Migration isn’t one big leap. It’s thousands of wingbeats repeated until a continent passes underneath.

Big distances get covered by small repeated motions, and no single one feels like progress. That is the uncomfortable part: the unit of work is too small to be satisfying, so the whole thing looks impossible measured against one day’s effort. The continent still passes.

Pick the smallest version of your thing that you could do on a bad day, and set that as the floor. Twenty minutes, ten problems, one page. Then stop judging the day by how far you got.