The Lost Art of Following Through
And why sometimes you need to quit what you started before you finish.
I hadn’t quite woken up yet, yet my mind was already moving at a wild pace, circling through all the unfinished pieces and projects in my life.
There was one thought that I came back to repeatedly: I never finished my master’s thesis.
This was followed by another thought: no one at the university ever reached out to me after I left on a leave of absence.
Rinse and repeat.
Acute follow-through is sometimes a symptom.
Growing up, I was a (mostly) straight-A student. Gold stars and A’s were my measures of success and value. Getting things done was never a problem.
Finishing what I started was second nature.
Finish every paper. Finish every group project (even if I was the only one actually working on it). Finish every book. Finish every degree.
As if finishing things would get me closer to being accepted or finding my place in the world.
It turns out the belief that I had to be perfect and always finish what I started might have been the exact issue.
The art of not-finishing requires practice
I remember the very first time I actively chose to not finish something I started. I was 17 years old and decided to read Jane Austen’s Emma.
As a teenage girl, the works of Jane Austen should form the foundation of your reading materials (so I was told).
But every time I opened the book, the same thing happened: two pages in, and I would fall asleep.
For weeks I tried, the whole time wondering what was wrong with me.
Finally, I shelved the book and resolved that I might never read it.
I felt guilty for years.
Practice makes perfect opens doors
Before I started my business, the most difficult ending I had to embrace was leaving my PhD program.
I had chased the dream for years, crafting a vision of my life around becoming a Philosophy professor.
Yet sitting in those classes and writing paper after paper (which no one would ever read) made one thing obviously clear to me: I did not belong.
Political Philosophy was the worst. Already my least favorite branch of philosophy, I struggled to participate in class discussions. I wasn’t an on-my-feet thinker, naturally preferring to take things in, reflect, even sleep on it sometimes before formulating a response.
Every conversation was dominated by men, and I struggled to offer anything. I left more than one class in tears.
The Chair of Graduate Studies was the professor of the class (of course). He told me I needed to “get serious” about my philosophy studies if I wanted a degree and a job.
That year, my blog was named one of the top 5 blogs in San Diego by San Diego Magazine. He told me to give it up.
I was active in the Science Studies program (which provided some of my funding) and well-liked by professors in the History and Sociology departments. In those classes, I felt creative and innovative — like my best self. But, as I learned, actually being interdisciplinary was frowned upon (as implied during this meeting).
I felt like I had to rewrite who I was.
Shortly after that conversation, I found myself slipping into depression. I developed an eating disorder. The thought of trying to navigate the program and give up everything I enjoyed filled me with dread.
So while it was against all my straight-A conditioning, I chose to leave. I chose myself. I said it was a leave of absence, but part of me knew I wouldn’t go back.
I decided I could at least finish a thesis and have a master’s degree. I just had to write it.
I didn’t truly learn the art of following through until I owned a business.
This is the funny thing about following through as an art form: it doesn’t require that you finish everything you start.
It does require that you follow your intuition and trust your instincts.
There are two things I love about this art:
There’s a gift in every ending.
Many endings are necessary — they come so you can open to something bigger that’s happening. You learn from them. You grow from them. And you cannot be afraid of them when you spot or sense them on the horizon.
The more you embrace the right endings, the more opportunities emerge.
The right type of follow-through is golden.
There’s something magical about honest, aligned follow-through.
+ When you follow up with clients — you reach out because you want to help them, because you really care, because it matters.
+ When you get on stage and share your story because you may be writing the permission slip someone needs to choose themselves and their future.
+ When you start the podcast to share your knowledge and release episode after episode, or start that business that makes a difference in people’s lives and show up even on the hard days.
You follow through because the action matches your values.
I’ve ended businesses. I’ve let team members go. I canceled software contracts after expensive investments that went nowhere. I experimented and pushed forward and learned when to stop.
I made sure clients felt supported. My team and I have built hundreds of websites. I’ve created in new ways that align with my vision and values. I find new ways to grow and evolve.
Business really refines the art as a practice.
And yes, I never finished my thesis. Every now and then, the thought pops into my mind. I love learning, and the thesis might have been fun to write. But I don’t need it, and I don’t feel any regret or shame about it.
I still haven’t read a single book by Jane Austen. As it turns out, I much prefer books in the Science Fiction and Fantasy genre when I’m not reading a book about business, religious studies, or something else that fuels my brain. And I don’t have to finish every book I start (this act alone is incredibly freeing).
The Art of Following Through is about honoring yourself.
I don't know why but this article made me cry. I really feel this message so deeply today and learning to not finish what I started has been a huge source of pain and growth in my life. I appreciate your hard earned wisdom so much.