Category: Writing

When is the last time you:

Watched the wind blow over a grassy hill?

Watched wind make waves across a pond?

Watched a cloud glide across the entire sky?

Those are the minutes that bring life back into you.


You have to breathe.

You have to still yourself.

You have to forgive yourself.

You have to let go of yourself.

And you have to let God work.

Because you can’t fix you.

 
Sometimes in burnout our focus is so finite.
We can only see the fire,
the smoke,
the weight.
The tasks that have to be done.
Not what that drive is doing to us.

Burnout can catch you like lightning
that starts a wildfire.
The conditions were there the whole time,
but one strike—

and nothing is okay,
manageable,
safe.

You are,
just
barely
coping.

You think,
I just have to get through this,
stomping on the accelerator.
Ignoring the smell of smoke.

Put the foot on the brake.
Pause.
Breathe.
Listen for the whisper.
  

  
Some blazes you can't outrun.

Stop the grind,
the hustle,
the drive
before the wildfire catches you.

The wildfire is out.
The ash won't burn you.
It's a reminder of what was.

You have to take time.
For yourself.
For your family.

Heal.
Rest.
Intentionally.

Your foot changed pedals.
Your hands are off the wheel.
The smoke clears.

You can breathe,
with your whole chest.
  

 
Sometimes rain is miserable,
But after a fire, rain can feel like hope.

The smoke is gone.
The ash is washing away.
Just the sound of the rain.

But nothing,
and no one,
can regrow alone.

For some of us the hardest part is asking for help,
allowing help,
or even recognizing we need help.

But the rain doesn’t fall to wash us away.
It falls to wash us clean and allow new growth.

But we have to allow people to see us.
To see the exhaustion,
The brokenness,
The wreckage,

And trust that they will know us,
Speak to what they see,
And tell us the truth.
  

 
Settling in helped me see
what I settled for.

You have to let things go.
You have to admit
you aren’t where you should be.

It takes effort
just to say it.

When I noticed
I could be more
than I allowed myself—

I let myself waver.
I shattered.

Now,
settling,
getting back to me.

Mending.

I want flowers.
Coffee.
Time.
Alignment.

I don’t fear the settling.
As long as it settles in—
and doesn’t become settling for.
  

 
I was building a house.

Now I’m building something else.

This.

But how do you measure when the plan changes?

It was easier with the house. Is it livable? Is there water and power now? That’s progress.

But here, that foundation for progress is not as obvious. Progress isn’t as obvious.

So I look at my posts. Read your comments.

I have to look a little harder to see the progress.

This isn’t home yet.

But the words are building.