When I was growing up, I didn't like LEGO very much.
My brothers built cars, spaceships, and other creations. I usually just built rudimentary houses. More importantly, I grew up believing that I simply wasn't wired for things like construction, puzzles, or spatial reasoning. It became one of those stories I told myself often enough that it felt unequivocally true.
So as an adult, I definitely avoided puzzles or anything that required spatial skills to assemble. Blech. Not my thing. And I had lots of evidence to support that.
Recently, LEGO started releasing botanical collections and art sets.
The first one that caught my attention was a Beatles portrait. I bought one, then another, until I'd built all four. Since then I've worked through botanical sets and larger art pieces, discovering something I never expected.
LEGO became a surprisingly effective way to question my old narrative and observe my own mind.
Here are some of the things I've noticed.
1. Presence isn't optional.
Building a LEGO set requires my full attention.
I can't listen to a podcast or audiobook while I build. Even deep conversations can pull me away from what I'm doing. If my attention wanders, I almost always have to stop and double check my work.
It's one of the few activities that consistently calls me back to what's directly in front of me.
2. My mind is constantly projecting.
Rather than staying with the instruction I'm on, my mind desperately wants to know what's coming next.
It tries to predict where the pieces are going, what the finished section will look like, and how everything fits together.
The funny part?
It's almost always wrong!
If I'm not paying attention, my mind will happily substitute its prediction for the actual instructions. It confidently fills in blanks that don't need filling.
3. My mind overlooks important details.
Sometimes it decides that "close enough" is good enough.
Instead of determining exactly where a piece belongs, it estimates. Instead of checking the instructions carefully, it assumes.
That shortcut almost always comes back to haunt me several steps later, when something no longer fits because of a tiny detail I skipped.
4. Efficiency can become its own distraction.
My mind loves efficiency.
If something starts feeling repetitive or tedious, it quietly begins skipping steps without me even realizing it. I don't consciously decide to rush. My attention simply slides past what feels unnecessary.
It's fascinating how often my desire to save time actually creates more work.
5. Striving sneaks in.
When I reach the beautiful part of a build, I want to keep going.
Even when my body is clearly ready for a break, my mind says, "Just one more bag."
But I didn't start building LEGO just to finish a project. I started because I actually enjoy the process.
Noticing that impulse to push beyond my own limits has been a gentle reminder that striving shows up in places I never expected.
6. Catastrophizing is remarkably creative.
If I can't find a piece within a minute or two, my mind immediately assumes the worst.
First, it blames LEGO. "They forgot the piece!"
Nevermind that LEGO has an incredible reputation for quality control.
If that explanation doesn't hold up, my mind turns on me instead.
"You dropped it."
"You messed something up."
"This is why LEGO isn't for you."
It's remarkable how quickly an ordinary moment can become a story about my competence and worth.
The piece has always turned up, by the way.
Every single time.
One of the most unexpected parts of this experience has been discovering that I coach myself while I build.
When I notice my mind spinning off into projection or panic, I'll say out loud, "OK, Honey, come on back. Let's pay attention to what's on the page."
As I place each piece, I'll explicitly narrate what I'm doing.
"This one goes here."
"Let's double check that."
It's a simple way of interrupting the mental momentum and returning to what's actually happening instead of what my mind imagines is happening.
Yes, I end up with something beautiful when I'm done. But that's almost beside the point.
What I've really been building is awareness.
This simple practice of working with LEGO has given me a safe place to notice old narratives about my abilities, to watch my mind project, strive, catastrophize, and rush ahead, and to meet those patterns with a little more patience and a little less judgment.
The lessons don't stay at the LEGO table.
Once you begin recognizing these patterns in one corner of your life, you start noticing them everywhere.
Sometimes insight doesn't arrive during meditation, in a coaching session, or on a mountaintop.
Sometimes it arrives one tiny plastic brick at a time.