What I Learned After Questioning Everything That Was Supposed to Help Me

When usefulness becomes routine, it can quietly become a burden. Just because it worked then doesn’t mean it belongs now.

Hej! It’s William!

You know…. There are things we carry for so long that we forget why we started. An app that once saved us from chaos. A method that gave us clarity in a dark moment. A routine that brought structure when everything felt out of control. And we keep going. Holding on.

As if to say, "This helped once, so it still deserves space."

But the world changes. We change. Our needs, our time, our mindset, our pains, and our goals all shift. And that is when the utility needs to be re-evaluated.

Because what was once useful might now just be taking up space.

We have this strange habit of freezing the value of things. As if a tool that helped in 2021 still deserves the same energy in 2025. As if an idea that moved us in the past still deserves the same dedication, even if today the context is different.

Think about how many things you keep out of respect for the past, not because they are useful now. It is like holding on to clothes that no longer fit but remind you of a good phase. The problem is that little by little, that starts filling your house. Then your mind. Then your life.

And we keep calling it useful because we are afraid to admit it is no longer helping. Or maybe because we just never stopped to look closely.

I have been stuck in this before. Productivity systems that helped me a lot in the beginning, but became meaningless over time. I would open the app, fill in everything, follow the steps, but deep down, I knew I was just repeating a ritual.

Like visiting a distant relative only because it is tradition, not because there is a real connection.

Of course, there is value in structure. Not everything needs to be new all the time. But there is a hidden risk in that kind of automatic loyalty. The risk of becoming blind to the moment something stops making sense.

So here is the hard question: Are we valuing the current usefulness or just the memory of what was once useful? Are we still using certain tools because they work or because it is uncomfortable to admit they do not?

Letting go is hard. Letting go of something that helped you feels like betrayal. Like throwing away a part of your story. But maybe it is not about throwing it away. Maybe it is about thanking it and moving on. Honoring what it did for you, and making space for what comes next.

Life needs updates. Not only software, but beliefs, routines, people around you, and commitments that no longer fit. Especially what we call useful.

Because what slows us down the most is not what does not work. It is what worked too well for too long, and now we are afraid to change.

Some people still wake up at 5 in the morning because a book said it makes you productive. But they are tired, grumpy, and low on energy. Is that still useful?

Some professionals insist on old work models just because they worked once. But the team, the market, and the client are already somewhere else. The value of that habit never got updated.

And it does not have to be a big move. Sometimes, it is just switching tools. Stopping a template. Ending a project that no longer excites you. Changing the ritual, but keeping the purpose.

I started doing this with a simple question I carry with me: Does this still help me, or did I just get used to calling it useful?

The problem is not keeping what works. The problem is sticking to what used to work.

When we stop to think, we realize that much of what we call "a busy life" is actually a life full of unnecessary things. Emotional weight. Old tasks. Other people’s expectations. Outdated systems. All with the mental label of "useful," when in fact they have become noise.

And what is most surprising is that once you start letting go, the fear of losing space turns into relief. Like opening a window that has been shut for years.

Revisiting what is useful is not about being cold. It is not about chasing productivity at any cost. It is about being more whole. More light. More present. With less attachment and more clarity.

At the end of the day, it is a small invitation. To live more intentionally. To rethink what you call necessary. To re-evaluate what fills your schedule, your head, and your time. To remember that utility is not a lifelong title. It is a role. And roles can change. Just like we do.

Let’s understand that a little better… But with another perspective

Picture a train stopped at a station. The doors open, people go in, people get out. The bells ring. Someone rushes not to miss it. Someone else just waits for the next one. No one pays much attention. It is just another train doing what it is supposed to. It is useful, sure. It is doing its job. But for that very reason, it goes unnoticed.

Now imagine that same train inside a pharmacy, in the middle of the city. Cutting the checkout line, crushing shampoo bottles, and blocking the space where there used to be a blood pressure chair. That scene, so absurd, gets everyone’s attention. Suddenly, that train has a different kind of value. It becomes a symbol. A disruption.

But the train did not change. The context did.

This image says so much about usefulness. We usually think something is useful because of its features. But actually, usefulness is born from the relationship between the object and the place where it is. From the role it plays in the system, it is part.

In the right place, a train is transportation. In the wrong place, it becomes something else, calling your attention.

This applies to everything. To tools, to methods, to ideas, to people. Something might have been created for a clear purpose, but it still loses meaning when taken out of its real role.

Obviousness hides. Habit silences. Routine makes things invisible.

That is why so many things we call "efficient" are maybe just in the expected place. They have not been reviewed, challenged, or tested again.

Sometimes we do not need a new tool. We just need a new context to see the old tool differently.

Putting a train in a pharmacy is a mental exercise. A way to break the chain of obviousness that makes everything invisible. Because while it is at the station, no one really looks. But change the setting, and the perception changes too. What was just another wagon becomes a revelation.

This is also true for us. When we stay in the "expected role," doing what everyone already knows we can do, our value can be overlooked.

But when we put ourselves in new spaces, in different conversations, in unexpected contexts, we start to shine in a new light.

The hard part is that many of us are afraid to leave the station.

We settle into predictable usefulness. In roles people already associate with us. But maybe impacts lives in displacement. In creating a surprise. In using what we know in places that were not prepared for it.

This is what creativity does. What reinvention demands. What real leadership tries. Putting a train where no one expected it. Not to break things, but to wake people up. To remind everyone that the function can be reimagined. That nothing is permanent just because it always was.

In the end, that is how most innovations begin. Someone dares to move a piece from its usual place and asks, "What if this worked here too?"

So maybe this is the exercise: take something from your life. A process. A belief. An idea. And move it. Take it out of the station. Put it in the pharmacy. And watch what happens.

Not to destroy. But to see clearly. Because only outside the obvious is where true usefulness appears. Or disappears.

And that changes everything.

The Mona Lisa in the Louvre is like the train at the station.

You walk into the room. You know she is there. People take photos. They stand in line. They spend two minutes and walk away. She has become part of the route. A checkbox on the trip. She is where she is supposed to be. In the expected place. In the known frame.

And for that very reason, something dims. Not the history. Not the brilliance of the painting. But the presence. The surprise. The moment of awe. Because there, surrounded by signs, phones, ropes, and noise, she is no longer a painting. She is a stop on the tour.

This tells us everything about context and perception. Not just for art. But for people. For ideas. For work. For gestures. Something can be powerful, but if placed where everyone expects it, it might go unnoticed. Not because it lost value, but because familiarity steals curiosity.

That is what happens with talent in companies. Bright people who are always available, always solving, always there. And because of that, they become invisible. Or with fresh ideas that get ignored in rooms full of old promises. They blend into the noise.

Maybe that is why some things need to be moved to be seen again. A blog post that no one reads, but that goes viral in a tweet. A sentence was ignored in a meeting, but it is moving in a podcast. A person unseen in one team who thrives in another city.

The train. The painting. The idea. The habit. The skill. All carry power. But that power only shows when we break the chain of familiarity.

What do you still value but no longer truly see?

What needs to be moved, reframed, taken out of routine to breathe again?

Maybe the answer is not to change the painting. Maybe it is just time to change the wall. And learn to see it all again like it was the first time.

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