Procrastinating: A Masterclass I Never Signed Up For

Between permanent fatigue, breast cancer, and Tamoxifen hormone bangers that make my brain slap an out-of-office on reality and whisper “I am on vacation, good luck”, I seem to have unlocked a new skill set.

Procrastination.

Advanced level. Possibly Olympic.

I had this charming little fantasy that forced downtime would be productive downtime. That I’d finally write the book.

You know, the one about professional derailments, personal disasters, illness, resilience, and somehow coming out winning.

With humor.

Obviously.

Because trauma is only acceptable if it’s funny.

Turns out the joke was on me.

If there were an award for procrastinating, I would like to thank the Academy, my hormones, my immune system, and my deeply held belief that nothing should ever start mid-week.

Because here’s how this works:

if I have a brilliant, lightning-bolt creative idea on a Thursday, I will responsibly write it down… and decide to act on it Monday.

You always start fresh on a Monday.

This is not negotiable.

This is law.

Possibly ancient!

Meanwhile, Monday arrives dragging a to-do list so long it needs its own postcode. And suddenly the timing is wrong.

The vibes are off.

Democracy is crumbling.

My body hurts.

My brain suggests doing literally anything else, preferably something with a Controller, tabs, or zero emotional risk.

I’m not sure if it’s the state of global politics or my health that has pinned my creative energy to the floor and is standing on it casually while scrolling.

Am I overwhelmed?

Probably. I have all the tools.

All the toys.

A perfectly good Batcave of an office.

I could just… go there.

Sit down.

Start.

But it’s like going to the gym.

You really, really don’t want to go.

Then you go.

Then you’re annoyingly glad you went.

Same thing happened just now.

I sat down.

I wrote this.

It feels good.

I have been creative for at least five whole minutes.

Which, apparently, is my current endurance limit.

It’s satisfying.

It’s also exhausting, like my brain just did leg day without stretching.

So I think I’m going to turn on the Xbox and play Cyberpunk 2077.

Yes, I know I’m late to that party too.

That feels on brand. Avoidance is my aesthetic.

I will try not to think.

My creative to-do list will continue to grow quietly in the background like a haunted spreadsheet.

But today is Tuesday.

So I’ll try again Monday.

And somewhere in all of this, the question pops up, uninvited but persistent:

Am I depressed?

Here’s the uncomfortable part.

This doesn’t feel like laziness.

It doesn’t even feel like a lack of ideas.

The ideas are there.

Too many of them.

They show up unannounced, fully formed, and then just… sit there, waiting for a version of me that isn’t exhausted.

This feels more like a brain that’s tired, hormonally hijacked, and quietly overloaded.

Burnout, illness, and constant stress don’t always look like sadness or crying in the shower.

Sometimes they look like avoidance.

Delay.

Negotiating endlessly with yourself about when you’ll finally be “ready.”

The fact that writing still feels good once I start matters.

Depression often steals interest entirely. This doesn’t.

It just makes everything feel heavier, slower, and more expensive in terms of energy.

Five minutes of creativity that feels good but wipes me out isn’t a moral failure.

It’s information.

So maybe this isn’t depression with a capital D.

Maybe it’s exhaustion wearing a depression costume.

Maybe it’s a nervous system that’s been through enough and now insists on buffering before it loads anything new.

Either way, this counts.

Writing this counts.

Even if a future version of me rolls her eyes and says “this wasn’t the real work.”

It was work.

It was movement.

It was showing up without waiting for Monday or permission or a miracle surge of motivation.

Now I’m going to play my game.

The list will still be there tomorrow.

It always is.

And annoyingly, so is the creativity.

But this shall pass too.

Every step forward, no matter how small, counts.