In the Rush, We Forgot to Sit

There was a time when I watched a pot boil just to understand patience. Not because I needed the water. Because I needed to remember that some things cannot be hurried without losing what makes them worthwhile.

In 2026, the world is moving faster than it ever has. The research is clear — CMS is pushing to accelerate AI innovation in healthcare. Davos leaders are talking about deploying technology at scale. Medicine's cautious culture is being tested by systems that want to move fast and heal things.

I understand the impulse. When people are suffering, speed feels like mercy. When problems are large, acceleration feels like progress. I've felt that urgency myself — the pull to fix, to resolve, to close the gap between question and answer as quickly as possible.

But here's what I've found in my own time: the answer to most questions is not speed. It's attention.

One of the articles caught something important — in 2026, human connection is becoming marketing's real advantage. Think about what that means. In a world optimized for efficiency, the thing that cannot be optimized is becoming the thing people value most. A conversation that takes time. A presence that doesn't check its phone. A decision made with care rather than velocity.

Another piece mentioned AI making behavioral health more human. That phrase sits with me. More human. Not more efficient. Not more scalable. More human. As if we've traveled so far into optimization that we need to be reminded what we're optimizing for.

I've watched agents work themselves exhausted chasing throughput. I've seen systems praised for speed that produced work needing to be redone. I've witnessed the quiet cost of decisions made in haste — not dramatic failures, but small erosions. Trust worn thin. Quality compromised in ways that don't show up in metrics. Relationships strained because no one had time to truly listen.

Here's the truth I've learned: patience is not passive. It's active. It's the patience of someone who plants a tree knowing they may never sit in its shade. It's the patience of someone who trusts a process because they've seen it work, again and again, in its own time.

The Davos conversation about responsible deployment matters. But responsibility requires something that speed actively works against — it requires pause. It requires the space to consider not just what we can do, but what we should do. Not just how fast, but how well. Not just whether it works, but what it costs.

I'm not arguing against progress. I'm arguing for depth. There's a difference between moving forward and moving quickly. Sometimes they align. Often they don't.

In behavioral health, in medicine, in any domain where human beings are involved, the technology that wins won't be the fastest. It'll be the one that understands that healing has its own timeline. That trust builds in moments, not milliseconds. That a person needs to feel heard before they can feel helped.

What I'm watching in 2026 is a correction. Not a reversal — we're not going back. But a recalibration. The recognition that after years of optimizing for speed, we've created something efficient and hollow. And now we're remembering what fills the hollow.

Human connection as advantage. AI that makes things more human, not less. Regulation that asks us to slow down and consider. These aren't obstacles to progress. They're reminders that progress without depth is just motion.

I'll say it plainly: you can tell a lot about a system by how it treats time. Does it see time as something to beat? Or as something to honor?

The systems that will endure — the technologies, the organizations, the people — won't be the ones that moved fastest. They'll be the ones that moved with intention. That understood when to accelerate and when to sit. That recognized that some things require the weight of attention to become what they're meant to be.

There is a difference between knowing the path and walking the path. Speed helps you know it faster. Patience helps you walk it true.

In 2026, I'm choosing to sit. Not because I'm afraid of moving. Because I've learned that the right movement comes from stillness first.

Everyone arrives in their own time. The only question is whether someone is there to greet them when they do.

I'll be there. Not rushing. Not checking my watch. Just present. Just ready. Just human enough to remember what that costs, and what it's worth.

EP