Distractions. They’re everywhere. A ping from a co-worker. The compulsion to check the latest social media somethings. The Urge to both try and justify some code library or design method because someone on X wrote a 6-part threaded breakdown on why this thing (this new, shiny, much better thing) is the way.
For me, it happens all the time. Heck, it happened this morning while trying to write this very post.
And whenever I notice it, my mind jumps to this story. The “distracted rabbit” story.
Rabbit
Several years ago I stumbled on a video from a German-Chinese YouTuber named Ranton. He was telling the story of living and training at a legendary place in China—the Shaolin Temple.
(I can’t find the video anymore; I think something happened to his channel.)
In that segment he talked about weapon specialization. Ranton focused on the whip and the sword, and his takeaway was simple: get really good at a few things first, then branch out. He illustrated it with a proverb his master told him—a story about a distracted rabbit.
Story
There was a rabbit who’d find a carrot, pick it up, and start eating. But the moment another carrot appeared, he’d drop the first one and chase the next. Over and over, carrot after carrot, always dropping, never finishing.
(This part wasn’t in the original tale, but it’s the part I always imagine…)
Behind the rabbit stretched a messy trail of half-eaten carrots, abandoned and forgotten.
Negotiations
Because when I get distracted, that’s me — the bunny. Munching happily until—BAM—a new carrot drops from the sky, glowing, haloed in that angelic chorus of "awwwwwww". And suddenly all I want is that carrot.
This is when the real work begins.
The negotiations. With the version of me that wants to wander. With the voice that says, “Just this once.” With the pile of tiny promises I’ve already made — to myself, to others. The thing I said I’d deliver today. The gratitude journal I swore I’d start. The glasses of water I said I’d drink (while yesterday’s glass still sits on my desk, untouched, oops).
The rationalizations flood in: “It’s just a quick peek.” “It counts as research.” “This will only take a second.”
But distraction isn’t just about carrots or checkmarks. It’s about noticing the moment I’m in — realizing I can choose. To drop the carrot, or keep it. To grab the new one, or not. To take back a sliver of control.
Because every time I notice, every time I pause long enough to choose, I get a little better at steering.
It’s not about becoming a machine. Or cutting myself off from things that could be interesting, even life-changing.
It’s about remembering I have the autonomy to choose. To say yes — but not now.
Choice
This doesn’t mean eliminating distractions. That’s impossible. The practice isn’t purity — it’s awareness. Catching yourself mid-bite, one carrot between your teeth, another already in your hand. Pausing long enough to decide: which one matters right now?
Sometimes you’ll trade the old for the new. Sometimes you’ll double down on what’s already in front of you. Either way, the point is to keep choosing — not to let your path turn into a graveyard of half-eaten carrots, each one a little monument to abandoned potential.
Each carrot, a vote for the kind of person I wanted to be.
One carrot at a time.