I kind of feel like... I have a slower instinct than most

In the words of Pete Docter, the master of animated tales who breathed life into Monsters, Inc., Up, and Inside Out, we hear a confession both humble and profound: “I kind of feel like… I have a slower instinct than most live-action directors, but I have more patience.” These are not idle words, but a whisper from the heart of one who has walked the long road of creation, who knows that the hand which moves slowly, but with unwavering patience, may yet carve the deepest truth.

Consider the first half of his thought—“slower instinct.” In the realm of live-action, a director often must seize moments swiftly, shaping fleeting performances and orchestrating immediate realities. But in the temple of animation, time stretches like a vast horizon. There, the artist’s instinct is not in the quick strike of lightning, but in the steady drip of water that wears down stone. Docter admits that his impulse may not dart like the hawk’s shadow, yet he claims instead the virtue of stillness, of waiting, of listening for the form that emerges only with endurance.

And so he speaks of patience. What is patience but the guardian of great works, the shield against the fire of haste? The ancients knew this truth: the oak tree does not spring overnight, but rises through centuries, its roots drinking deep and unseen. In the same way, the stories that stir the soul are not born in a rush of hours, but are woven thread by thread until their tapestry glows with meaning. Docter, in naming patience as his strength, confesses the secret that haste may win the sprint, but patience claims the marathon of creation.

Think of Michelangelo, who lay on scaffolds for years beneath the dome of the Sistine Chapel, his back broken, his eyes stung by plaster dust. Many could have painted faster, many with swifter instinct. Yet who among them could have endured with such patience, layer upon layer, stroke upon stroke, until heaven itself seemed to open above Rome? His labor was not of speed, but of stillness; not of instinct, but of resolve. From patience was born glory.

There is a lesson here for every life, not only for artists and makers of worlds. The world tempts us toward haste—toward quicker answers, faster gains, fleeting satisfactions. Yet the soul’s true victories belong to those who, like Docter, embrace slowness as strength. For what is patience, if not the wisdom to wait until the fruit ripens, to endure the desert so that one may taste the spring?

To live by this teaching, let each one cultivate the discipline of waiting. Begin not by seeking speed in every task, but by allowing space for depth. When you read, read not for the finish, but for the flame of understanding. When you work, work not to check a box, but to leave behind something enduring. When you love, love not for the thrill of the moment, but with the patience that nurtures another’s soul as one tends a sacred fire.

So, children of tomorrow, remember this: instinct may guide the first step, but patience walks the road to its end. The river, slow yet unceasing, shapes valleys and nourishes kingdoms, while the storm, swift and violent, passes in a single night. Let your lives be rivers, not storms. Let your work be carved by time, not consumed by haste. And when you falter, recall the words of Pete Docter—that it is no shame to be slow of instinct, if you are rich in patience.

Thus the teaching is sealed: do not measure yourself against the swiftness of others, but by the endurance of your own path. Seek patience in your craft, your labor, your love. In this way, you too will leave behind works that stand the test of time, just as the cathedrals, the stories, and the songs of the ancients still speak to us now.