The Long Harvest

Morning friend.

I’m writing this on the balcony in Portugal whilst my family is still asleep.

Away from my usual environment.

Away from the academy.

Away from the noise.

For a long time I thought real productivity looked like constant movement. 

Progress. Momentum. Doing.

Sitting here quietly alone, now I'm not so sure.

Moments like this create space for thoughts that normally get drowned out.

I've spent a lot of time thinking recently about what really lasts.

Because let’s be honest, most things don't.

Achievements fade.

Titles eventually belong to somebody else.

Businesses evolve.

Records get broken.

Attention moves on.

But some things do remain.

What stays are often the moments you invested in long before anyone realised they mattered.

The things that rarely feel urgent.

The seeds you planted years earlier.

As adults we understand this in most areas of life:

You can't expect to be healthy without years of looking after your body.

You can't expect trust without first investing time in people.

You can’t feel truly alive without taking a few risks.

You can't harvest crops that were never planted.

Yet for some reason we sometimes forget this with family.

Especially with children.

We assume there will always be another evening.

Another conversation.

Another chance.

But deep relationships aren't built in grand gestures or in one-offs.

They're cultivated carefully together over a long period of time.

A walk.

A meal.

Eye contact.

Asking questions and listening properly.

Sitting on the floor playing a game while your phone vibrates in the room next door.

The small things.

Repeated over time.

Roots start to grow beneath the surface where nobody can see them.

The roots that one day may bear fruit.

I've wondered recently, and many times in the past, whether we ever truly know if we've done a good job as parents.

Not when they get good grades.

Not when they win medals.

Not when other people tell us we've raised wonderful children.

I think maybe we will only find out much later.

One day in the future when they have complete freedom.

When they could be anywhere in the world.

With anyone else.

Doing anything.

And then one evening there's a knock at the door.

It's them!

Perhaps that's the long harvest that matters more than any other.

They choose to be with you not because they have to.

Because they want to.

By then you're no longer collecting the reward for a few good days.

You're collecting the result of years spent tending something fragile.

Years spent cultivating your most precious crops.

Before we go any further, let's take a moment to debrief together:

What seeds have you been planting recently?

And what have you been assuming will somehow miraculously grow on its own?

Which crops need more of your attention right now and which are you prepared to let die off?

Your mission this week (if you choose to accept it):

Invest in something that won't pay you back any time soon.

Put the phone down.

Take the walk.

Book the holiday away even though money is tight.

Ask one more question and listen carefully for the answer.

Sit on the floor and play a game.

Plant something today that the future-you might one day get to harvest.

Because what grows tomorrow depends on what you quietly plant today.

That's enough for now, more next Sunday.

Mike

Hold the Line · Do the Hard Things