In Inception, the characters dive deeper and deeper into dreams. And to snap back—to rise up a level—they rely on something called a kick. A sudden jolt that forces them awake.
I think about that idea all the time. Because in my work, in my life, I rely on kicks too. They’re how I manage myself. How I break free from context before it swallows me whole.
And for me, kicks usually come in two forms.
The Beep
My most reliable kick is the timers.
Timers everywhere. Timers on my computer. Old-school kitchen timers scattered across the house. The one-click vibrating timer on my watch that I sometimes where (always armed with a 15-minute countdown). And of course, my default:
“Hey Siri, set a timer for 13 minutes.”
My list of macOS timers looks like the alarm graveyard on people’s phones—half random, half absurd, none of them meant to make sense to anyone but me.
Yeah, I know notifications exist. I’ve got them on my computer. On my phone, carefully curated banners slide in just-so, grabbing me at the right moments.
And yet… I still trust timers more.
Because notifications fail.
The times I put on Do Not Disturb and forget to turn it back off. The random, unexplained glitches where macOS decides today is the day to silence everything without asking. The meetings where someone shows up late—not out of laziness, but because their banner never fired. The “hey, you have to do a thing” just… didn’t happen.
Timers don’t forget. I make to make them manually.
I have to look at the clock (right now: 6:53 AM). I have to think about what’s ahead (meeting coworkers in the hotel lobby). And I have to make a call: speed run this blog post so I can get ready in time.
So I set it.
“Hey Siri, set a timer for 36 minutes.”
And here’s the thing—I know that within 3 to 5 minutes, I’ll forget I even started it. 60% of the time, gone. Poof. The worry of having to remember drifts away, and my brain finally settles.
Everything else fades. Unless it’s urgent, it goes on a list. If it takes 10 seconds, fine—I’ll do it. Otherwise, nothing matters but the work right in front of me.
Locked in.
Until…
BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.
The kick.
That sharp little sound signals the decision point. Did I finish? Great. If not—and usually it’s not—I’m right in the middle of something.
That damn kick. The kick always happens when you least want it to.
That’s when the excuses rush in. Just five more minutes. Just one prototype attempt. This is too important to stop now. They’ll understand if I’m late—it’s worth it.
That’s the first kick. And if I’m lucky—or self-aware enough—there’s a second.
That sharp little sound is signals the fork in the road. The decision point.
Did I finish? Great. If not—and usually it’s not—I’m knee-deep in the middle of it.
And that’s the cruel part. The kick never comes when you want it to. It always lands at the worst moment—right when you’re finally in the flow, finally getting somewhere.
That’s when the excuses sprint in, loud and fast. Just 5 more minutes. One more prototype. This is too important to stop now. They’ll understand if I’m late. They have to. Don’t they know how important this thing I'm working on is? Don’t they know how close I am to a breakthrough?!
That’s the first kick.
And if I’m lucky—or self-aware enough—there’s a second.
The Catch
It’s that split-second of self-awareness—the jolt when you realize you’re doing something you didn’t mean to. Or worse: about to do something you already know you shouldn’t.
It sneaks up on you. You open X (Twitter) for some legit research. 2 minutes later, your thumb is flicking, your eyes glazed, and you have no idea how you got three layers deep into someone’s hot takes about nothing.
That’s the catch.
Or the timer goes off. BEEP BEEP. And instantly, your brain serves up a buffet of excuses. Just 5 more minutes. Just one more thing. This is too important to stop. You hear yourself bargaining. You recognize the script. That recognition...
That’s the catch.
The catch is a mirror. It stops you mid-autopilot, mid-rationalization, and forces the question:
Do you keep going? Do you dive deeper?
Or do you surface? Come up for air?
That’s the power of the catch. It doesn’t make the choice for you. It just hands you the fork in the road—reminds you that you are choosing.
The Loss
Stopping in the middle of something feels awful. Like grief, almost.
You’ve invested all this energy, all this focus, and you’re so close. The thought of stepping away—of losing the thread—feels unbearable. Because you know what’s coming: the reset. The cost of context-switching.
You’ll go to your meeting, come back, and half of what you had in your head will be gone. You’ll spend 30 minutes just clawing your way back to the edge of where you left off. Rage bubbling, panic rising, the bitter aftertaste of lost momentum.
That’s the loss.
And the only way I’ve found to soften it is simple: write it down.
Leave breadcrumbs. A checklist. A note with timestamps. Screenshots. A quick Loom. Something. Anything! A crude map to retrace the maze.
Because if you don’t, you’ll waste half your energy just redoing what you already did. Except this time, it’s layered with the panic of loss and the simmering rage of resentment. Carrying those emotions like a weighted vest. Neither does you any good. You know it. And yet—you still feel it.
So next time, give yourself a handhold. Jot the note. Mark the spot. Leave a breadcrumb trail. It won’t make things perfect—but it’ll make them better.
That’s the point of the kick: a jolt that cuts the autopilot, puts the choice back in your hands. Stay under, dive deeper—or surface now, and breathe.
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P.S. And there goes my timer. Right on time… Crap. OK, OK, OK—just 5 more minutes…