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.

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.

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.

In The 12 Week Year, a business and productivity book, the authors write, “If you are not in control of your time, then you are not in control of your results.”

I agree to an extent, and before I say anything else, I’ll say this book and productivity concept has been very helpful for me. But the authors clearly are not talking to moms. Because this is one of the greatest frustrations I’ve had in my 7.5 years of motherhood: I am not (entirely) in control of my time.

Sure, there is a great deal I am in control of. I can control how I use naptime. I can control the activities my kids engage in. I can control our calendar and our schedule and what I write down on our to-do list.

My husband and I went away recently to a cute little Airbnb a couple hours from our house. It was part writing retreat for me, part babymoon before we welcome our fourth. My brother and sister-in-law held down the fort at home, entertaining our three other kids with movies and ice cream and all the things the best aunts and uncles do.

We had two nights to enjoy kid-free quiet, and yes, in many ways it was as luxurious as it sounds (despite my pregnant body feeling slow and uncomfortable and reckoning with the reality that I’m not exactly in my 20s anymore!). On Saturday morning, I slept in (8:30am!), drank coffee while it was still hot, stayed in my pajamas until lunchtime (OK, that’s not that uncommon these days), and generally moved at a glacial pace.

While my husband roamed around the house not quite knowing what to do with himself, I commented, “I’m finally going at a pace I can manage.”

I felt like I could keep up with the day, like I could move my body when it was ready. I could exercise, then rest. I could read a book, then write. And for once in my life, I wasn’t rushing out the door or running late.

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.

I wanted to come to you today having written some insightful new post for Advent. I wanted to come with reflections on Isaiah or Luke or Matthew and bring a word of comfort and joy in the season.

But the truth is...I’m tired. Not just physically tired but soul tired. This year has probably been the most growing and stretching of my life spiritually and emotionally. For that I’m grateful—but because of that, I’m also worn out. I planned to take the week between Christmas and New Year’s off from doing any blogging or social media, and I’m realizing I need to start that break earlier than originally planned. I don’t want to be part of a weary world that’s too busy to rejoice.