When the Vending Machine is Empty
I recently found myself in a situation where I honestly didn't know what to do. It was an uncomfortable feeling, especially when I see myself as someone who usually responds well to whatever circumstances arise. There was a distinct does-not-compute moment when all of my skills, training, and years of experience failed to produce an appropriate on-demand response. And I felt it.
What made the moment even more unsettling was the assumption that I should have an answer right away — not only from my own assumption, but the expectation I felt from others as well. As if wisdom ought to be immediate and accessible, like a vending machine where you put your money in and the answer drops out.
But real insight doesn’t work that way.
We live in a culture that rewards speed. Decisiveness is prized. Quick answers are associated with competence, authority, and leadership. “Let me get back to you” is often tolerated only briefly before it starts to sound like hesitation or weakness. Before long, we’ve internalized the belief that if we’re thoughtful enough, experienced enough, evolved enough, we should always know what to do next.
But you already know the real truth: some of the most important moments in life don’t respond well to that kind of pressure.
Sometimes clarity just doesn’t arrive on demand. It may require time for reflection rather than speed. Sometimes it asks us to stay with a question longer than we feel is comfortable. We often resist the urge to resolve the tension so we can feel better. When instant answers are expected, that kind of waiting can feel irresponsible or we fear it makes us look unreliable—as though we’re failing to do our job as capable adults.
I’ll admit, part of me would have loved it if an answer had dropped out of the vending machine right then. It would have been much easier. Cleaner. More efficient. More comfortable. But I also knew, from experience, that forcing an answer rarely leads to anything meaningful. At best, it produces something serviceable. At worst, it pulls us away from ourselves.
So instead of trying harder to figure it out, I stopped trying altogether.
It wasn’t easy. If I didn’t force an answer, that meant staying present with the discomfort — the restlessness in my body, my mind’s constant scanning for a solution, that subtle wondering how or when an answer will arrive. It meant slowing down to notice the urge to just get it over with and take the pressure off, but choosing, nevertheless, not to follow it.
I gave myself permission to feel where the discomfort landed in my body. I noticed how certain thoughts felt settling while others felt constricting. Yes, there was the temptation to label those few moments of time as avoidance or indecision. But there was also the recognition that something else was emerging.
This wasn’t passivity. It was restraint. It was attention.
There was no lightning bolt of clarity (although I love those dramatic moments when that happens). But something important shifted. That pressure to make wisdom a performance art fell away. The need to appear confident softened. Instead, there was an open space, unencumbered by needs or expectations.
This allowed a deeper, more relevant answer to form, because I stopped pushing and allowed the timing to unfold as it would. And it did.
I know how many of us misunderstand this “empty” space. In fact, it’s neither empty, unproductive, or indulgent. In my experience, this is where true discernment lives. This is where we listen not just for answers, but for alignment. This is where we sense whether a response feels right, not just whether it sounds good.
For this to happen, we often have to bypass our busy minds and go deeper.
If you find yourself in a moment like this — where answers aren’t showing up on demand — there’s nothing wrong with you. You’re not behind. You haven’t lost your edge. You may simply be in a part of the process that doesn’t respond to speed.
The most honest next step might just be attention, not action.
This way of working with uncertainty — without rushing it, fixing it, or explaining it away — is at the heart of how I work one-on-one in Straw into Gold. It’s not about producing faster answers or better strategies. It’s about creating the conditions where something truer can emerge, often quietly, often unexpectedly, once the pressure to perform has been set down.
Not everything meaningful comes out of a vending machine. Some things need space. And that space is exactly where gold begins to form.
What made the moment even more unsettling was the assumption that I should have an answer right away — not only from my own assumption, but the expectation I felt from others as well. As if wisdom ought to be immediate and accessible, like a vending machine where you put your money in and the answer drops out.
But real insight doesn’t work that way.
We live in a culture that rewards speed. Decisiveness is prized. Quick answers are associated with competence, authority, and leadership. “Let me get back to you” is often tolerated only briefly before it starts to sound like hesitation or weakness. Before long, we’ve internalized the belief that if we’re thoughtful enough, experienced enough, evolved enough, we should always know what to do next.
But you already know the real truth: some of the most important moments in life don’t respond well to that kind of pressure.
Sometimes clarity just doesn’t arrive on demand. It may require time for reflection rather than speed. Sometimes it asks us to stay with a question longer than we feel is comfortable. We often resist the urge to resolve the tension so we can feel better. When instant answers are expected, that kind of waiting can feel irresponsible or we fear it makes us look unreliable—as though we’re failing to do our job as capable adults.
I’ll admit, part of me would have loved it if an answer had dropped out of the vending machine right then. It would have been much easier. Cleaner. More efficient. More comfortable. But I also knew, from experience, that forcing an answer rarely leads to anything meaningful. At best, it produces something serviceable. At worst, it pulls us away from ourselves.
So instead of trying harder to figure it out, I stopped trying altogether.
It wasn’t easy. If I didn’t force an answer, that meant staying present with the discomfort — the restlessness in my body, my mind’s constant scanning for a solution, that subtle wondering how or when an answer will arrive. It meant slowing down to notice the urge to just get it over with and take the pressure off, but choosing, nevertheless, not to follow it.
I gave myself permission to feel where the discomfort landed in my body. I noticed how certain thoughts felt settling while others felt constricting. Yes, there was the temptation to label those few moments of time as avoidance or indecision. But there was also the recognition that something else was emerging.
This wasn’t passivity. It was restraint. It was attention.
There was no lightning bolt of clarity (although I love those dramatic moments when that happens). But something important shifted. That pressure to make wisdom a performance art fell away. The need to appear confident softened. Instead, there was an open space, unencumbered by needs or expectations.
This allowed a deeper, more relevant answer to form, because I stopped pushing and allowed the timing to unfold as it would. And it did.
I know how many of us misunderstand this “empty” space. In fact, it’s neither empty, unproductive, or indulgent. In my experience, this is where true discernment lives. This is where we listen not just for answers, but for alignment. This is where we sense whether a response feels right, not just whether it sounds good.
For this to happen, we often have to bypass our busy minds and go deeper.
If you find yourself in a moment like this — where answers aren’t showing up on demand — there’s nothing wrong with you. You’re not behind. You haven’t lost your edge. You may simply be in a part of the process that doesn’t respond to speed.
The most honest next step might just be attention, not action.
This way of working with uncertainty — without rushing it, fixing it, or explaining it away — is at the heart of how I work one-on-one in Straw into Gold. It’s not about producing faster answers or better strategies. It’s about creating the conditions where something truer can emerge, often quietly, often unexpectedly, once the pressure to perform has been set down.
Not everything meaningful comes out of a vending machine. Some things need space. And that space is exactly where gold begins to form.
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