When Busy Becomes Too Much

This week got away from me.

Between conferences, back-to-back doctor’s appointments, and an overwhelming to-do list, I barely saw my kids. I didn’t respond to texts. I didn’t make time for friends. I didn’t pause long enough to even notice how stressed I was—until my body reminded me.

It’s funny how we normalize this kind of week. We say, “It’s just busy right now” like it’s a passing weather system. But when we stay in that pace too long, it stops being a season and starts becoming a habit.

And the hard truth? I missed a lot. I missed real moments with people I love. I missed quiet. I missed prayer. I missed the chance to just sit in God’s presence without rushing past it.

I don’t write this from the other side with a five-step solution. I write it from the middle—with tired eyes and a still-full calendar. But here’s what I’m trying to hold onto:

That God isn’t measuring my worth by my productivity.

That I don’t have to earn peace—it’s already offered.

That even in the chaos, I can choose a moment of stillness.

Maybe this week, that’s enough.

Maybe tomorrow, I’ll try again—with softer expectations and a slower pace.

And maybe that’s what grace really looks like.

The Weight of Being Heard

There’s something sacred about being heard.

Not nodded at. Not politely listened to. But really, truly heard.

This week, someone sat with my story—no fixing, no dismissing, no trying to make it prettier than it was. They just let me be honest. And something in me let go.

I didn’t even realize how much I’d been carrying until that moment. The frustration of repeating myself. The ache of feeling unseen. The pressure to downplay pain just to keep things moving.

But being heard felt like oxygen.

It didn’t fix everything. But it made the burden lighter. It reminded me that I matter—not because I’m strong, or useful, or holding it all together—but because I am a person with a voice and a heart that needs tending, too.

I think God listens like that. Not rushing us. Not correcting us mid-sentence. Just holding space until the edges soften and the tears come, and healing begins.

If you’ve ever felt invisible or overlooked, I see you.

If you’re still waiting for someone to really listen, don’t give up.

Your voice is worthy. Your story matters.

And when someone finally listens—it doesn’t just feel good.

It feels holy.

Writing Prayers Reminded Me I Need to Pray

Lately, I’ve been writing a lot of prayers and reflections—offering words of hope, peace, and grounding for others. I love this part of my work. There’s something sacred about holding space for someone else’s questions, needs, or longings. But today, while writing one more prayer to share, I felt a quiet tug.

When was the last time I truly prayed for myself?

I don’t mean the quick breath-prayers I whisper in the car or the sleepy, end-of-day sighs that count as “amen.” I mean the kind of prayer that takes time. That listens. That lingers. That opens me up, even a little.

The truth is—I’ve needed it. I’ve wanted it.

And I haven’t been as faithful to my own prayer life as I’d like to be.

Somehow, I started pouring so much out that I forgot to refill.

I started creating prayers more than praying them.

And that realization wasn’t shameful. It was… kind.

Like God saying, “Hey, I miss you. Let’s talk.”

So today, I took a few minutes to do just that. To pray—not for content, not for others (though there’s always space for that), but just to be with God. With no agenda. With no perfect words.

And it felt like home.

If you’ve been offering everything to everyone else, but haven’t made space for your own soul to rest—you’re not alone. Start small. Start quiet. But start.

Because sometimes, writing a prayer for others is just God’s way of nudging us back to prayer for ourselves.

When the Plan Falters

Today didn’t go the way I hoped.

I had a plan—a good one. Organized, thoughtful, detailed. But somewhere along the way, it hit a wall. A setback at work left me standing there, staring at what felt like a crumbling structure of all my effort, feeling that sinking weight in my chest. You know that feeling? When your stomach knots and your mind runs ahead, fast-forwarding to worst-case scenarios.

I’m nervous. Really nervous.

I’m supposed to find the right people, the right volunteers, to help bring this plan to life. But today, I’m not sure I can. What if no one steps up? What if I can’t hold this together? What if I fail—and not just quietly fail—but let down people I care about, people counting on me?

And then, in the middle of all that noise in my head, I remembered something a friend once told me.

“God will provide.”

Not in a cliché, pat-on-the-back kind of way, but in a desperate, has-to-be-true kind of way. God has to provide—because I can’t do this on my own. I’m tapped out, worn thin, and holding on tight to something that I’m not even sure how to carry anymore.

And maybe, that’s the point.

Maybe I’m not supposed to carry this alone.

Maybe the fear of failure is exactly where grace meets me.

So here I am—still nervous, still unsure—but choosing to believe that God knows what I need, even if I don’t. Choosing to breathe, to pray, to hope that what feels like a failure in the making is really just a place where God is about to show up.

Because if I’m going to get through this, it won’t be because I’m strong. It’ll be because He is.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough for today.