One minute, we grab sugar and flour from the pantry to bake away our feelings. Hours later, we vow to detox from carbs for a month. At dinner, we laugh with our kids around the table. As we gather empty plates and load the dishwasher, we find ourselves yelling at everyone to just stop yelling.

Maybe some nights we think, “We’re okay. This is hard, but we’ll get through it.” The next, we’re huddled in the bathroom, hiding the sounds of our sobs and the sight of our tears.

At times we feel so sure that God is in control. Then a news headline hits, and we shake our head at him and ask, “Really? You sure you’ve got this?”

More input. Less output.

That’s the phrase I repeated to myself this past month. Maybe it sounds selfish, I suppose, especially coming off a season when I’d taken steps back and said no more than a few times already. 

But somehow, as the decade wound down, so did the strength of my soul. I felt dry and worn and hungry. That’s the only way I can describe it. Putting my words out into the world felt like giving those last few crumbs of bread away. I had nothing to say, nothing of substance to offer. I needed, well, nourishment for my soul—the thing I talk about as the tagline for my own work.