall obligations feels like twelve. The same twenty-four hours with breathing room feels like… well, like actually living rather than just existing.
The first principle I adopted was what I call the “Hell Yeah or No” rule (borrowed from Derek Sivers, who articulated it better than I ever could). If my response to an invitation or opportunity isn’t an enthusiastic “Hell yeah!”, then it’s automatically a no. This sounds simple, but it’s surprisingly difficult in practice. We’re conditioned to say yes, to please others, to fear missing out. Saying no feels uncomfortable, even when it’s the right choice.
I remember turning down an invitation to a former colleague’s housewarming party. We weren’t particularly close, and while I wished her well in her new home, the thought of spending a Saturday evening making small talk with strangers made me feel exhausted rather than excited. So I politely declined. No elaborate excuse, just a simple, “I can’t make it, but I hope you have a wonderful time.” The sky didn’t fall. Our professional relationship remained intact. And I spent that Saturday doing something that actually energized rather than depleted me.
The second principle is building in buffer time. I used to schedule things back-to-back, convinced I was being efficient. In reality, I was setting myself up for perpetual lateness and stress. Now, I never schedule meetings or appointments without at least 30 minutes of buffer on either side. Sometimes that buffer is used for practical transitions—travel time, gathering materials, or simply finding the right Zoom link without panicking. Other times, it becomes a precious pocket of unstructured time to think, breathe, or just stare out the window.
These little bubbles of empty space throughout my day have become sacred. They’re when my best ideas emerge, when I process information and emotions, when I simply exist rather than accomplish. In a productivity-obsessed culture, defending this “non-productive” time feels like a small act of rebellion.
My third principle was the hardest to implement: regularly scheduled “nothing time.” Every week, I block off one entire day (or two half-days if a whole day isn’t feasible) for unstructured time. This isn’t for errands or catching up on work or even for planned fun activities. It’s time intentionally left open for whatever emerges in the moment.
The first few times I tried this, I was terrible at it. I kept feeling an urge to “use” the time wisely, to tick something off my to-do list. I’d end up reorganizing my kitchen cupboards or answering “just a few” work emails. Gradually, though, I’ve gotten better at truly allowing this time to be unstructured.
Last month, during my nothing day, I ended up taking an impromptu three-hour walk when the weather unexpectedly cleared. I followed whatever path looked interesting, discovered a little bookshop I’d never noticed before, and had a lovely chat with the owner. Another nothing day found me deep in an art project I hadn’t touched in months, losing track of time completely as I mixed colors and made a glorious mess. These aren’t activities I could have scheduled in advance—they emerged organically from having space unfilled with obligation.
Of course, there’s a privilege in being able to approach time this way. I’m self-employed now, which gives me more control over my schedule than many people have. But even in my previous corporate job, I found ways to create boundaries. I stopped checking email after 6 pm. I blocked off my lunch hour as non-negotiable personal time. I learned to say, “I need to check my calendar before committing” rather than automatically saying yes.
The most unexpected benefit of this approach has been its effect on my relationships. When I’m with someone—whether it’s a friend, my partner, or a client—I’m fully present rather than mentally jumping ahead to my next obligation. Conversations have become richer, deeper, more meaningful. I’ve become a better listener, because I’m not constantly checking the time.
I’ve also discovered which relationships truly matter to me. When forced to be selective about my time commitments, I naturally prioritize the people who fill me up rather than drain me. Some friendships have faded as a result, and I’ve made peace with that. Others have grown stronger because the time we spend together is chosen with intention rather than obligation.
This doesn’t mean my calendar is empty—far from it. I still have work commitments, family obligations, and social engagements. The difference is that each one has earned its place. I regularly audit my recurring commitments, asking whether they still serve me and whether I’d choose to add them now if they weren’t already there.
Last month, I realized I was dreading my Tuesday evening book club. What had once been a genuine pleasure had gradually become an obligation, another box to tick. The books felt like homework, and the discussions had become repetitive. So I stepped away, freeing up those evenings for whatever might emerge—sometimes reading books of my own choosing, sometimes not reading at all.
Look, I’m not perfect at this. I still overcommit sometimes. I still feel the pull of FOMO. I still have weeks where my calendar looks more packed than I’d like. The difference is awareness—I now notice when I’m slipping into old patterns, and I correct course more quickly.
The irony is that by doing less, I’ve accomplished more of what actually matters to me. Without the constant noise of trivial commitments, I can hear my own priorities more clearly. Projects that once lingered on my someday/maybe list for years have finally been completed because I have the time and mental space for them.
My friend—the one from the text exchange that triggered my meltdown—recently commented on the change in me. “You seem so much more… present,” she said as we finally had that coffee date, three months later than originally planned but with no clock-watching on my part. “And somehow you’re doing more of the things you always talked about wanting to do.”
She’s right. By approaching my time commitments with minimalist principles—keeping only what serves me, being intentional about what I allow in, regularly decluttering my calendar—I’ve created space for what truly matters. Just like clearing physical clutter from my home revealed the objects I actually value, clearing the clutter from my calendar has revealed the activities and people that bring genuine meaning to my life.
That meltdown in the cereal aisle? Possibly the best thing that ever happened to me. Though I do still feel bad about abandoning that shopping basket. Sorry again, Tesco.
