My biggest pet peeve is rushing.

Hear, O seekers of patience and presence, the words of Jeremiah Brent, who declared: “My biggest pet peeve is rushing.” Though simple in form, these words carry weight, for they strike at the heart of modern life, where haste is honored as though it were virtue, and stillness is mistaken for idleness. Brent reminds us that to rush is not merely to move quickly—it is to strip life of its depth, to trade meaning for speed, and to forfeit the beauty of the moment for the illusion of progress.

The ancients knew the peril of haste. The Stoics, wise in the ways of the soul, taught that time is the most precious possession, yet men squander it in hurry, as though running headlong toward death. The saying “Festina lente”—make haste slowly—was the counsel of emperors and sages alike. For they understood that to rush is to live shallowly, while to move with care is to live fully. Brent’s pet peeve is, in truth, a warning: to despise rushing is to revere presence, to honor the sacred rhythm of life.

Consider the story of the great architect Antoni Gaudí, who built the Sagrada Família in Barcelona. He labored slowly, refusing to bow to the impatience of his age. When asked why he did not hasten the work, he replied, “My client is not in a hurry.” His client, of course, was God. Today, though he died before its completion, his cathedral rises as one of the most awe-inspiring creations of mankind. Had he rushed, it would not carry the same soul. So too in our lives: if we move too quickly, we may build, but we do not create.

Brent’s words also speak to the soul’s yearning for harmony. When we rush, we treat life as a series of tasks rather than as a journey of meaning. We eat without savoring, speak without listening, and act without reflection. In such a state, even victories feel hollow, for they were gained in haste and lost to forgetfulness. To slow down is not to fall behind, but to awaken—to see the colors of the sky, to hear the voice of a loved one, to touch the sacred thread running through each moment.

There is also humility in rejecting rushing. For to rush is often to imagine that the future is more important than the present, that our destination outweighs our steps. Yet every sage, from Lao Tzu to Marcus Aurelius, has taught that the present moment is the only place where life truly resides. By despising rushing, Brent honors the present, and calls us to dwell more deeply in it. For to live well is not to arrive quickly, but to walk wisely.

The lesson, therefore, is clear: do not rush through your days, but inhabit them. Walk slowly enough to notice, listen long enough to understand, and act with patience enough to create lasting good. Whether you are crafting, conversing, or simply being, let each moment be given its due. In this way, life will cease to feel like a blur of hours and will become instead a tapestry of remembered joy.

Practically, this means setting boundaries against haste. Rise a little earlier so the morning is not frantic. Speak with pauses, allowing silence its space. When working, value quality over speed, depth over breadth. And above all, remember that relationships cannot be rushed—love, trust, and wisdom grow only in time.

So let these words echo in your spirit: Rushing steals meaning, while patience restores it. If you would live richly, learn to resist the tyranny of hurry. For in stillness, life reveals its fullness, and in patience, the soul discovers its strength.