Hello Reader,

Sometimes life makes you lie down—literally.

That's because this week I had a migraine. I haven’t had one in years.

It took over the left side of my head, brought a heavy fog of nausea, and flattened two full days I thought I had plans for.

And because it had been so long since I’d had one, I did what many of us do: I tried to figure it out.

Was I dehydrated? Had I been overdoing it? Was it stress, sleep, screen time, food?

I stacked all the possible causes like a mental investigation board. But the further I went, the more I realized:

Some things don’t come with a reason. Some things just show up.

There wasn’t a single cause I could isolate. And even if there had been, it wouldn’t have made the migraine go away any faster.

So I stopped interrogating it. I stopped asking why. I let it be.

That, weirdly enough, is when it started to lift.

We’re taught to always look for the meaning, the story, the data that explains what we’re feeling. But not everything needs to be solved. Some things just need to be seen, endured, accepted.

And once they are, they start to lose their grip.

Look

There’s a moment in Tarkovsky’s 1983 film Nostalgia—beautifully unpacked in a Nerdwriter video essay I love—where the protagonist must carry a lit candle across a ruinous pool without letting it go out. When it does, he returns to the beginning, lights it again, and tries once more. No shortcuts. No frustration. Just a quiet acceptance that sometimes the flame will die, and the only path forward is to go back and begin again.

After a migraine that wiped out days, and a return to work interrupted by uncontrollable noise, this image landed hard. I felt time more acutely during the migraine than I do on most normal days—each hour stretched, each moment lingered. It reminded me that not everything needs to be solved or forced. Some things just are. And when the light goes out, we don’t rush. We return, and we relight. Watch the essay here.

Listen

Lately, I’ve found myself returning to Wichita Lineman—a song that doesn’t try to resolve anything, and maybe that’s the point. Dylan Jones calls it the world’s greatest unfinished song, and it lingers in that space between doing and being, knowing and not knowing. The lineman is always listening, always reaching, always waiting—just like we often are.

That line—“I need you more than want you, and I want you for all time”—holds a tension we don’t often name. After a migraine that refused to be explained and days full of noise I couldn’t control, this song reminded me that not everything needs to be tied up or solved. Some things can remain open. And that, too, can be enough. Listen to Dylan Jones's insights on the song here.

Learn

I’ve written before about how the very idea of having multiple priorities is a contradiction—and how powerful it is to recognize that choosing one thing means letting go of others, even if only for now. In moments of stillness (like the ones migraines or holidays force on us), what matters most has a chance to rise—because urgency fades and importance has room to breathe.

Letting go isn’t abandonment—it’s acknowledgment. You’re not doing nothing. You’re choosing what to do next, and letting the rest wait without guilt. Read my post on this right here.

The Final Flicker

Not every shadow is cast by something to fear.

Some just pass through, acting as quiet reminders that light is still nearby.

See you later,
Mike

P.S. One of the foundational principles of The Productivity Diet is that sustainable productivity isn’t about doing more—it’s about doing what matters. That often starts with letting go: of excess tasks, rigid systems, and the illusion of control. If the idea of choosing one thing and releasing the rest resonates with you, the book offers a structured yet flexible way to practice that daily. Get your copy here.​

Thanks for reading. Your time is valuable, and I don’t take it for granted. In a world pulling us in all directions, thanks for choosing The Lantern.

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