I have a busy mind. It’s creative and enjoys processing—and sometimes overprocessing—things. From life choices, goals and dreams to what I want for dinner… or how I’ll get through security with my 8-ounce lotion. It’s a lot to live in my mind. In a recent effort to quiet my beautiful thoughts, I purchased a 1,000-piece whimsical puzzle on Amazon. When that brown box with a smile arrived, I tore into it, ready to begin my new zen-inducing hobby.

I dumped the puzzle onto my kitchen table and was taken aback by the sheer volume of 1,000: the little pieces scattered all over with dust bits and puzzle shrapnel mixed in. I turned on some Led Zeppelin, took a deep breath, and began by simply turning over each piece. It’s about the process, right? Two hours later, I flipped the last one. It was a lot. Maybe too much?

“The parallels between this puzzle and the woes of my life were too obvious.”

What have I gotten myself into?

Much as life has a way of dropping gut-wrenching change, tragic losses and lifequakes in our lap, this puzzle was an unexpected undertaking. In front of me were 1,000 tiny bits and pieces of something bigger but, right then, too chaotic to make sense of. I did the reasonable next thing—I separated out the flat edge pieces and grouped like colors, very similar to sorting through my thoughts. At first cathartic, but soon it all became overwhelming. I had to step away.

After making dinner and folding some laundry, I returned to the puzzle; it was like it had grown exponentially in my absence. The frame pieces were difficult to find amongst the detritus of colors and shapes, and the interior was a chaotic mix of colors and shapes I couldn’t readily place. The parallels between this puzzle and the woes of my life were too obvious. So I walked away again. This time for a few days.

Each time I came back to the puzzle, it loomed larger. I would sort a few pieces and find a fit here and there, but progress was extremely slow. I began to lose interest as the difficulty to complete it felt like a chore. Days, then weeks, passed, and my puzzle just sat there. It became a symbol of everything I couldn’t finish, everything that felt out of my control. I began avoiding the kitchen table and even looking in that direction.

I wasn’t ready for it. I didn’t have the patience or the energy. One day I just swooped the whole unfinished mess back into its box, put the lid on and tucked it into the back of my closet. Out of sight, out of mind.

A few weeks later, I bought a 500-piece puzzle thinking it would be the perfect compromise. The pieces were a bit bigger, a little more manageable. I started putting the edges together and felt the satisfaction of watching a picture begin to take shape. A friend stopped by and we sat down to puzzle together. As we caught up, more and more of the pieces were put into place. It no longer felt like a burden—more like a warm way to connect. The simple help from a friend was maybe the boost that I needed?

My friend only stayed a little while. And due to a busy life schedule, the puzzle lived on my kitchen table for quite some time before I revisited. It just took up too much space. Each time I glanced at it, the feeling wasn’t pride anymore—it was guilt. Why didn’t I want to finish it? Was it too much? I wondered if maybe I wasn’t a puzzle person after all. But then I realized—it wasn’t that I didn’t like puzzles—it was that, sometimes, certain undertakings are just too big for where we’re at in life. It took more than I had to give at the moment.

After three weeks, I put the 500-piece puzzle away, admitting to myself that it was driving me crazy. It didn’t mean I’d failed; it just meant I wasn’t ready for it. I needed something smaller, something I could manage right then. I needed to take baby steps. I bought a 300-piece puzzle.

Immediately, I noticed the difference. The pieces were larger, almost laughable, but I didn’t care. The frame came together with ease, and I could see the picture emerging quickly. It didn’t feel like a long, drawn-out project. Instead, it felt more intuitive, more satisfying. I found myself carving out time to work on it, not because I had to, but because I genuinely enjoyed it. The progress was clear, the success within reach. The joy was more immediate.

In life, we’re often handed these 1,000-piece puzzles—big, overwhelming challenges that demand so much time and energy. We work hard, piece-by-piece, trying to bring it all together. And sometimes, after weeks, months or even years of effort, we look up and realize the puzzle is still only halfway done. It’s easy to feel defeated, to feel like giving up, especially when you’re not sure if you have the strength to finish it. But the decision to step away, to put it aside, isn’t failure. It’s understanding your limits.

Sometimes, we need a smaller puzzle. Something that fits the emotional or mental capacity we can handle. What we choose to do daily should bring joy without demanding every ounce of energy. And when that 300-piece puzzle gets completed, you realize that it’s not about the size of the puzzle—it’s about knowing when to step back and when to dive in with renewed focus. Life isn’t always about finishing everything we start; there’s not always a perfect closure. Sometimes, it’s about knowing when to let go to make room for a puzzle that brings an easy happiness.