Hey Queen,
Come here before you reach burnout.
I’ve always had a serious issue with burnout. Ever since I was a child balancing choir, soccer and cross country, I’ve pushed myself to the point of physical illness. The lymph nodes in my throat always swell first — that’s how I know I’m reaching my limit.
One time at soccer practice, I had an unwarranted mental breakdown and had to leave early. All the girls stared and whispered in confusion as my dad tried to explain that I was experiencing overwhelm. I guess we didn’t have the word “burnout” back then.
I felt deeply ashamed at that moment, and deeply confused as to why I was breaking down when everyone else seemed just fine juggling a full schedule.
My dad said I got it from my mom. What I heard was that I inherited a low stress threshold, and was weak like my mom. I don’t believe we’re weak any more, just very… tuned in. To how we live, and how that life truly feels.
It makes sense now — because my mother always saw it coming before I did.
She’d get this look on her face, one that said I see you burning, and I see that you don’t feel it yet.
My determination drives me into ferocity, strength and triumph, but it robs me of my joy — because when I’m hustling, I no longer see the full picture.
I only see one thing: the next thing. It’s always the next thing.
The next thing keeps me up at night and glazed over during the day. It steals the show and stomps on all the parties God tries to throw me. It sits heavy in my chest and taunts me with what I don’t have. The next thing makes me get lost in my own life.
How can we get lost in our own lives, when we are the designers? How can a home become foreign land?
I know how hard it is to slow down when you were born to run. And I know how truly effortless it is to overlook the preliminary signs that how you’re living is not sustainable. You want to do it all, all the time. Or, do absolutely nothing at all.
But what about the spaces in between? You know what lives there?
Life.
Living lives in the spaces in between — where you dare to enjoy insignificance like the smell of your spouse’s neck, the 9am sunshine, and the sound of laughter.
When we engage with these moments and experience them with all our senses, we come back to life. We blink and breathe and the fog clears.
We imagine, but not about the ugly — about the beauty.
We think, but not in circles — in a smooth running river.
We decide, but not in fear — in confidence.
Enjoyment is the road home. It has led me back to myself, back to God, back to purpose and back to love.
Enjoy became my life intention last year, and it has become the walking sticks on my hike. It may seem unnecessary, and even silly to some — but when you hike for long enough, it will rain. The sun will go down. The path will become unpredictably ragged. It’s in these moments, that the walking sticks play a role in destiny. No matter how great of a hiker you are, you will need them to go higher than most.
My dear dreamers and do-ers, resiliency is the master key to success. This means we must stop climbing steep mountains without walking sticks.
We must stop burning out.
We must stop sacrificing what we already have, for what we want.
We must learn to enjoy the spaces in between.