Tomorrow is a Lie

Small decisions over time set roots in you never knew existed

Sixteen years ago I started something called the Film a Day project. The premise was about as complicated as the title suggests: make a short film every day. No batching, no saving up ideas for later, no clever productivity system that allowed me to get ahead. Just the simple agreement that before the day was finished, something had to exist that didn’t exist that morning.

At the time it didn’t feel particularly profound. It wasn’t framed as a life experiment or a deep exercise in discipline. It just felt like something interesting to try. I had curiosity, a camera, and perhaps most importantly, I hadn’t yet developed the very adult habit of explaining to myself why tomorrow would be a better day to start.

When I think about it now, the number that sticks with me isn’t the number of films I made—it’s the number of years that have passed since then. Sixteen. Long enough that the world feels almost unrecognizable compared to the one I was living in back then. The internet was quieter. Social media hadn’t yet evolved into the constant stream of noise it is today. There were fewer platforms, fewer expectations, and far fewer invisible voices whispering that whatever you were making probably wasn’t good enough yet.

That shift alone changes how we approach starting things.

The Brain That Hijacks You

Anyone who has tried to make a meaningful change in their life has experienced the strange moment when motivation collides with the brain’s deep commitment to staying comfortable.

It begins innocently enough. You have an idea. Maybe it’s a project you want to start, a habit you want to build, or a shift you know would make your life better. The initial spark feels exciting and clear. But then the brain begins doing what it does best: protecting you from uncertainty.

The conversation usually sounds very reasonable. Perhaps tomorrow would be a better day to begin. Maybe it would help to spend a bit more time thinking it through first. There might be a few logistical details that should probably be solved before starting. A more refined plan would certainly make things easier.

And just like that, what started as a simple impulse to act becomes a complicated negotiation with yourself.

The brain is incredibly good at creating the illusion that preparation is progress. Planning feels productive. Thinking feels responsible. The problem is that thinking alone rarely moves anything forward. Instead, it creates a loop where you feel busy solving problems for a future that hasn’t actually begun yet.

Meanwhile, the only thing that would break the loop—the first step—remains untouched.

A Different World

It’s difficult not to notice how different the world feels today compared to even ten years ago.

The pace of information has accelerated dramatically. Every moment of quiet seems to get filled with another article, another notification, another video explaining the five steps to improving some aspect of your life. Advice is everywhere. Systems are everywhere. Optimization has become something of a cultural obsession.

In theory, all of this should make change easier. We have access to more information than any previous generation in history. We can learn almost anything with a few minutes of searching.

And yet, paradoxically, beginning has never felt harder.

Part of the problem is simply the volume of input. When your brain is constantly processing new information, it becomes difficult to hear your own thoughts clearly enough to act on them. But there’s also another layer to it. In a world where everything is documented, analyzed, and compared, starting something new can feel like stepping onto a stage before you’ve finished rehearsing.

Sixteen years ago, when I was making a film every day, that pressure simply didn’t exist in the same way. There was more room to experiment. More room to make things that were imperfect or strange or unfinished. More room to simply try.

Today, the mental barrier to starting often feels much higher.

The Illusion of Preparation

One of the brain’s favourite tricks is convincing us that before we begin something meaningful, we must first understand exactly how it will unfold.

It tells us that clarity must come first. If we can just think about the problem long enough, we’ll eventually arrive at a perfectly structured plan where every variable has been accounted for. Once that plan exists, starting will feel easy.

The problem is that life rarely works that way.

Clarity doesn’t appear fully formed at the beginning of a process. It emerges gradually as you move through it. Action reveals information that thinking alone cannot access. You learn what works by trying things. You discover what doesn’t by watching it fail.

In other words, the path forward often becomes visible only after you start walking.

This is the part the brain doesn’t like very much. Action introduces uncertainty. It opens the door to mistakes. It exposes you to the possibility that the thing you are making may not be perfect.

But that uncertainty is also where progress lives.

The Quiet Cost of Tomorrow

The most dangerous thing about postponing meaningful action isn’t that it feels irresponsible. In fact, postponing things often feels quite reasonable in the moment.

Tomorrow sounds harmless. Tomorrow sounds productive. Tomorrow sounds like you’re giving yourself a little more time to prepare properly.

But tomorrow has a strange way of multiplying.

One day becomes two. Two become a week. Weeks quietly turn into years. And because the delay never feels dramatic, you rarely notice the accumulation while it’s happening.

Eventually, though, there comes a moment where you look back and realize that something you intended to start “soon” has been sitting in the same place for a very long time.

Not because you didn’t care about it.

Not because you lacked the ability.

But because the brain kept offering one more perfectly reasonable reason to wait.

Time, unfortunately, does not share the brain’s patience.

The Only Question That Matters

When people think about making changes in their lives, they often frame the process around large decisions. They imagine the moment where everything shifts—the day they finally begin the big project, start the new path, or transform their habits all at once.

But in reality, change tends to unfold through much smaller actions.

Instead of asking what the perfect plan might look like, a more useful question is much simpler: what is the smallest meaningful step you could take today?

Not tomorrow.

Today.

It might be writing a paragraph instead of finishing the entire article. It might be filming a single shot rather than producing the whole film. It might be opening the document and beginning in a way that feels awkward or incomplete.

Those small actions often feel insignificant at the time, but they carry a surprising amount of power. Once movement begins, the brain shifts from speculation to engagement. Momentum builds almost quietly, and the thing that once felt overwhelming begins to feel manageable.

The hardest part is almost always the beginning.

Not Tomorrow

When I think back to the Film a Day project now, what stands out isn’t the scale of the effort or the number of things I made. What stands out is how simple the rule was.

Every day, make something.

There was no elaborate strategy behind it. No perfect plan waiting to be implemented. Just a small commitment repeated daily.

Looking back now, that simplicity feels more meaningful than ever.

Because time moves forward whether we act or not. Sixteen years can pass faster than we expect, and the only real difference between regret and momentum is often the decision to begin when the opportunity first appears.

Tomorrow will always sound like a good idea.

But tomorrow has a habit of disappearing.

So whatever the thing is that has been quietly sitting in the back of your mind—the project, the change, the idea you keep circling around—there is a certain honesty in starting now, even if the first step feels imperfect.

After all, sixteen years from now the only question that will really matter is whether you began.

Today

For most of my life I thought change came from big decisions. The kind that arrive with a sense of certainty, a clear plan, and a moment where everything suddenly clicks into place. But the longer I live, the more I realize that real change tends to arrive in much quieter ways.

It shows up in the small decision to begin before everything is figured out. It shows up in the willingness to take a step when your brain is still insisting that you should wait a little longer. It shows up in the imperfect start, the awkward first attempt, the messy early version of something that might eventually become meaningful.

Sixteen years ago I didn’t know what would come from making a film every day. I only knew that if I waited for the perfect moment, the project would probably never happen. So I started with the only thing that was actually available.

Today.

Not tomorrow.

Today.

And maybe that’s the only real commitment any of us can make. Not to solve our entire lives all at once, but to move something forward before the day ends.

So whatever the thing is that’s been quietly sitting in the back of your mind—the project, the shift, the conversation, the change—consider this your reminder.

Not tomorrow.

Today.

Take one step.

Begin.