Posted on February 3, 2026

I’ve been sitting with a quote by Alvin Toffler about learning, unlearning, and relearning, not as something to implement, but as something to throw light back on and look at again. His words land differently when life is lived within unstable systems, where what once worked no longer holds and certainty has a short shelf life. That terrain feels familiar to me. Navigating change, adapting, finding ways to fit and thrive, helping others do the same, all while remaining attentive to deeper questions of meaning and responsibility.

What struck me most was his framing of illiteracy not as a lack of knowledge, but as rigidity. The inability to revise mental models. The fear of letting go of what once worked. I see how often that fear shows up in cultures, in institutions, and in me, especially when unlearning requires humility, flexibility, and a willingness to sit inside temporary incompetence.

Around the same time, I heard reflection described as the practice of throwing light back on experience. Taking another look. Noticing what might have been missed or overlooked. That language stayed with me because it named something I was already doing without calling it reflection. I was not trying to fix anything or arrive at conclusions. I was slowing down long enough to see what was already there.

I’ve always been a writer. Long before my walk with God, I wrote down my thoughts. Journals, pens, loose papers, binders. I carried them everywhere. Writing has always been how I made sense of things. Later, when I began walking with God and did not yet know how to pray out loud, I prayed in writing. Somewhere along the way, I drifted from that practice. So when I opened my journal this week, I didn’t start with insight. I started by writing out a way to approach transformation more gently, without rushing myself. Soften the approach. Let it unfold in small, manageable movements so the weight of beginning doesn’t press in all at once. I’ve learned that it’s often the smallest movements that make deeper formation possible.

That awareness mattered because heaviness has been close lately. I’m holding a lot. Time feels tight. And beginning can feel like it costs more than I have. What surprised me was not the idea itself, but the act of writing it out. Pencil to paper. Slowing down enough to see what I might have missed or overlooked. I didn’t arrive at answers. What I noticed instead was presence. A quieter mind. A different way of paying attention.

This is where I started, before reflection had words, while attention was still finding its footing and noticing had just begun.

I wasn’t writing to arrive anywhere. I was writing to slow down. To get my thoughts out of my head and onto paper so I could see them. I had forgotten how writing by hand does something different for me. How much space it creates. How it allows me to see my thoughts again and gain a better understanding of my own conscience. I wasn’t writing to be polished, perfect, or complete. Just to get it out. To see it. To try to understand it. To unearth whatever it is, because I don’t always know what it is at first.

Writing helps me draw better conclusions. It helps me pause before I jump to the very first one. I knew it helped me think. I knew it helped me pay attention. What I hadn’t realized was how writing helps attention settle long enough to notice what’s present, before I move too quickly into fixing. In that way, writing throws light back on what’s already there and gives me a chance to look again. Later, when reflection was described as throwing light back on experience, seeing what might have been missed or overlooked, it gave language to what this moment of writing had already begun.

I’m beginning to see learning, unlearning, and relearning less as stages to master and more as a way of paying attention. Learning begins with attentiveness. Unlearning often arrives through reconsideration, listening, or friction. Relearning, for me, looks like standing again. Not starting over. Not erasing what came before. But reorienting myself with greater clarity and humility.

For now, attentiveness is the focus. Not productivity. Not insight. Not resolution. Just learning how to slow my internal pace long enough to notice what is actually happening. When life is lived inside unstable systems, urgency can masquerade as responsibility. Everything feels immediate. Everything feels pressing. Attentiveness asks something different of me. It asks me to stay present without disengaging, to notice before interpreting, to pause before reacting. For me, attentiveness begins in small, ordinary ways. Writing by hand. Letting my thoughts settle long enough to see what’s underneath them. Paying attention to what my body is holding, what my mind keeps circling, what keeps surfacing when I stop rushing myself. This kind of presence does not remove responsibility. It steadies it. It creates room to respond rather than react.

This week, I’m holding a simple question:

What am I noticing when I stop rushing myself?

Not to fix what I notice. Not to optimize it. Just to let attention do its quiet work.

If this way of slowing down and paying attention resonates, this is how I work with people, too. Coaching is a space to pause, think out loud, revisit what no longer fits, and discern next steps without rushing yourself. There’s no pressure to arrive anywhere. Just room to notice, revise, and move forward with greater clarity and steadiness. Not answers. Not certainty. But presence. The practice of slowing down. Of throwing light back on what is already here.