You’re doing too much.

You want to build this empire that you see in your mind. Socials. Newsletters. Podcasts. Products. Employees. The whole thing.

And you somehow expect to do it all right now, solo.

So you claim all the social handles. You record a podcast episode. You cut some short videos. You outline products. You click publish. You launch it all. You tell yourself: “I’ve got this.”

Week one, maybe week two, you’re flying. This feels doable. You’re pumped. But then week three hits. And… it’s a lot. Like, a lot a lot. Especially because you’re not seeing much growth yet. A spark here and there — but mostly just…crickets.

And let’s be honest: this isn’t easy.

Building a content brand or creator business is hard. The idea that it’s simple or passive is a lie. It’s one of the hardest jobs out there. You’re the entire business. You take time off? The business disappears. So you feel like you have to be on. All the time.

And suddenly it starts creeping in: maybe this isn’t for me. Maybe I’m not cut out for this. Another failed attempt. Another dream for the graveyard. And then a few months or years later… you try again. And you do the exact same thing. You start too wide, too early. You literally follow that cliché definition of insanity: trying the same approach and expecting different results.

What if you tried something different this time?

What if you started with one thing — and got really flipping good at it? One newsletter. One podcast. One channel. No distractions. No feature creep. No shiny objects. Just a single lane in front of you — and your job is to walk far in it.

When you do this, something amazing happens: you begin to master your craft. Every day is about learning how to do that one thing better. You aren’t draining yourself trying to learn everything at once. You’re building depth. Skill. Power.

It might feel “slow,” but what it really is… is focused.

When I’m in the gym, and I’m working toward a PR, my trainer and I don’t just load up the weight and go. We build. I practice the movement without weight. Then we add light loads. Sometimes I do other exercises that strengthen the muscles I’ll need for the lift. I’m focused. I’m building my way there piece by piece.

Why would starting a business be any different?

Same with running: when I trained for a marathon, I didn’t just start with 20-mile long runs. I trained for shorter distances. I learned how to fuel, how to hydrate, when to rest, when to push. I picked up dozens of auxiliary skills that had nothing to do with running — but were essential to finishing the race.

Big goals require this kind of honesty.

You have to ask:

→ What do I actually need to do right now?

→ What can I drop or delay?

→ What’s the MVP of this dream?

I spent nearly 15 years in software product management, and this is the question I constantly pushed teams to answer:

“What is the smallest thing we can launch really well that gets us moving and brings people back?”

Yes, there are a million things you’ll want to do later. But what earns you the right to do them? Getting the first thing out the door. Nailing it. This applies everywhere. In writing. In business. In life.

The lesson is always the same:

Focus.

Stop going too wide too early. Stop trying to do it all at once. Stop exhausting yourself and calling it “hustle.” Pick a single lane — and go deep.

Then, once you’ve walked it far enough, then you can widen your lane. Then you can hire help. Then you can add new systems, tools, or team members to support your growth.

But not before.

Be a tortoise. It’s boring, sure.

But boring builds greatness.