Momentum is one of those rare physics concepts that is relatable enough to reveal itself in the human experience. Technically, it’s the product of mass and velocity — a measure of how much effort it takes to stop something once it’s moving. It’s a description of inertia: the tendency of things to stay as they are. A boulder at rest resists movement; a rolling one resists stopping. It’s elegant math, a beautiful concept from classical physics, and it speaks to deeper patterns I’ve recognized within my own life. Motion often leads to more motion, while stillness deepens stillness.
A Checkpoint
I’ve been thinking about my own momentum. Turning thirty felt like a checkpoint — a chance to dig deeper into life, to reflect harder, plan better, and amplify the waves of self-discovery with more intentionality. There are so many things I’m passionate about, some lifelong, others new: making music, writing code, lifting weights, surfing, snowboarding, walking places, traveling, exploring politics, urbanism, gaming, cooking, drawing, thinking deeply, learning as much as I can. Each pursuit began with a spark — a fiery ignition, a rhythm, a current that carried it forward.
Obsession
My mind is in a constant state of pursuit of whatever is creatively, intellectually, or physically stimulating. When I commit to something, I dive in completely. I can focus intensely for days, weeks, or even months at a time, until my energy runs dry. I think back to when I spent three months alone in my room building Drumhaus, or the thousands of hours I’ve spent in solitude producing my own music. I think about the countless books and educational videos I’ve voraciously consumed over the years, learning more about an endless array of subjects that interest me — now I can draw wisdom from a deep well of random facts about everything from thermodynamics to sociology. I’ve scoured Google Maps, exploring every corner of the Earth in an attempt to internalize its vast geography. Fine-tuning a snare sound for hours until my eardrums melt to mush, only to wake up and skip breakfast so I can keep tuning it again the next day. My relationship with passion has rarely been casual. It’s immersive, consuming, and inevitably exhausting.
The Gift and the Cost
I’ve long accepted that I’m neurodivergent. Of what form, it’s not entirely clear to me, beyond an ADHD diagnosis at the tender age of fourteen. I believe there’s more to the story than that — that the black box of my brain is both a gift and a curse, so unique that it would be useless to try and label its quirks precisely. To be so curious and obsessive, and to retain such a dense archive of memory, is a kind of superpower. I didn’t just go to the gym to lift and get stronger; I studied the physiology of the human body, read research papers on muscle growth, and experimented with diet and recovery. That same intensity has let me teach myself nearly everything I know: producing, songwriting, programming, graphic design, video editing, mechanical engineering. My degree, my career, my creative output — all of it built on the back of hyper-fixation and fiery curiosity. It’s meant a lot to feel so consistently alive in what I do, yet it still hurts to realize I’ve rarely stayed with one pursuit as long as I could have.
The Fragile Flame
Maybe I’m missing out on something. In my relentless search for everything, maybe I’ve gained nothing. Lately I’ve become more aware of when my momentum slows, when a passion quietly slips back onto the shelf, waiting for some future version of me to return to it. That awareness has created a kind of fear. I often see every pursuit as a fragile flame, one breath away from going out. Whenever the spark returns, it feels like capturing lightning in a bottle. I’m terrified of losing it, so I cling to it. I stay up too late, sometimes all night, wake up obsessed, and push myself in unsustainable ways until I’m burned out all over again. It’s a reckless pursuit of momentum that ultimately ends up killing the very thing I’m trying to keep alive.
Drifting Off Course
I think about how long it’s been since I started a new song. These days, opening my DAW feels daunting. I’ve barely paddled out on a surfboard all year, except for a few rare days when a friend joined me. I remember when I used to study every detail — the different board shapes, the weather patterns, the history of the sport. I’d spend hours watching surf videos alone in my room, absorbing everything I could. I think back to the stretch of time when work consumed me and I stopped going to the gym, slowly losing the progress I’d fought for. What’s the point of learning how every muscle works if a single breeze can blow my ship off course for months? It’s been deeply frustrating to watch the things I love drift away as other priorities and interests take their place.
The Flossing Parable
In the last six months, I started flossing every night. My dentist warned me I’d be paying for surgeries down the line if I didn’t start taking my gum health seriously, and I finally took that advice to heart. I never felt passionate about flossing — I actively avoided it for years, seeing it as inconvenient and unnecessary. I recently learned that only a third of Americans self-report flossing everyday. I was part of the majority. But once the spark hit, I ran with it. I made sure to do it every single night, and in the mornings if I missed it. At my next appointment, the results were clear: the pockets in my gums were improving greatly. And the beauty of it was, even though it hurt at first and felt annoying as hell, it eventually became second nature.
It made me wonder: how can I make all my other passions feel like that? If engaging with an interest is like the act of flossing, and my satisfaction in life is like my gum health, how do I turn the things that bring me joy into habits that sustain themselves? I don’t want to go another year outside the gym. I don’t want to go months at a time without putting down a single musical idea. I want to feel the waves beneath my feet, the powder beneath my boots, the elation of doing the things that give my life meaning. These fascinations of mine should continue to develop and unfold in magnificent ways.
It feels harder to do a lot of those things the longer I let them sit on the shelf. What my life needs now is more momentum. I’m afraid — afraid that the longer I let them sit, the heavier these things become. This is literally true in regard to weightlifting, and metaphorically true for everything else. Sure, I’ve got passion. I was born with a deep reserve of it. But passion alone won’t cut it. I’m an adult now, with a fully developed prefrontal cortex. I’m capable of self-actualization and long-term planning: going to bed at a consistent time, skipping the sweets, choosing something healthy for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. I want to engage with my life the way I’ve engaged with my oral health lately — with small, unglamorous acts of care that, over time, make everything stronger.
Continuum
Reflecting on what momentum has looked like in my young adulthood, it feels like this: incredible acceleration, followed by exhaustion and shame. Maybe the acceleration part is just in my DNA. Maybe my brain is a sprinter, not a marathon runner — and that’s fine by me, as long as I can keep sprinting in bursts throughout the week, every week. I know there’s deep reward to be found in the slow accumulation of small gestures — the steady push that keeps the wheel turning even when it all feels heavy. Applying intensity alone has begun to feel more and more hollow. I want to pivot from intensity to continuity. For me, that would be real progress — tangible maturity I can feel proud of. Everyone is capable of building small habits that compound their results over time.
Everything I care about — music, movement, learning, living — depends on one simple truth: stay in motion.