TL;DR
After months of tinkering with my Obsidian vault, I realized the problem wasn’t structure — it was intention. This is a reflection on perfectionism, information hoarding, and learning to rebuild a system (and a mindset) that feels alive, not overengineered.
🌱 The Obsidian Obsession
I’ve been using Obsidian for half a year now. Over time, I made a few half-hearted attempts to reorganize my vaults — but lately, the urge feels different. Not just to refactor, but to rebuild from the ground up.
To wipe the slate clean and create something that actually reflects the way I think and live.
So I dove headfirst down the rabbit hole: watched videos, explored PKM philosophies, and felt more seen than ever. The struggles they described were mine:
- An overwhelming pile of fragmented information
- A system diluted by AI or external content
- The fading presence of my original thoughts
I want more than data accumulation. When I find an idea that resonates, I want to keep it — to have it live with me, and resurface when I need it most. But the reality?
🌀 When Organizing Becomes Procrastination
I spent the entire weekend trying to fix my notes — and ended up with nothing to show for it. Not because I didn’t try, but because I got lost in the forest of possibilities.
Too many plugins. Too many frameworks. Too many ways to structure things — and no clear sign of what would work for me.
Perfectionism is the bottleneck.
I want a clean migration. A fresh start. But my inner perfectionist insists on having the entire structure perfectly defined before I begin.
And that’s where everything breaks down.
I thought I was organizing — but maybe I was just procrastinating. A form of productive avoidance. A way to feel busy without moving forward.
🛠️ Earned Systems, Not Borrowed Blueprints
Nick Milo once said that note structures need to be “earned.” You can’t just copy someone else’s system and expect it to fit. What you need will only emerge through doing — through building, stumbling, and refining.
That hit deep.
Trying to predefine everything is like writing software with the waterfall model — rigid plans upfront, minimal adaptability. But life (and PKM) is more like agile development.
Requirements change. Priorities shift. You iterate and evolve.
Start building before you feel ready. That’s how readiness is earned.
And when it comes to evolution, the hardest part is rarely adding — it’s subtracting.
🧠 Why Deleting Feels So Dangerous
There’s this meme I love:
Junior devs add code; senior devs delete it.
The real challenge isn’t adding more — it’s knowing what to cut. The same goes for notes. And maybe… even for life.
That’s when I noticed a deeper pattern: hoarding.
Not just physical stuff — but information, too. Holding on gives me a strange sense of safety.
Discarding a note feels like cutting away a part of myself.
Scarcity mindset in disguise.
Letting go feels like loss — as if I’m deleting something essential. But what if I’m just carrying too much? What if pruning is actually an act of care?
🌻 The Desire to Change
And I know this isn’t healthy.
I’m tired of clinging to things that don’t serve me anymore. But change takes time. Maybe I can’t fix everything all at once — so I’ll start small, with my notes.
Maybe by rebuilding with care and intention, I can practice the philosophies I want to live by:
- Minimalism
- Clarity
- Mindfulness
Knowledge that isn’t practiced becomes decoration.
I know these things in theory — but they haven’t reached my daily life. That disconnect bothers me. Knowing so much, doing so little.
🧩 A Thought Experiment
To simplify, maybe I can try this:
If I could only keep five notes, which five would I choose?
What would I actually want to preserve? What reflects my core values, my direction, my truth?
Sometimes, having less forces clarity. My time and energy are limited — I want to make space for what truly matters.
And if the fear of deletion still lingers, maybe this helps:
I once lived without a notes system. I survived. I even thrived.
It’s a tool — not a lifeline. Discarding a note won’t erase who I am.
🌤 In the End…
Maybe the point isn’t to build a perfect system — but to build one that can grow with me.
A garden, not a museum. A place where ideas can breathe, evolve, and sometimes — be composted.
If my notes can reflect that — messy, alive, imperfect — then I think I’ll finally be home.
Related
Digital Garden — where I explore why this kind of system matters to me in the first place.