You Can’t Have It All at Once
The Problem with Priorities
“You cannot overestimate the unimportance of practically everything.” —Greg McKeown
So I’m at the gym, somewhere between a sad attempt at a deadlift and pretending I know how to stretch when I hear this guy on a podcast say, “You can’t have multiple priorities. You only ever have one.”
I scoffed. Out loud. Like some offended philosopher in sweatpants.
One priority?
Please. I’ve got at least six going on right now—kids stuff, work stuff, trying to hydrate better, not ghost my friends, whatever’s going on with my lower back, and also, hello, I’m lifting weights at 8 AM. That counts, right?
But even while I was rolling my eyes, the idea stuck to me like gym-floor sweat: annoying and hard to ignore.
Somewhere between sets— while pretending to adjust my playlist but really questioning my life—I realized... he was right. Not just right, but annoyingly right.
There really can’t be multiple priorities.
Only one thing can be the most important right now.
Everything else is background noise, and I’m pretending to multitask. I’ll admit, at first, it felt like a personal attack. But also what I needed to hear.
Apparently—and I did not know this until I spiraled into a Google hole after the gym—“priority” was a singular word for a few hundred years. It came from the Latin prioritas, meaning precedence or being earlier. It appeared in English in the 14th century and referred to a single, overarching concept. You didn’t have priorities—you had a priority, as in one.
There was no plural form for centuries. Because how can you have multiple first things? You can’t. That’s not how “first” works.
But then, somewhere around the 1940s—probably when corporate memos and wartime logistics collided—we started pluralizing it.
Suddenly, people had priorities. Plural. Practical. List-friendly. It's a tidy way to justify everything feeling urgent all at once. (this is how we all ended up stress-eating protein bars in traffic while listening to podcasts about mindfulness.)
Language evolves with usage, sure—but the meaning got diluted. What was once a clear beacon—the one thing that truly mattered—became another word for “stuff I need to do but probably won’t.”
We broke the word.
And then we pretended it still made sense.
Last week, everything decided to happen at once. Work was on fire (not literally, but close), my kids had something at school every day, my back was acting up from what I now call “aggressive wellness attempts,” and I had this genius idea to start intermittent fasting because... why not add a little hunger to the chaos?
I remember trying to plan my day with military precision: wake up early, do a focused work sprint, reply to emails while dressing the kids, squeeze in a workout (because health is a “priority,” remember?), and show up for my family, my deadlines, and my sanity. I had color-coded blocks on my calendar. It looked like a rainbow threw up.
And guess what?
I was miserable.
Everything got half of me. My brain was scattered, my temper short, and by the end of the day, I was collapsed on the couch with a cold dinner, wondering if I had actually done anything that mattered.
It didn’t feel like I was prioritizing. It felt like I was auditioning for a role I didn’t want.
And the worst part? No medal. No parade. Just me, depleted, wondering who I was.
That podcast voice I mentally argued with kept echoing for days. Not in a mystical, life-altering way. More like the annoying jingle from a commercial you didn’t mean to memorize but now can’t forget.
You only ever have one priority.
Not the twenty you think you’re juggling. Not the vision board. Just the one thing in front of you that matters right now.
At first, I resisted because choosing one felt like abandoning the rest. If I focused on work, I would fail my family. If I focused on rest, I would forget my ambition. If I concentrate on anything, I would let every other version of my optimized self down.
But then I tried something radical. (Ok, not radical. Just... obvious.)
I started asking myself: What’s the most important thing right now? Not in general. Not “this week.” Just right now, in this moment.
And sometimes, the answer was: “Finish this overdue pitch.”
Sometimes, it was: “Go play with my kids before they go to sleep.” And sometimes it was: “Lie down for ten minutes and breathe like a semi-functional human.”
And the wild thing? Everything else waited.
The world didn’t fall apart because I picked one thing. No one died. My life didn’t combust.
It turns out that when you do one thing, it makes the next thing easier. (Who knew?)
This “one priority” idea? It makes perfect sense in theory. In practice, it feels borderline irresponsible. Modern life does not reward focus. It rewards performance. Multitasking is a moral value now. Are you even trying if you’re not doing three things at once while documenting it on your Instagram and ordering groceries mid-Zoom?
We’re constantly told to be “well-rounded”—as if we’re applying for a new job daily.
Be ambitious and mindful. Be productive and present. Chase your goals, but don’t forget to hydrate. And journal. And meditate. And read. And stretch. (Oh, and don’t scroll—unless you’re doing it “mindfully,” whatever that means.)
Social media, of course, doesn’t help. You open your phone to check the weather and leave 20 minutes later convinced you should be a CEO with a six-pack, a sourdough starter, and a capsule wardrobe made of sustainable linen. It’s like being chased by a swarm of expectations wearing motivational quotes.
And the thing is, we don’t just consume that pressure—we internalize it.
So, choosing one priority feels like letting a dozen imaginary people down, even if one of them is your digital self wearing cool gym clothes in your head.
Here’s what I do now—and let me be clear: I still mess this up constantly. But when I don’t, my days go from feeling like an overwhelming obstacle course to something more... livable.
I pick one thing.
That’s it—one priority.
Not forever. Not for the week. Just for right now.
Sometimes, that thing is big—like tackling a work project I’ve been avoiding.
Sometimes, it’s simple—like focusing on a conversation.
And sometimes—brace yourself—it’s doing nothing like sitting still, reading something, or taking a nap without negotiating with guilt.
This clarity comes with choosing. It quiets the noise. It reminds me that I’m not a machine running multiple apps simultaneously—I’m a person—a flawed, ambitious, overstimulated, sometimes tired person. And I work better when I stop pretending otherwise.
And yeah, everything else is still there. But it’s background. It’s on hold. It’ll get its turn. Just not right now.
I keep circling back to this: Most of the time, I already know what the priority is.
It’s the thing I’m resisting. The thing that feels uncomfortable or inconvenient. Or— worse—the thing that feels small. It's too simple to matter. Too quiet to compete with everything shouting for my attention.
But when I listen, it’s always there, waiting.
And when I honor it? Something shifts. I stop flailing. I stop performing. I come back to myself.
Having a long list of priorities made me feel impressive. Now I think it made me tired.
What’s impressive?
Being present enough to choose.
Being humble enough to admit you can’t do it all.
Not today. Not all at once.
And that’s ok. That’s not failure—it’s focus.
So, no, I don’t have twenty priorities anymore. I have one. Just one.
And if I give it my attention—fully, imperfectly, without the weight of all the other things clawing at the door—then maybe that’s enough.
Maybe it’s more than enough.
It’s everything I have, everything I am.
So, I’ll ask you the same question I ask myself most mornings:
What’s the one thing that matters the most now?
Start there. Stay there.
That’s your priority.
The rest can wait—and it will.
📘 The Disciplined Pursuit of Less by Greg McKeown
If this topic poked at your inner overachiever and made it squirm a little—this book will finish the job (gently). Greg doesn’t just tell you to do less; he walks you through how to choose less or better. It's bright, clear, and weirdly comforting—like someone permitting you to stop trying to be everything, everywhere, all at once.