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“ A personal reflection on ADHD, unfinished obligations, language, autonomy and finding movement again”.
I have begun thinking of certain unfinished tasks as anchors.
An anchor may be a bill sitting unopened on the table. It may be an appointment I need to arrange, a form waiting to be completed or a message I know requires a reply.
The task itself may be small. Paying the bill could take five minutes. Sending the message might require only a few sentences. Yet I put it off until the situation becomes unavoidable.
While it remains unfinished, part of me stays attached to it.
I may continue with other parts of my day, but the task has not disappeared. It waits in the background, quietly taking up attention. I remember it, avoid it, feel guilty about avoiding it and then try not to think about it again.
That is what makes it an anchor: it does not merely remain undone—it holds something in place.
What I mean by an anchor
I am not using “anchor” as a clinical term. It is language that helps me recognise a pattern in my own life.
An anchor is an unfinished obligation that continues to exert weight long after I have put it aside.
It might involve:
A bill waiting to be paid
A phone call I do not want to make
An email requiring a decision
Paperwork with unclear instructions
Something broken that needs arranging
A conversation I know I need to have
A task postponed until it becomes urgent
The anchor may be connected to uncertainty, boredom, fear of making a mistake or not knowing where to begin. Sometimes there is no clear emotional reason. The task simply refuses to become available for action until urgency takes over.
Not every anchor holds us back
An anchor also has a rightful purpose.
After difficult weather, we may find a sheltered bay with crystal-clear water and choose to remain there for several days. We drop anchor deliberately so we can rest, repair what has been damaged, take stock and reconnect with where we are.
In life, these healthy anchors might include:
A dependable daily rhythm
Time in nature
Meditation or spiritual practice
A safe home
A trusted relationship
Commitments grounded in our values
Deliberate periods of rest and recovery
These anchors provide stability. They keep us connected to something steady while we restore ourselves.
The difficulty is not the anchor itself. The question is whether we chose to drop it, whether it is still serving us and whether we know when it is time to lift it.
Some anchors are chosen places of rest. Others are unfinished obligations that have caught beneath the surface. We may try to move forward without realising how much energy is being spent pulling against them.
“Wisdom is not found in avoiding every anchor. It is knowing when to drop one, when to rest beside it and when the time has come to lift it and continue the journey.”
Waiting for urgency
When a deadline is distant, a task can feel strangely unreal. I know it matters, but knowing does not automatically create movement.
As the deadline approaches, pressure builds. Eventually the consequences become immediate enough to generate action.
The bill is paid on the final day. The form is completed just before it closes. The appointment is made only when the situation can no longer be ignored.
From the outside, this may look irresponsible. From the inside, it can feel as though urgency has finally supplied the activation that intention could not.
The task gets completed—but often at the cost of stress, shame and unnecessary mental weight.
The hidden weight of unfinished things
An unfinished task does not always sit quietly.
It may follow me through the day as:
A repeated thought
A feeling that I have forgotten something
Irritation when another task is added
Difficulty settling into something meaningful
Shame about something that should be simple
A growing sense that life is becoming unmanageable
One anchor may be tolerable. Several anchors can begin to feel like a net.
The problem is no longer only the individual tasks. It is the combined weight of remembering, avoiding, judging and anticipating them.
When language becomes an anchor
Sometimes the anchor drops before I have even begun.
The task has not changed, but the language surrounding it has already given it weight:
I have to do this.
I’ve got to finish that.
I should have done it already.
This has to be my goal.
Words such as goal, deadline, must, should, have to and I’ve gotta can make an activity feel imposed, heavy or already overdue. The pressure may arrive before the task itself.
Even the word goal can feel heavy. A goal may suggest a fixed destination, a measure of success and the possibility of failure before the journey has begun. Instead of creating direction, it can become another anchor.
This is why I do not have a “to-do list.” I have projects.
A to-do list can feel like a record of demands and incomplete obligations. A project suggests an ongoing relationship with something that matters or requires my attention. It can contain several steps, change shape and remain unfinished without becoming evidence that I have failed.
The change in language does not remove responsibility. It changes how I enter into relationship with it.
Instead of:
I have to deal with the bills.
I might say:
The household-finance project needs attention. What is its next movement?
Instead of:
I’ve got to finish this today.
I might ask:
What movement is possible today?
Instead of:
This is my goal.
I might say:
This is the direction I am travelling.
A direction invites movement. A demand can create resistance before movement has begun.
The weight carried by “due”
A bill arrives carrying its own language:
Amount due.
Due date.
Payment required.
I did not choose the bill, its timing or the language surrounding it. An expectation has entered my life already defined by someone else.
The word due may be intended as neutral information, but I can experience it as pressure. Instead of drawing me towards completion, it repels me from the task.
The bill becomes an anchor almost as soon as it arrives.
This does not mean the obligation is unreal or that consequences can be ignored. It means that the language used to communicate the obligation may interfere with my ability to respond to it.
Restoring choice within an obligation
I may not control whether the bill must be paid, but I can reclaim some choice over how I relate to it.
The company has a due date. I can choose a payment day.
For example:
External boundary: payment is required by the 28th.
My chosen action: I will close this item on the 21st.
Next movement: open the bill and confirm the amount.
Completion: pay it, schedule it or resolve the question preventing payment.
The external boundary remains visible so that I am not hiding important information from myself. But it is no longer the only language in the process.
Instead of:
This bill is due and I have to pay it.
I might use:
This account is ready to be closed. What day do I choose to release it?
The aim is not to pretend there is no obligation. It is to find language that preserves agency inside an obligation I did not choose.
Autonomy does not require the absence of obligations. It means retaining authorship over how we meet them.
We take some autonomy back when we:
Name the fact without adopting the command. “Payment is required by the 28th” rather than “I have to do this.”
Translate the language. The company has an external boundary; I choose my action day.
Choose the next movement. Open the bill, check the amount, schedule payment, ask a question or arrange support.
Act consciously rather than under last-minute force. I choose to resolve this because I value keeping my home secure and my accounts clear.
Recognise completion as release. The task is no longer pulling against my attention.
I may not have chosen the expectation, but I can choose my relationship with it and my next movement towards resolving it.
Finding a drogue in the storm
In sailing, a drogue is used in severe weather to create drag. It slows the vessel and helps provide stability when the wind and sea are pushing too hard.
The storm does not disappear. The sailor has not reached safety or completed the journey. But the boat may become manageable again.
Overwhelm can feel similar.
When several unfinished tasks are pulling at me, my first instinct may be to solve everything at once. I mentally circle the bills, messages, decisions and appointments, trying to find a way to clear the entire field.
That attempt can produce even more overwhelm.
What I may need is not an immediate solution to everything. I may need a drogue—one small action that reduces the speed and instability of the moment.
For a bill, the drogue might be:
Opening the envelope
Checking the external payment boundary
Putting the payment details beside the computer
Choosing a payment day
Asking for help understanding the account
Paying one bill rather than confronting the whole pile
The drogue is not necessarily the completion of the task. It is the action that makes the situation stable enough for the next action to become visible.
An anchor is an unfinished thing that holds part of me in place. A drogue is a deliberate next step that slows the overwhelm and helps me regain direction.
An anchor says:
This is still waiting.
A drogue asks:
What would make this manageable right now?
Sometimes the drogue is practical: open the letter.
Sometimes it is structural: choose a payment day.
Sometimes it is relational: ask someone to sit with me while I begin.
Sometimes it is physical: breathe, walk or step outside before deciding what comes next.
I do not need to conquer the whole sea. I need to find the action that helps me remain in the boat.
Listening to what holds us
Through my shamanic worldview, an anchor is not always something to attack or tear away.
Before lifting it, I might ask:
What are you holding?
What are you protecting me from?
What needs to be acknowledged before movement can return?
Avoidance may contain information. Beneath it may be confusion, resentment, fear of making a mistake, exhaustion or resistance to an expectation I did not choose.
Listening does not mean remaining stuck. It means entering into relationship with what is holding me rather than using force against myself.
The bill, form or unfinished conversation is not spiritually significant in itself. Yet how I meet it can become meaningful. I can approach it with awareness, recognise the response moving through my body and choose an action that restores right relationship.
Completion can then become a small ritual of release.
The account is closed. The message is sent. The anchor rises.
Something that was moving beneath awareness has been seen, acknowledged and consciously resolved.
The anchor may show us where our movement has stopped. Listening reveals what is needed. Choice lifts the weight.
Right relationship
Right relationship avoids two extremes:
Fighting or shaming ourselves into action
Ignoring the obligation and remaining anchored
Instead, we acknowledge the task, our resistance, the external reality and our autonomy. Then we choose how to respond without abandoning ourselves.
Right relationship is not obedience to the expectation or escape from it. It is meeting what is present honestly and choosing how we will move with it.
This is also at the heart of About The Conversation. The aim is not to tell someone what their experience means or order them towards a solution. It is to create enough space for them to hear themselves, recognise what matters and recover their own capacity to choose.
Lifting the anchor
Taking back autonomy does not mean pretending the obligation was ours to choose. It means deciding that it will no longer hold us beneath the language of must, should and have to.
We name what is real. We choose our relationship with it. We find the next movement and complete what needs to be completed—not as an act of submission, but as an act of release.
The anchor begins to rise.
We stand at the bow, holding the rail as the weight comes free from the seabed. The storm may have passed, or perhaps we have simply learned how to meet it differently. Behind us is the sheltered bay where we rested. Ahead is open water.
Standing at the bow, I feel the wind return and the water open before me. The sea has not promised an easy journey. It asks only that I remain awake to the conditions, respectful of what holds me and willing to lift the anchor when the time comes.
Behind me, the sheltered bay remains part of the journey. Ahead is the beautiful blue yonder—not an escape from responsibility, but a return to movement, relationship and possibility.
We do not control the sea. We cannot command the wind or know every condition we will encounter.
But the anchor is no longer dragging beneath us.
We are moving again—not because someone ordered us forward, but because we have consciously chosen to lift what was holding us and turn towards the beautiful blue yonder.
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“Autonomy is not freedom from every obligation. It is the moment we reclaim our hands, lift the anchor and choose how we will continue the journey.”
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This article shares personal experience and reflection. It does not provide diagnosis, treatment, financial advice or medical advice.