Highjacked by the Urgent —Over and Over
By Sophie Makonnen
The “Firefighter” Feeling
There’s a particular kind of exhaustion that doesn’t stem from long hours, but from the constant state of being on alert. A day might begin with a clear intention—perhaps even a small window reserved for what matters most. But by mid-morning, the fires have already started: urgent messages, last-minute requests, decisions made elsewhere that now demand immediate attention.
While emergency response is a core part of international development and humanitarian work, not every role is designed to operate in crisis mode. Many professionals—especially those in technical, coordination, or program management roles—were hired to focus on strategy, collaboration, and long-term outcomes. Yet sometimes, they work in conditions that mirror crisis response: reacting to last-minute shifts, managing incomplete information, and navigating constant pressure. What once felt purposeful begins to resemble an endless series of reactions, pulled repeatedly into the immediate. And when that rhythm becomes the norm, even the most grounded intentions start to fray. Focus scatters. Priorities blur. Time fills with tasks that feel necessary but no longer align with the role's core.
This reflection is about that moment. Not when everything collapses—but when tension stays just high enough to keep everyone on edge. It’s not crisis management. It’s management under constant urgency. And over time, that pressure can turn thoughtful professionals into constant responders—not literally, but in how their days unfold.
When Urgency Overtakes Importance
It’s tempting to believe that constant urgency is just a planning problem. If people were more organized, or if teams adhered to timelines, we wouldn’t always be chasing deadlines or scrambling to respond.
However, urgency isn’t always or solely a result of poor planning. It has a kind of gravitational pull—loud, immediate, and emotionally charged. Urgent tasks demand attention now. They often come with short deadlines, incomplete context, and the weight of consequences if ignored. They feel important because they’re pressing. But not everything urgent is actually meaningful.
Important tasks are different. They tend to be quieter. They don’t shout for attention, but they hold weight. These are the things that move our work forward in real ways: strategic thinking, long-term planning, mentoring a colleague, and designing for impact instead of reacting to noise. They require foresight, not just follow-up. But because they often lack immediacy, they’re easier to postpone—until the calendar fills up with things that feel unavoidable.
The distinction between urgency and importance was popularized by U.S. President Dwight D. Eisenhower, who reportedly said: “What is important is seldom urgent, and what is urgent is seldom important.” His approach eventually gave rise to the Time Management Matrix—also known as the Eisenhower Matrix—an enduring but straightforward tool to help people sort tasks into four categories:
Urgent and Important: true crises, immediate deadlines with real impact
Important but Not Urgent: planning, reflection, relationship-building—often postponed
Urgent but Not Important: interruptions, minor requests, reactive tasks
Neither Urgent nor Important: distractions, low-value activity
Decades later, Stephen Covey expanded this framework in The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People, encouraging professionals to spend more time in the “Important but Not Urgent” quadrant—the kind that builds clarity and momentum over time, rather than feeding short-term reactivity.
This matrix isn’t a productivity hack. It’s a mirror. It invites us to look honestly at where our time goes—and whether it reflects what we value.
Too often, we get pulled into Urgent and Important and Urgent but Not Important quadrants, constantly responding, constantly doing, rarely feeling ahead.
It’s more than just a matter of personal organization; it often reflects the broader environment. Organizational ambiguity, reactive work cultures, and the normalization of last-minute requests create conditions where urgency becomes the norm. In that context, protecting space for what’s important but not urgent isn’t just strategic—it’s essential.
And then, there’s a more complicated occurrence. Sometimes, urgency isn’t just a byproduct of systems—it’s someone’s way of operating. A leader who thrives on last-minute pressure. A colleague who escalates everything. A culture where disruption is mistaken for dynamism. In those environments, urgency isn’t accidental—it’s also normalized. Even rewarded. And that makes it harder to protect space for the kind of work that requires calm, depth, or foresight.
How It Shows Up in Practice
Most roles aren’t designed around constant urgency. Yet, in some cases, in mission-driven organizations and large institutions, the day-to-day shifts toward responding to what is most immediate, regardless of whether it’s truly important.
The day may start with a plan. Perhaps even an hour carved out for something strategic—a draft, a planning session, a reflection that’s been postponed more than once. Then the requests begin: a last-minute report, a colleague needing a response by noon, a rescheduled meeting that now overlaps with the only open window. Just like that, the day shifts from intentional to reactive.
This dynamic does not stem from a single event; it’s the accumulation of interruptions, shifting expectations, and blurred boundaries.
Part of what makes this so persistent is that successful urgency handling often gets rewarded. In many work cultures, busyness is treated as a sign of commitment—a kind of quiet virtue. “If you want something done, ask a busy person,” the saying goes. The ability to respond quickly, stay late, and step in without hesitation becomes a valuable asset. And the more someone delivers under pressure, the more likely they are to be asked again.
Many of the tasks being handled are necessary, but not necessarily part of the original mandate. Responses are offered because no one else is responding. Participation happens because declining takes more energy than agreeing. Things keep moving, but it’s not always clear in what direction.
This is how urgency creeps in: not through crisis but through constant redirection. Once it becomes the norm, it’s challenging to recognize how far the role has deviated from its original intent.
The Impact on Professionals
When urgency becomes the default, it doesn’t just disrupt schedules—it wears on people, not necessarily in dramatic ways, but in slow, cumulative ones. Concentration becomes harder to sustain. Deep thinking—once part of the role—can start to feel like a luxury. Even during stretches of unscheduled time, the mind stays braced for the next interruption. There’s a constant edge, a low-level scanning for what might be missed.
And then there’s the quiet question of purpose. The workload may be heavy, but it’s not always clear what it’s adding up to. Doubts begin to surface: Is this the work that was meant to be done? Is this really where time and attention should be going? These questions rarely have immediate answers. They’re easy to push aside, yet they tend to linger and resurface.
The pace continues because problems need to be solved and tasks need to progress. And over time, that pace becomes familiar—almost comfortable. There’s a strange reward in being busy, in being needed, in solving things on the fly. The pressure fuels a kind of momentum that’s difficult to walk away from.
That’s the catch: when everything feels urgent, urgency begins to feel normal. Even outside a crisis, it can be hard to slow down. Hard to focus—not just because of overload, but because the system has adapted to constant alertness. Functioning on adrenaline becomes second nature, and shifting out of that state is no small task.
What You Can Reclaim
Sometimes, urgency isn’t just baked into the system—it’s modelled and multiplied by people in positions of influence. I once worked with a manager who thrived on drama. If the day started out quiet, it rarely stayed that way. One simple comment or email could spiral into a full-blown crisis, with dozens of people copied and the issue escalating hour by hour. An ordinary request became the center of attention, not because of its content, but because of the tone and energy around it.
It took me a couple of years to recognize the pattern. At first, I tried to reason with it, fix it, or match the urgency so I wouldn’t fall behind. Eventually, I realized I couldn’t change the way he operated, but I could change how I responded.
I learned to spot the escalation early. I didn’t always feel calm, but I made a deliberate choice not to join the swirl of urgency he was creating. I responded with focus, offered solutions, and stayed present. After all, he was my boss—he carried responsibilities I didn’t and perhaps had access to pressures I couldn’t see. Alongside this, I made it a point to seek clarity rather than act on assumptions. When handling urgent emails and calls, I consistently asked for specific details and requested time to consult the appropriate department if needed. I always provided a clear timeline for what could be done, while also asking for his timeline. I made sure I had the relevant information and documentation on hand, so I could respond accurately and with context. Over time, I also learned to choose where to invest my energy—advocating firmly when something truly mattered, and allowing other issues to move forward without resistance. I also started setting clear boundaries. No email responses after 7 p.m., no engagement before 8 a.m., and nothing from Friday evening until Monday morning. I didn’t broadcast it—I just lived it. And when my team members would message me worried about the unfolding situation, I reassured them: they didn’t have to match the pace. I assured them I would have their backs—and I did. They could opt out of the frenzy.
And it worked. Sometimes the issue resolved itself without my involvement. Other times, it didn’t—but either way, I stayed level-headed. I didn’t run in circles or mirror the frenzy. Instead, I learned to step back—like going up to the balcony—to observe what was really going on, clarify the request, and respond with purpose. I couldn’t always shield my time, but I didn’t let the situation completely derail me, my team, or the work that mattered most.
That’s the power of boundaries: they don’t fix the system, but they shift how you move through it.
When urgency becomes the norm, it’s easy to feel like there’s no space to reclaim—no time, no choice, no air. But even in fast-moving environments, small acts of intentionality can interrupt the cycle. Not to overhaul the system, but to preserve your ability to think, prioritize, and act with clarity.
Start with what you can protect. A block of time in your calendar that doesn’t get rescheduled. A project that stays in view, even if you can only move it forward slowly. A moment in your week to pause—not to plan, but to take stock.
These aren’t grand gestures. They’re anchor points. And they often begin with boundaries, not as a rigid wall, but as a form of discernment.
What do I need to keep intact in order to do meaningful work? What am I no longer willing to trade away for the sake of being available?
Setting boundaries in reactive environments isn’t about saying “no” to everything. It’s about making more deliberate choices about what deserves attention—and what doesn’t. That might mean declining a meeting where presence isn’t essential, or renegotiating a deadline before it escalates into a crisis. It might mean identifying one protected space in the week where urgency doesn’t get to take over.
These choices won’t solve systemic issues. But they can shape how one moves within them. Less reactive. More intentional. Still responsive—but not consumed.
And often, the simple act of naming what matters—and making even brief space for it—can begin to shift the rhythm of the day.
Stepping Back
Not every demand can be deferred. Some situations truly require prompt responses. Some systems are built on urgency. Some habits—individual or institutional—won’t shift overnight. But not everything urgent is meant to be carried out, and not every demand merits full attention.
Reclaiming space—through boundaries, discernment, or even a moment to pause—isn’t about stepping away. It’s about remaining connected to what matters, even when the pace is relentless.
The pace around a professional may not be within their control. But there is still a choice in how to move within it.
And for those seeking to find their voice, establish presence, or step into new responsibilities, sometimes that quiet, steady choice is where leadership truly begins.