Desk Before Crown: My Very Unofficial Queen Elizabeth Experiment
Buckingham Palace scone and tea from my 2019 trip to London
There are a lot of stories about Queen Elizabeth II’s daily life. Some are carefully reported, some sound like they were born in a royal group chat, and half the time it’s hard to tell which is which. I’m not a historian, and I definitely don’t have a direct line to Buckingham Palace, but I want to believe at least some of those stories are true—because the picture they paint of her discipline is wild.
One of the big themes is simple: before the crowns came the desk. Before the balcony came the paperwork. Before the ceremonies came the quiet, daily, nobody‑is‑clapping work. And that, more than the diamonds, is the part that has been messing with me.
The legend of the red box (as I choose to believe it)
The story goes that nearly every day of her reign, the Queen sat down with her infamous red boxes—containers of government papers, state documents, and things that actually mattered for running a country. She would read, review, annotate, and sign, treating her role like a job, not just a costume change with better jewelry.
Can I personally prove every detail? No. Do I love the image of this tiny woman in a cardigan, absolutely demolishing stacks of paperwork while the crown itself sits in a glass case somewhere? Yes, yes, I do. True or not in every detail, that picture has become a kind of mirror for me and my own “I want the results but not the routine” energy.
The fantasy crown vs. my actual calendar
If I’m honest, I like the idea of being treated like royalty. Give me the invites, the podcasts, the “special guest” moment—I am available. But my calendar will snitch on me immediately: open loops, half‑done projects, and about seventeen “start this” tasks chilling in limbo.
Meanwhile, this woman—born into the role, yes, but still—allegedly spent decades doing the same core thing: showing up for the tedious, essential work before stepping into the spotlight. Whether every anecdote is perfectly accurate or not, the pattern is too strong to ignore.
So I’ve decided I’m done just admiring the myth. This year, I’m running a personal experiment: I’m going to behave as if those stories are true and see what happens when I start treating my time like a tiny kingdom.
My unofficial “Queen Rules”
These are not historically verified palace protocols. These are my remix—half productivity system, half bit.
Rule One: Red Box Before Scroll
In my version, the “red box” is not a leather briefcase delivered by a footman. It’s a short list of 1–3 moves that actually matter today: writing, strategy, offers, and content that move my life and work forward.
The rule: I don’t touch my phone for scrolling, news, or “let me just check one thing” until my red‑box tasks have been seen, touched, and moved. No crown (a.k.a. distractions) until the box is handled.
Rule Two: Ceremonies After Commitments
The ceremonies in my life are fun: coffee dates, cool events, collaborations, the shiny “look, I’m doing things” moments. The commitments are less glamorous: planning, systems, follow‑through, finances, the work no one claps for.
So I’m rearranging the order. Like the stories about the Queen’s mornings, I’m making the quiet, unphotogenic work the main event—and only then do I “grant an audience” to the fun stuff.
Rule Three: Afternoon Tea at Four
Now to the part I’m genuinely excited about: afternoon tea. Some stories claim she maintained a fairly consistent tea ritual, and whether or not every detail is accurate, I am fully embracing “tea at four” as a lifestyle.
At 4 p.m., I pause. I make tea (or whatever I’m into that day), grab a snack, and sit down like it is a tiny royal ceremony. No rushing, no multitasking. Just a 10–20 minute reset to ask:
What have I actually done today?
What still truly needs to get done?
How do I want to end this day on purpose?
If a monarch can pause for tea while dealing with a whole realm, I can absolutely pause for tea while dealing with my inbox.
Rule Four: The Royal Walkabout
There are endless clips and stories of the Queen out walking—dogs, horses, gardens, countryside. Again, I cannot vouch for every schedule breakdown, but the theme of movement and fresh air keeps showing up.
So I’m adding a “Royal Walkabout” to my day. It can be:
A short walk around the block
A stretch break
A lap around the house with some music
The point isn’t the distance; it’s the ritual. I get up from the throne (read: desk chair), go see my “subjects” (nature, neighbors, whoever’s out there), and remind my body that it exists.
Rule Five: The Private Diary
One of my favorite recurring claims is that she kept a private diary for years, a place to record the day, not for the public, but for herself. Whether every diary detail is true or not, I love the idea.
So I’m closing my day with a “Royal Log”: 5–10 minutes of:
What I handled
What I avoided
One way I showed up like a queen today
One way I can do better tomorrow
It’s not content. It’s not performative. It’s just me and the page, making sure my days don’t blur together into one long scroll.
Choosing to believe the stories that make you better
Will historians someday roll their eyes at my simplified, blog‑friendly version of Queen Elizabeth’s routine? Possibly. But here’s where I land: whether every little story is fact‑checked or folklore, they invite me into a better way of showing up.
They invite me to:
Put the desk before the crown
Build a life on rhythm, not adrenaline
Treat my calendar like something worth reigning over
I may never wear a real crown, but I do have a real day, every day. And if adopting a 4 p.m. tea, a fake red box, and a slightly dramatic “Royal Walkabout” helps me live that day with more intention, then long live the myth.
If you’re reading this, consider it your invitation to join the experiment. Pick one “Queen Rule” this week—maybe tea at four, maybe your own version of the red box—and see how it feels to treat yourself like the monarch of your time instead of the intern of everyone else’s demands.
