The Power of Being Part of the Process

Over the long weekend, I found myself clearing winter’s weight from our family cottage: raking damp leaves, brushing away cobwebs, coaxing open to let the light back in. For years, I’d arrived to find it already done. My parents would come up early, quietly performing the seasonal ritual so that by the time we stepped out of the car, it felt like summer had already begun. The fridge would hum, the sheets would smell clean, and only a few ceremonial piles of leaves would remain for us to toss.

This year was different. I arrived early. I did the opening. And in the process, something opened in me, too.

There was no shortcut, just time, energy, and effort. But with every sweep of the broom, I felt a new kind of gratitude and investment take root.

Daniel Pink, in Drive: The Surprising Truth About What Motivates Us, outlines three key drivers of motivation: autonomy (the desire to direct our own lives), mastery (the urge to get better at something that matters), and purpose (the yearning to do what we do in service of something larger than ourselves). Pink writes, “When we design systems that assume people want to be engaged, we build organizations and lives that are more productive and fulfilling.”

And while Pink is often cited in business or education circles, his ideas echo in the quiet work of family life, too.

Take dinner. When we serve it family-style, passing bowls and letting my daughter choose what goes on her plate, she eats more. She tries things she wouldn’t otherwise. The meal becomes a shared act, not a top-down transaction. Her stake in the process increases her engagement with the outcome. She doesn’t just consume the meal, she participates in it.

Of course, not every season allows for full participation. Sometimes, ease and automation are gifts. There’s more opportunity than ever to skip the process entirely. A robot can generate the formula. A pill can speed up the result. And sometimes, that’s useful. But I wonder what’s lost when we’re no longer part of the beginning, when we trade the long way in for the instant one.

This spring, I didn’t just arrive at the cottage. I helped welcome it back to life. And in doing so, I saw more clearly the years of quiet effort that made it feel magical when we rolled in.

There was no shortcut to getting our little summer cottage ready this year. But in the hard work, I found something richer than convenience: a renewed gratitude for the space, for the season ahead, and for the people who came before me, who knew the quiet magic of being part of the process.