The other day, I came across an interview with Ye (Kanye West) where he talks about everything from the music industry to faith. (It's a fascinating listen, although please be mindful the language is terrible, and I obviously am not condoning his views.)

Ye said, “I have my issues with Jesus. There's a lot of stuff I went through that I prayed and I ain't see Jesus show up. So I had to put my experience…in my own hands.”

We could jump to criticize Ye–but maybe he's voiced something so many of us have felt at one time or another. Maybe you're feeling it now.

I am a very goal-oriented person. I love making lists of things I want to do, day-dreaming about how I’ll be different 12 months from now, jotting down a vision for where I want to be in five years. Add to that a new planner (like this one that I can’t live without) with crisp, clean pages and a pack of high quality pens, and I am one happy girl. 

The only problem comes about a month later when I realize how unrealistic my goals were. The kids woke up extra early, so I didn’t write every morning like I’d hoped. A family crisis came up, so I ordered takeout instead of cooking my way through that one cookbook like I’d intended. My body decided to shut down and get sick, so I missed those workouts I’d planned to do.

Real life so often seems to get in the way of living my best life.

The needles on my Christmas tree are falling rapidly now. If someone runs too closely to it, a handful will come off. If you bump it, hundreds pour down. I’m dreading the vacuuming job required after we carry it out the door. I doubt there will be many needles left on the branches...just a bare trunk to be tossed to the curb.

J.R.R. Tolkien once wrote a short story called “Leaf by Niggle.” The main character, Niggle, is a painter. He envisions painting a grand tree set against a countryside and even a forest in the picture, along with mountains and birds and the tree's deep, strong roots.

But he keeps getting interrupted in his work by neighbors, the needs of others, and the responsibilities of everyday life. Those around him don't understand why he even bothers painting at all. There's far more important work to do. And so despite Niggle's best efforts at painting, he can't quite make the image on the canvas match the image in his mind. Parts of it are barely completed, “and only so so, at that.”

In a recent newsletter, author, writing teacher, and podcaster Jonathan Rogers talked about the inefficiency of hospitality. He went on to discuss more about how to be hospitable to our own creative ideas, a practice I’m woefully bad at. (Read his newsletter here for more on that.) But his words about the broader topic of hospitality have really stuck with me.

A few days ago, one of my kids walked in from the garage holding a nearly empty, Costco-sized bag of tortilla chips. He stuffed a few crumbs into his mouth when I realized, “Wait, isn’t that the bag that’s been sitting in the garage all night?”

So yeah, my kid is eating stale chips from the garage. But also, why were the chips in the garage?

There are hundreds…yes hundreds…of pieces of candy stashed around my house right now. One of my children has sorted each type into different bags, making sure every candy finds its proper place. Another child dumped everything in a bucket. My third kid opted for a combination of sorting and dumping–he’s selected his favorites, bagged those up, and then stockpiled what’s left in a pillow case.

I walked into Costco earlier this week, and my eyes bugged out of my head when I saw Christmas trees on display. Their twinkling lights led the way toward aisles filled with toys and reindeer lawn ornaments and holiday gift wrap.

Every year, retailers do this. And every year, it catches me off guard.

Years ago, after my husband and I had come out of a chaotic season and were finally enjoying a little more calm, I asked my counselor, “Why do I still feel so tired?” Our kids were sleeping through the night. I was able to exercise somewhat regularly. I finally got back into my cooking routine (for the most part, anyway). We were no longer functioning in survival mode.

But I was still completely exhausted.

“It’s like you just ran a marathon. At the end of a marathon, you’re still tired,” my counselor told me.

Duh. I should have known this. But sometimes you need to pay a therapist to remind you of the obvious.

A couple years ago, I sat in an Airbnb in Denver with three dear friends and fellow writers. We’d flown in from around the country to laugh, cry, and eat good food with each other. But most of all, we came together to write and make each other better writers.

Over the course of the weekend, each of us had a session where we could workshop our own project with the rest of the group. At that point in my own book writing process, I had about three chapters written, but I needed help putting flesh on the skeleton outlines I had for the others. Together, the four of us jotted down story ideas and relevant Scripture passages. They helped me eliminate redundancies and think through my theology.

She was talking about the writing life, but I think Anne Lamott’s words in Bird by Bird are true for all of life. She wrote, “You can’t fill up when you’re holding your breath.”

Are you holding your breath right now? I mean proverbially, yes, but even physically? 

So many of us are holding our breath, afraid of letting go because we’re not sure we can handle the tears or anger or overwhelm attempting to pour out from our bodies. We hold our breath because we’re bracing for what’s next, waiting for the other shoe to drop. We hold our breath because, ironically, sometimes keeping it all inside feels like the only way to make it through another day.

I have a book releasing in three days. It’s hard to believe I’m even saying that, that I’ve even finally made it to this point. Most people only see news about a book once it’s ready to be shared and read. They don’t see the time spent living out the stories, wrestling with ideas, shedding more than a few tears over the content. It’s been a journey, to say the least.