Have the Drive to Slow Down

You breathe; new shapes appear,
and the music of a desire as widespread
as Spring begins to move
like a great wagon.
Drive slowly.
Some of us walking alongside
are lame! — Jalal al-Din Rumi from the poem "A Great Wagon"

There are seasons in our professional lives when the pace feels overwhelming—where progress, productivity, and outcomes seem to drive every decision. The demand for efficiency is understandable: people are waiting, their needs are real, and systems are strained. But Rumi offers a counterintuitive, compassionate directive: Drive slowly. Not because the work isn’t important or time doesn’t matter, but because those walking alongside us, colleagues, patients ... even we ourselves, carry often invisible burdens that demand our presence, not simply our competence.

“You need to go home.  I’ll take care of your schedule.”  These insistent words from a colleague when I was feeling quite ill earlier this year (Flu A) were both challenging to my very core and exactly what I needed to hear.  My personal pride and drive to always appear uber competent was getting in the way of my judgement regarding my own health.  I could have resisted and insisted “I’ve got this,” as I have done numerous times before, but for some reason in that moment, I didn’t.  The lightness and relief I felt was profound.  Their simple gesture was like breathing new air into the day—something shifted (“new shapes appear”) as I understood the “self-care” and “connection” I regularly profess in a whole new way.  And I went home.

In this context, Rumi’s image of a great wagon pulled by the music of desire “as widespread as Spring” is a powerful one.  We who work in healthcare are driven by a desire to heal, to serve, to make things better—and to both be and appear competent. But even a noble drive needs pacing. Spring doesn’t rush. It unfolds. So too must we unfold into the lives around us—not bypassing pain, not pushing forward at all costs, but moving with a mindful tempo that honors those walking more slowly beside us.

It is also a good reminder that the line “Some of us walking alongside are lame” is not just a metaphor for patients or “someone else.”  It’s about us—the healers who perpetually carry grief, fatigue, trauma, and uncertainty. We may appear fine on the outside, but inside, we are often trying desperately to disguise our own “emotional limp” and at best just getting by.  Such was the case for me on that day.  This is why peer connection matters so deeply. When we walk together, when we adjust our pace to accommodate someone else’s pain—or our own—we create a culture where healing is shared, not just delivered.

This week, challenge yourself to drive a little more slowly (perhaps even literally!). Check in with a colleague who’s been quiet. Pause before making assumptions. Give yourself permission to walk, not sprint. Let your pace reflect the understanding that not everyone is moving at the same speed—and that’s okay. Even you need moments to slow down. The beauty of our work, like Spring, is not in how fast we go, but in how we support and encourage as we help each other live into what matters most along the way.  One more reason that no one should care alone.