This post is part of a new series on Human & Machine called Human Before Machine: a space to explore the internal work behind meaningful leadership. You won’t find AI takes here. Or frameworks. Instead, I’ll be writing about the things that shape how we lead, build and relate: identity, clarity, transitions, discomfort and all the messy, human contradictions we carry with us. After years of working in tech and coaching talents, I’ve come to believe the hardest problems aren’t technical. They’re personal. This series is where I unpack them.
In 2014, I was in a bus at 6:45 in the morning, heading to a gym I didn’t like, trying to optimise a version of my life I didn’t really understand. The sun was rising in that clinical way it sometimes does in London: sharp, fluorescent almost, a kind of light that doesn’t inspire but exposes. I had woken up early, part of a new routine I’d committed to, one I’d read about in a podcast summary or a blog post somewhere: early workouts, clean eating, no phone until noon. It felt like the right thing to do, or at least, the next thing to try. I told myself it was time to reset, rebuild, start over. Again. This was maybe the sixth time in a year.
The plan lasted four days. On the fifth morning, I didn’t hear the alarm. Or maybe I did and just let it ring until it stopped. Either way, I stayed in bed. The motivation had evaporated, as it always did, leaving behind a quiet sense of shame and the familiar thought: maybe next Monday. This pattern wasn’t new. I had stacks of half-read self-help books on my bedside table and an embarrassing number of productivity apps installed on my phone. I’d tried meditating, journaling, scheduling my day down to the minute. Each time, I thought this would be the thing that finally got me on track. And each time, it wasn’t.
Back then, I believed I had a focus problem. I thought I lacked discipline. But now, with some distance and experience, I see it more clearly: I wasn’t fixing my focus: I was avoiding my confusion. I didn’t know what I really wanted. And instead of facing that truth, I kept trying to fix the symptoms. I was optimising the surface while avoiding the foundation.
Years later, I began seeing the same pattern in others. Founders. Product leaders. Executives. Smart, driven people who would sit across from me and say, “I can’t focus.” They’d talk about distraction, about struggling to manage their time, about not feeling productive anymore. They wanted advice: better tools, better systems, maybe a new framework to try. But what they really wanted was relief. Relief from the discomfort of not knowing what to do next. Relief from having to face the gap between where they were and where they thought they should be.
There was a founder I worked with who had every reason to be confident. He had traction, funding, a team that admired him. But when it came time to make a real product decision, he stalled. He said he needed more leverage, a chief of staff, maybe help with prioritisation. But the truth was simpler and harder: his product had three possible futures and he hadn’t chosen one. Choosing meant saying no to the other two. It meant taking a risk, exposing himself to the possibility of being wrong. So instead, he stayed busy. He buried himself in meetings, strategy decks, hiring plans; anything that looked like leadership but didn’t require commitment. And the longer he avoided the decision, the more chaotic everything around him became. His team felt the indecision. The roadmap slipped. Morale dipped… and still, he thought the solution was more structure, not more clarity.
Another time, I worked with a Chief Product Officer at a high-growth company. Her calendar was a wall of meetings, her team was disengaged and she said she couldn’t focus. But she didn’t have a focus issue. She had a trust issue. She didn’t trust her team to make decisions without her, so she involved herself in everything. She reviewed every doc, sat in every meeting, replied to every message. She was stretched too thin, constantly exhausted, but unwilling to let go. The cost of control was her clarity. And no productivity app was going to fix that.
I’ve lived my own versions of these stories. When I first stepped into leadership, I was used to being the person who delivered. I got things done. But suddenly, my job wasn’t to do: it was to guide, to shape, to create space for others. I didn’t know how to measure myself anymore. I didn’t know what success looked like. So I did what felt safe: I stayed close to the work. I reviewed everything, overprepared for meetings, rewrote strategy documents that didn’t need rewriting. I filled my days with motion, trying to prove I still mattered. It took me months to realise I wasn’t leading. I was hiding. And the thing I was hiding from was the uncertainty of not knowing who I was in this new role.
That’s the part most advice skips over: the uncertainty. The fear. We’re taught to optimise, to improve, to fix. But the truth is, many of us aren’t broken. We’re just lost. And instead of slowing down to figure out where we are, we speed up, hoping that if we move fast enough, the doubt won’t catch us.
But it always does.
What I’ve learned is this: most focus problems aren’t about attention. They’re about avoidance. The real question isn’t “How do I get more done?” It’s “What am I avoiding?” “What decision am I afraid to make?” “What truth am I unwilling to admit?”
Focus doesn’t come from better tactics. It comes from alignment. When your actions match your intent. When you’re not pretending. When you’re not performing a version of yourself for someone else’s approval.
I never went back to that gym. I hated it. The lights were too bright. The music too loud. It wasn’t a place where I felt like myself. Now, I run. Sometimes with music. Sometimes without. Not because I’m trying to optimise anything. But because it’s what makes sense to me now. It fits.
And maybe that’s the real work: not building a life that needs to be managed but building one that makes sense. One that doesn’t require constant effort to sustain. One that doesn’t fall apart the moment your motivation dips.
There’s no shortcut to that. No hack. No app. Just the slow, sometimes painful process of telling yourself the truth and seeing what remains once you stop pretending.
That’s where focus begins. Not with discipline. But with honesty.