Thought I'm Wrestling With: Embracing Spontaneity

Happening to Life vs. Letting Life Happen

As some of you may know, this past summer I came down with Lyme disease in a pretty aggressive fashion. Within about two weeks, I went from doing CrossFit workouts every day to barely being able to make breakfast for myself. All my joints were sore, I was sleeping 12–15 hours a day, I had cramps in muscles I didn’t know existed, and I lost the ability to focus on even the simplest of tasks.

For my whole adult life, I prided myself on being a morning person. In college, I signed up for early morning classes when everyone else wanted to sleep in. I was getting in miles at the track and reps in at the gym before the sun came up.

Routine was my best friend.

And for better or worse, that was my identity as well.

I liked that people were impressed by the fact that I could be productive in the earliest hours of the day. There’s a pride you take in being outside the norm—going against the grain of society, forging your own path where there always seems to be resistance.

And when you see success from this pattern of behavior, you naturally believe it’s the cause of that success.

It’s strikingly similar to Chris Williamson’s concept of the insecure overachiever:

“When faced with a challenge, your nature might be to worry and obsess and grip tightly. Because worrying is so common in every pursuit you attempt, your successes are seen as proof that worrying is a performance enhancer, and your failures are proof that you should have worried all along.”

You intrinsically tie your routine and habits to the outcomes you achieve.

I had straight A’s. Great numbers in the gym. Ran like the wind.

So of course, I assumed it must be the routine.

When Lyme disease hit, I lost my routine.

I lost my identity.

I no longer could rely on a clear mind by 8 a.m. to do deep theoretical or philosophical work. I wasn’t sure if a morning walk would wake me up or put me back in bed.

Life was unpredictable—not my cup of tea.

It forced me to sit still for the first time in years—and in that stillness, I stumbled upon a new idea about what it means to happen to life rather than let life happen to me.

As timing had it, I was listening to a podcast with entrepreneur and investor Naval Ravikant. He’s a unique thinker and paradoxically doesn’t structure his life in a manner one tends to associate with multimillionaire business owners.

Naval claimed he doesn’t have a schedule, and he doesn’t make commitments. If he never has to be at a specific place at a specific time, he’s embracing his full freedom—the freedom that was the natural order we were born into until the rigidity of the schooling system set in.

More importantly, Naval said on the podcast:

“Inspiration is perishable. Act on it immediately. The moment that curiosity arrives, lean into it.”

That struck me as profound, because for so much of my life I blocked out time to do certain work. Two hours for X, an afternoon window for Y.

I had embraced the notion that motivation is weak, and discipline is king—that you should never rely on motivation because it’s fleeting. It comes and goes with no rhyme or reason.

It was engrained in me that simply doing the work when you intended to would yield the results I had grown accustomed to.

But as I listened to Naval, I began to realize he wasn’t glorifying laziness or chaos—he was describing a kind of attunement. A trust in the signal of curiosity when it strikes.

Naval counters that approach by explaining that your best learning and work come when they’re derived from a place of curiosity. He asks the podcast host, “How much do you remember from school—when you were forced to learn on a timeline and rigid structure?”

I reflected on that. Sure, I’ve retained core pieces of my education over the years. The mitochondria is the powerhouse of the cell. But so much of the interaction with material was lost because it didn’t flow from a place of curiosity.

On the flip side, think of a hobby or passion you have. Think of the wealth of knowledge you’ve accumulated and retained on that subject. You most likely weren’t beating your head against the wall to learn or master the craft. Simply exploring and being willing to make mistakes left your brain ripe for neuroplasticity.

Andrew Huberman highlights that science directly backs this up. The growth-mindset approach—embracing errors, detaching your identity from performance, and treating learning as a process—is by far the superior way of learning.

He explains that curiosity engages the brain’s learning centers; it literally prepares the mind for neuroplasticity. A curious state isn’t passive—it’s an active readiness to absorb, connect, and integrate.

That inspiration and curiosity are synonymous with fun—and thus the spontaneity of those moments should be cherished and pursued. Your best work and productivity are downstream of freedom, not discipline.

“The freedom and the ability to act on something the moment you want to is so liberating—if you live your entire life that way, that is a recipe for happiness.” — Naval Ravikant

At this point, I started to see that discipline and spontaneity aren’t opposites—they’re partners. Discipline creates the container, and curiosity fills it.

I’m not abandoning discipline—I’m redefining it. Discipline isn’t rigidity; it’s the commitment to show up when curiosity calls.

While battling Lyme disease, I noticed pockets of the day that felt normal—moments of clarity and energy that had been previously vacant.

My past self would’ve complained that these bursts weren’t coming in predictable waves or on a schedule I could optimize.

But the revelation Naval brought me shifted my perspective. Instead of seeing those unpredictable bursts as frustrating, I began to exploit them for as long as they lasted.

Some moments were only thirty minutes. Others lasted a few hours. During those times, I launched a whole new section of my website (“Thoughts I’m Wrestling With”), formed a detailed outline of the first fiction novel I want to write, designed a faith-based kids’ cartoon series, and created a self-ethos adventure guide called The Conscientious Cowboy.

None of these were crafted in a designated window of the day. Some sat idle for weeks—and then suddenly captivated my attention again.

I took away the pressure of having to execute and instead saw them as living, evolving journeys. I asked myself, “How can I enjoy this 10% more?” (Ode to Joe Hudson.) And by disassociating the stress of perfection or achievement from these projects, I naturally kept engaging.

Being on medical disability from my day job, I was obviously blessed with the freedom of time to engage in this lifestyle experiment. There weren’t many obligations or restrictions pulling me away from my flow. I could tackle whatever felt pressing or enticing that day.

That freedom made me more productive because I didn’t have a schedule constantly pulling me away from the work itself.

As much as I’d love to say I’ve fully adopted this radical spontaneity, I haven’t—because I’m still wrestling with it.

Part of me sees the world as a sphere of distractions constantly competing for our attention. That little device in your pocket is the prime example. We’re being slowly wired to confuse inspiration with impulse. Curiosity with compulsion.

How many times have you been lured by what appeared to be a shiny object—a new hobby, a new job, a new relationship—only to be left feeling hollow afterward?

You were inspired (falsely), you acted on it, but it didn’t yield the happiness that Naval references.

I also have this gut sense that fully embracing spontaneity can slowly coalesce into a path of least resistance—that I’ll fall into complacency.

Humans are lazy by nature. Catering to that disposition doesn’t seem like the avenue to producing something extraordinary.

And yet, I know God wants me to enjoy my life. Endless commitments and structure might signal that I’m idolizing something more than I idolize Him. He wants to see me in my humble form—completely outside of myself, living for others.

That’s where faith reenters the frame for me. God’s design for discipline isn’t about control—it’s about communion. The structure He gives isn’t meant to suffocate spontaneity but to protect it, to make room for the moments when curiosity becomes calling.

We also know scientifically that dopamine is released during the pursuit of a goal. If we sit around waiting for inspiration, it may never come. It’s in the commencement of a task that our brains release the chemicals that keep us engaged.

There’s also a wealth of research showing that depending on how you’re wired—morning lark or night owl—there are pockets in your circadian cycle where you’re physiologically primed for divergent, creative thinking, and others where you can take advantage of neuromodulators that enhance focus.

It seems foolish not to design your day with that information in mind.

You don’t have to color-code your Microsoft calendar to the nth degree, but having a general framework can yield its own kind of freedom.

So I’m torn.

Part of me sees the value in spontaneous exploration and learning, but another part fears the dangers that emerge when inspiration isn’t discerned—when we confuse curiosity with compulsion.

I know there is never a perfect time to start something. The world is inherently chaotic, and wishing it would settle just for me is like asking the Powerball to reveal the winning numbers. Inspiration can’t be my saving grace.

But I can’t brainwash myself into thinking structure is synonymous with success either. Improvement can’t be forced. Breakthroughs aren’t linear.

Maybe that’s the balance: structure reminds me I’m not God — that I need boundaries and rhythm to stay grounded — while spontaneity reminds me I’m alive.

Maybe the art of living isn’t choosing between structure or spontaneity—it’s learning when to surrender and when to steer.