I never seemed to know when to rest. I kept pushing toward the next deadline or the next season, always promising myself I would slow down — but I rarely did. Even vacations became opportunities to catch up or set new goals. One day, I hit a wall and simply couldn’t keep going. My body wouldn’t cooperate, I couldn’t work or take care of my people, and I had no more empty promises left to make to myself. I was so empty I could no longer fight it or find my way back to myself. This seemed so unreasonable to me as a woman of faith — somehow, I thought my faith was supposed to keep me from burning out.

We send invitations for joyful occasions—weddings, birthdays, milestones—gathering people we love to celebrate life. These are moments we choose.

Suffering is different.

When the door closed behind me, I didn’t know it would become one of those defining moments God would use to reveal what I’d quietly locked away in my heart. I didn’t think twice as I wheeled out the first load of luggage, my mind fixed on the car and the schedule I was determined to keep. 

But when I opened the trunk, it hit me: I’d left my phone inside, along with the app that unlocked the door. All I had were my key fob and suitcase. Everything else, including my supplies and the notes for the meeting I was speaking at in an hour, was locked away inside while I stood outside frozen.

Some moments in life arrive like a familiar song, even if the steps feel uncertain—like when I recently found myself on the dance floor with my son, learning a waltz that reminded me how fast time moves and how love helps us create a new cadence.

Traffic stalled on the narrow one-way street and I knew I’d be stuck for a while. I didn’t reach for my phone or let frustration take over. Instead, I watched what was unfolding a few cars ahead.

Breathe in. Count. One, two… now out. Again—deeper this time. One, two, three, four… out.
Panic.