The Intensity Factor: How Theodore Roosevelt Achieved More
Some people seem to bend time. They achieve in a day what most struggle to complete in a week. They accumulate accomplishments at a pace that defies reason.
Theodore Roosevelt was one of these people. By 42, he had become the youngest president in U.S. history. Before that, he had served as a New York City police commissioner, assistant secretary of the Navy, and a war hero leading the Rough Riders in the Spanish-American War. Yet, somehow, that was just the beginning. Roosevelt published over 40 books, was a devoted naturalist, boxed, practiced judo, hunted big game, explored uncharted territories, and maintained an insatiable intellectual curiosity.
How?
Cal Newport, author of Deep Work, attributes Roosevelt’s relentless productivity to his mastery of focus. Roosevelt didn’t just work hard—he worked with intensity. Newport was so fascinated by Roosevelt’s ability to focus that he used the future president’s first year at Harvard as a case study.
At an elite institution like Harvard, one might assume that top students are buried in books every waking hour. Yet Roosevelt’s schedule included daily workouts, poetry readings, dance lessons, and excursions into nature. And despite this seemingly relaxed approach, he earned honors in most of his courses.
Roosevelt’s secret? He didn’t study more than his peers. In fact, he spent far less time hitting the books. But when he studied, he attacked the material with unwavering concentration. His advantage wasn’t time—it was intensity.
The Problem of Shallow Work
Reading about Roosevelt’s single-minded focus forced me to reconsider my own habits. Too often, I oscillate between tasks, glance at my phone when it vibrates, and alt-tab between open windows, striking items off my to-do list. It feels productive, but in reality, it’s what Newport calls “shallow work”—low-value, easily replicable tasks that provide little meaningful output.
This isn’t to say that answering emails or completing small tasks doesn’t matter. But without deep, undistracted focus, meaningful work—the kind that produces books, breakthrough ideas, and lasting impact—remains elusive.
Even writing this, I feel the pull of distraction. What if a client needs me? What’s happening in the markets? The modern mind is so accustomed to interruption that silence feels unnatural.
But as Roosevelt’s example shows, this affliction can be corrected. With effort.
I’m not implementing all of Newport’s recommendations, but I’ve adopted several key takeaways that are already changing the way I work.
Redefine the Workday
We often ask, How was your day?—a question usually posed at 5 p.m., as if the real day ends when work does. But is that true?
This limited view of time isn’t new. Over a century ago, British author Arnold Bennett critiqued this mindset in How to Live on 24 Hours a Day, writing:
“The great and profound mistake which my typical man makes in regard to his day…[is] in looking upon those hours from ten to six as ‘the day’ to which the ten hours preceding them and the six hours following them are nothing but a prologue and epilogue.”
Many people spend their post-work hours eating, watching television, and mindlessly scrolling. But if we shift our mindset—if we see all hours as valuable—we unlock untapped time. Roosevelt’s ability to pack hobbies, adventures, and intellectual pursuits into his life wasn’t because he had more hours. He simply used them differently.
This isn’t about eliminating rest. It’s about reclaiming wasted time for pursuits that enrich our minds and sharpen our focus.
Embrace Boredom
I used to think boredom was a problem to be solved. Today, I see it as a muscle to be strengthened.
We have become incapable of sitting in silence. Stand in line at a grocery store, and you’ll notice a sea of people hunched over their phones. In Deep Work, Newport argues that this constant stimulation rewires our brains, reducing our ability to focus on anything that doesn’t provide immediate novelty.
His solution? Deliberately resist the urge to seek stimulation.
Newport suggests time-blocking internet use, but I’ve found meditation to be an even more effective antidote. When I first started meditating, I could barely sit still for a minute without feeling jittery. I craved stimulation. But over time, I learned to tolerate stillness. Now, I can sit for long stretches in silence—not just tolerating it, but enjoying it.
To cultivate deep work, we must train ourselves to endure the absence of novelty. Whether through scheduled digital detoxes or meditation, embracing boredom is a necessary skill in an age of endless distraction.
Measure the Right Things
The old adage “If you can’t measure it, you can’t improve it” isn’t entirely true, but there’s wisdom in it. In any endeavor, there are two types of metrics: leading and lagging indicators.
A lagging indicator is the end goal—the book you publish, the weight you lose, the money you make.
A leading indicator is the action that drives the result—the number of hours spent writing, the calories tracked, the client calls made.
Newport once measured his success by how many academic papers he published per year. But he realized that this metric—while important—was useless for guiding his daily behavior. A publication is the output of deep work, but it doesn’t tell you how to get there.
Instead, he began tracking the number of deep work hours completed each day. By focusing on inputs rather than outputs, he ensured that each day moved him toward his larger goals.
This principle applies to nearly every pursuit. Want to be a prolific writer? Count the hours spent writing, not the books sold. Want to improve your fitness? Track workouts, not just weight loss.
By measuring deep work itself, we make progress inevitable.
Beware the “Any Benefit” Fallacy
We are masterful at justifying our behaviors. Newport identifies one of the most dangerous rationalizations we use to defend our time-wasting habits: the “any benefit” approach.
It works like this: I spend three hours scrolling social media and watching algorithmically curated videos. My rational brain knows this is wasted time, but my self-justification machine kicks in:
“I needed to relax.”
“I might stumble upon something interesting.”
“It’s just harmless entertainment.”
By identifying any possible benefit, I excuse the behavior while ignoring the overwhelming downsides.
Newport singles out social media, which is engineered for addiction, but the any benefit fallacy applies to all distractions. The key is to weigh the opportunity cost. If one hour on social media comes at the expense of an hour spent reading, thinking, or creating, is it really worth it?
We can’t work deeply all the time. But we must recognize when we’re rationalizing distractions rather than choosing them consciously.
Final Thoughts: The Roosevelt Model
The goal isn’t to become a hermit, consumed by work at the expense of everything else. In fact, Roosevelt’s genius wasn’t just his ability to focus—it was his ability to switch between deep work and rich leisure. He didn’t just produce; he lived.
That’s the model I want to follow.
I may not have Roosevelt’s natural intensity, but I can cultivate it. By redefining my time, embracing boredom, tracking deep work, and resisting shallow distractions, I can train my mind to focus on what matters.
Superhuman focus isn’t a gift. It’s a skill.
And like Roosevelt, I intend to develop it.
