Sea-changeHere I am, on the porch, and that feels fitting: outside asopposed to in, watching the water and the trees, listening tothe music of the waves and the wind.The word sea-change is from Shakespeare, from TheTempest: a man is thrown into the sea, and under the waterhe is transformed from what he was into something entirelynew, something “rich and strange.”The beautiful and obvious connection, of course:baptism. We are tipped backward into the water, and raisedinto new life. We leave behind the old—the sin, the regret,the failings, and we rise out of the water cleansed, madenew. A sea-change if there ever was one.This is the story of my sea-change—the journey fromone way of living to another. It’s also an invitation to a sea-change of your own. No matter your age, your gender, yourseason of life, no matter your politics or profession, yoursexuality or your faith tradition, you are invited into a sea-change.I’m coming to believe that there are a handful ofpassages in our lives that transform us, not unlikeconversions, where the old is gone and the new is come.For me, this has taken the shape of a nearly four-year
journey from exhaustion, multitasking, frantic and frayedliving, into peace, connection, and rest.When I look back on my life I can see a couple othersea-change seasons: One was my senior year of college,when I left behind chaos and disconnection for a renewedconnection to God, to his people, to his Word and his waysof living.Another was when I was twenty-nine and was fired froma job I held far too dearly. Also I was pregnant. And I wassitting on a book contract I was terrified to complete. Thatseason was like off-roading, a little bit, like being plungedinto new ways of living—writing, mothering, all the whilegrasping back to a job and identity that was no longer mineto grasp.Years ago, a wise friend told me that no one everchanges until the pain level gets high enough. That seemsentirely true. The inciting incident for life change is almostalways heartbreak—something becomes broken beyondrepair, too heavy to carry; in the words of the recoverymovement, unmanageable.In each of my three sea-changes, the life I’d created hadbroken to pieces in my hands. When I was twenty-one, mylife was marked by drinking and dating and books, and onlyone of those things was helpful.When I was twenty-nine, my attachment to my job wassuch a white-knuckled thing, and I believe that getting firedwas essentially God’s grace prying my little fingers off thatidentity, digit by digit.
And in this current sea-change, my disconnectednessfrom my soul and from the people I care most about hasbecome so painful that I’m willing to remake the whole ofmy life.I’ve always been the bearer of what my husband calls “aCatholic imagination” as opposed to a Protestant one. Idon’t know where that came from, except that growing upin Chicago means growing up on all sides happilysurrounded by Irish and Italian and Polish Catholics. Wewere the odd ones out, certainly, in our church that met in amovie theater, without crosses or priests.More than that, though, I think this particularly Catholicimagination was born in me because my earliest loves—andmy greatest loves to this day—were stories, meals, andwater. Another way to look at it: the liturgy, communion,baptism.I’m not at all an “in my head” person. I’m a blood andguts and body person, a dirt and berries and trees person.I’m a smell and taste and feel and grasp-between-my-fingersperson, and both life around the table and life on the waterare ways of living that I experience through the tactilesensations of them, not the ideas that float above them.
This sea-change in me began, fittingly, at the lake. I’vespent summers all my life in this little lakeshore town. Mygrandparents had a cottage here, and both grandfathers hadsailboats in this marina. My parents’ first date was a walk onthis pier. This town and this stretch of Lake Michigan is inmy blood, deep in my bones.For the last several years, each July, Aaron and the boysand I rent a house we love—a blue house with a wide porchand bright pink hydrangeas. We walk to the beach and thepier and the ice cream shop. We take the boat out every day,sometimes twice. We buy most of our produce at thefarmer’s market, and we pick blueberries and cherries tofreeze and eat all year long. It’s a three-hour drive to thissmall Michigan town from our house outside Chicago, butthey feel worlds apart. I can feel myself exhale as we exitthe highway and turn onto Phoenix Street, and the firstglimpse of the water makes my heart leap every single time.And so as is our custom, we arrived at the lake that July,breathless from travel, sleepless from kids, wrung out from awriting project that still wasn’t finished.Looking back, it’s easy to see now that I was at myworst: weepy, snapping at everyone and everything, anxietysky-high; deep connection to myself, to God, to the people Ilove most at an all-time deficit.That July began the invitation to a new way of living,and each subsequent July has been a reset, a recalibration, adeeper invitation.It’s July once again, and I would never tell you that I’m
finished with this journey, all fixed up, nailing it. But I willtell you, with great gratitude and joy, that I amfundamentally changed, rebuilt from the inside. I have leftbehind some ways of living that I once believed werenecessary and right that I now know were toxic anddamaging—among them pushing, proving, over-working,ignoring my body and my spirit, trusting my ability to hustlemore than God’s ability to heal.My life is marked now by quiet, connection, simplicity.It has taken every bit of more than three years to learn thesethings, and like any hard, good work, I fail and try againmore often than I’d prefer. But there is a peace that definesmy days, a settledness, a groundedness. I’ve been searchingfor this in a million places, all outside myself, and itastounds me to realize that the groundedness is within me,and that maybe it was there all along.I’ve always trusted things outside myself, believing thatmy own voice couldn’t be trusted, that my own preferencesand desires would lead me astray, that it was far wiser andsafer to listen to other people—other voices, the voices ofthe crowd. I believed it was better to measure my life bymetrics out there, instead of values deeply held in my ownsoul and spirit.And in the same way, I’ve always given my best energyto things outside myself, believing that I’d be fine, that I wasa workhorse, that I didn’t need special treatment or babyingor, heaven help me, self-care. Self-care was for the fragile,the special, the dainty. I was a linebacker, a utility player, a
worker bee. I ate on the run, slept in my clothes, worshipedat the altar of my to-do list, ignored the crying out of mybody and soul like they were nothing more than the buzz ofpesky mosquitoes.Now I know that in the same way I’ve always believedGod’s Spirit dwells deeply in this world, it also dwellsdeeply in me. I’ve known that, cognitively, but my lifespoke otherwise. Now I know that the best thing I can offerto this world is not my force or energy, but a well-tendedspirit, a wise and brave soul.My regrets: how many years I bruised people with myfragmented, anxious presence. How many moments ofconnection I missed—too busy, too tired, too frantic andstrung out on the drug of efficiency.Now I know there’s another way.You don’t have to damage your body and your soul andthe people you love most in order to get done what youthink you have to get done.You don’t have to live like this.
StuffedSomething reached fever pitch in my life, and thensomething snapped, died. And no amount of coaxing willbring that thing back to life again. Something, it seems, isover.Maybe these things go in cycles. Someone told merecently that we experience a fundamental change everyseven years. Maybe that’s it. Maybe it’s about having a newbaby, one that we struggled for, one that arrived after a longand difficult pregnancy, one that will most likely be our lastchild, the baby of our little family. Maybe it’s about bitingoff more than I can chew professionally—more books, moredeadlines, more traveling and speaking. Maybe it’s God,calling a big cosmic time-out on me, giving me a chance ata new way of living.This is what I know: I’ve always been a more is moreperson, and something shifted this summer. Somethinginside me said no more.No more pushing and rushing. No more cold pizza atmidnight, no more flights, no more books, no morehouseguests, no more of all these things, even things I love,things I long for, things that make me happy. No more.Only less. Less of everything. Less stress. Less crying. Less
noise. Less TV. Less wine. Less online shopping. Less onemore thing one more thing one more thing, whether that onemore thing is a trip or a movie or a boat ride or a playdate.Less cramming 36—or 56 or 106—hours into a day that hasonly ever held 24.One night with friends, we were talking about the future,about how to see what’s next, how to know what changeyour life is leading you toward. One friend said that a wayto get at your desire or dream is to answer this question: ifsomeone gave you a completely blank calendar and a bankaccount as full as you wanted, what would you do? The firstthing that leapt into my mind: stop. I would stop. I wouldrest. I would do nothing at all. I would sleep. The thought ofit almost made me weep.The important thing is not how much I did this year, howmany trips I took—for fun or for work—or how much thebaby did or didn’t sleep (although didn’t is the operativeword). I want to tell you all those things. I want to make acase for why I’m so tired. I want to run you through the list,partially because I want you to feel it, to feel as tired andglazed and undone as I feel.But also because I don’t want you to think I’m weak.Not just any little thing could make me this tired. Not just ababy or something. Not just a book. I’m not one of thosenormal people who just gets tired sometimes. I’m so strongand full of energy. I’m so extra-capable and phenomenallytough.I’ve been so committed to prove (as though anyone
cares) that I can handle it all. And I’ve handled a whole lotof things. I’ve had babies and lost babies and written booksand spoken at events and run races and hosted all manner ofshowers and dinners and parties. I’ve done so many things.And I’m so tired. I miss my friends. I sleep terribly. Isnap at my kids more than I want to, and then I lay in bed atnight feeling guilty about it. I spend more time asking myhusband for help with the dishes or the kids than I do askinghim about his life and dreams and ideas.Who wins, then? I handled it all! I showed them! Butwho is “them”? Who cares? Whose voice am I listening to?What am I trying to prove? What would happen, whatwould be lost, if I stopped, or if I slowed down to a pacethat felt less like a high-speed chase all day, every day?What if I trusted that there would be more time down theroad, that if that book has to be read or that party has to bethrown or that race has to be run or that trip has to be taken,there will be time to take it/do it/read it/write it later? Later.Later.I don’t operate in later. I’ve always been proud of that.But look where it’s gotten me. Stuffed. Exhausted. Wrungout and over-scheduled to the point where even things Ilove to do sound like obligations, and all my deepest desiresand fantasies involve sleep and being left alone. My greatestdream is to be left alone? Things have gone terribly awry.There has to be another way. And I’m going to find it.I’m going to make the space to taste my life once again. I’mgoing to find a new way of living that allows for rest, as
much rest as I need, not just enough to get me throughwithout tears, but enough to feel alive and whole, groundedand gracious. Things I haven’t been in years.What I ache for these days is space, silence, stillness.Sabbath. I want to clear away space and noise and things todo and things to manage. I want less of everything. Lessstuff. Less rushing. Less proving and pushing. Less hustle.Less snapping at my kids so that they’ll get themselves intothe car faster so we can go buy more stuff that we’re goingto throw away. Less consumption. Less feeling like mymind is fragmented and my stomach is bloated and my lifeis out of control.I feel like I’m driving a car 100 miles an hour with musicblaring out of open windows. I screech into a parking lot,throw the car in park, sprint into 7-Eleven, and race to theback of the store. I throw my head back under the Slurpeemachine, and I fill my mouth with red Slurpee, tons andtons, running down my face and neck. I just keep gulpingand gulping, sticky red corn syrup-y sludge, more andmore, until I stand up, smeared and dripping, and race backfor the car, on to the next thing, jamming the car intoreverse, music at mind-numbing volume.That’s how I feel. And what I want is one strawberry. Intotal silence. No 100 miles an hour, no music, no fake redmess all over my face and neck. I want one real strawberry.And I don’t know how to get there from here. I am stuffed.You can use whatever term you want: besetting sin,shadow side, strength and weakness. The very thing that
makes you you, that makes you great, that makes youdifferent from everyone else is also the thing that,unchecked, will ruin you. For me, it’s lust for life. It’senergy, curiosity, hunger.I’ll come back around this block a thousand times in mylifetime, probably. I hope I’m getting better at it, hope thatI’m righting the imbalance more incrementally these daysthan I was ten years ago. For the most part, I have been, Ithink.But then the wheels fell off again, and I realized this timearound, it’s more than a tune-up, more than righting a peskysmall imbalance. This time around it’s about an overhaul,about digging around the foundations and the assumptionsand building a new way of living from the ground up.Because I’m stuffed.
Running LapsI never know I need quiet and stillness until it’s too late, tillthe lack of stillness scrapes me raw. Henry was sick thisweekend, and then just as soon as he was on the upswing,Aaron got sick, and then Monday morning, when I sodesperately needed everyone to be better, all three woke upsick—a boogery little boy, a big boy with a big barkingcough, Aaron chilled and feverish.And I was furious. Furious at whom, I don’t know,because you can’t help being sick. But what I felt wastrapped and angry. I didn’t want to wipe another nose, foldanother little set of pajamas, measure out another dose ofTylenol. I wanted to leave.Three sick boys, dependent on me, feels a little too muchlike the rest of life. I’ve spent a lifetime establishing my roleas responsible party. What that means it that I take care of it.And by “it” I mean everything. I troubleshoot, multitask,strategize. Especially in seasons when I travel a lot, whenI’m home, I’m in the zone—new pants for Henry, diapersfor Mac, permission slips and orthodontist appointments.If I’m honest, I overcompensate for my absences bytrying to make my home time spectacular. Look, I didn’tmiss a beat! Look, you’ve got everything you need and then
some! Look, you didn’t even notice I was gone, what withall the perfectly folded clothes and perfectly washed grapesand perfectly planned activities. I hate being gone, so Imake sure that when I’m home, I’m super-home, lots ofhomemade meals and clean closets, as emphatically home aspossible.And so, on that first morning that Henry was sick, I wascleaning up from the party we’d had the night before—tenadults and ten kids. I was unpacking our bags from our tripto South Haven the day before that. I was laundering newbedding for Henry’s room and stuffing a duvet into its newcase, puttering around, putting things away.This is what I call fake-resting. I’m wearing pajamas.The kids are watching cartoons, snuggling under blankets,eating waffles. Aaron’s reading or sleeping. It looks like I’mresting, too. But I’m not. I’m ticking down an endless list,sometimes written, always mental, getting things back intotheir right spots, changing the laundry, wiping down thecountertops.Some might say this is being a mother, or a homemaker,or this is what women have been doing for generations:tending to the home stuff while men and children go abouttheir leisure. Maybe so, but this woman and mom isexhausted. And tired of being exhausted.So I fake-rested on Saturday, and then again on Sunday.The kids and Aaron napped. They played with Legos andwent to bed early. They watched movies and ate leftoverpumpkin pie. And I caught up on emails and ordered
Christmas presents and cleaned out a closet and startedpacking for an upcoming trip.I fake-rested instead of real-rested, and then I found thatI was real-tired. It feels ludicrous to be a grown woman, amother, still learning how to rest. But here I am, baby-stepping to learn something kids know intuitively.Part of being an adult is taking responsibility for restingyour body and your soul. And part of being an adult islearning to meet your own needs, because when it comesdown to it, with a few exceptions, no one else is going to doit for you.Frankly, the men I know don’t generally struggle withthis. They’ve been raised to eat when they’re hungry, sleepwhen they’re tired, run when they’re antsy, leave whenthey’re ready to leave. But even the most driven, articulate,strong women I know struggle to really meet their ownneeds.A friend and I recently talked about how deeply investedwe both are in people thinking that we’re low maintenance—we both want to be seen as flexible, tough, roll-with-anything kinds of women. And this ends up keeping usfrom asking for what we need, for fear of being labeleddifficult or diva-ish. But what good is it doing me to havepeople think I’m laid-back and flexible . . . when really thatcherished reputation keeps me tangled up, needs unmet,voice silenced?I knew that I needed to work less. That’s absolutely true.That’s the first step. But it’s trickier than that: the internal
voice that tells me to hustle can find a to-do list in my livingroom as easily as it can in an office. It’s not about paidemployment. It’s about trusting that the hustle will nevermake you feel the way you want to feel. In that way, it’s adrug, and I fall for the initial rush every time: if I pushenough, I will feel whole. I will feel proud, I will feel happy.What I feel, though, is exhausted and resentful, but withwell-organized closets.Who told me that keeping everything organized woulddeliver happiness? What a weird prescription for happiness.Why do I think managing our possessions is a meaningfulway of spending my time? Why do I think clean countertopsmeans anything at all? Well, certainly, my Dutch rootsmight have something to do with it, and my Midwesternupbringing.And I know that activity—any activity—keeps me fromfeeling, so that becomes a drug, too. I’ll run circles aroundthis house, folding clothes and closing cabinets, sweepingand tending to things, never allowing myself to feel thecavernous ache.Which brings us, literally, to the heart of theconversation: the heart, the cavernous ache. Am I loved?Does someone see me? Do I matter? Am I safe?For most of my life, I’ve answered these questions withtheological abstractions, and then filled up any remaininguncertainty with noise and motion and experiences. In myteens and early twenties, this was mostly road trips andclosing down bars and kissing and all manner of adventures.
And then somewhere along the way that frantic energytranslated itself into work, that same manic devotion tokeeping things moving, but this time not on the dance floor.I learned a long time ago that if I hustle fast enough, theemptiness will never catch up with me. First I outran it bytraveling and dancing and drinking two-for-one whiskeysours at Calypso on State Street in Santa Barbara. Then Ioutran it by lining up writing deadlines like train tracks andclicking over them one by one. Then I outran it by runninglaps around my living room, picking up toys and foldingblankets, as recently as yesterday.You can make a drug—a way to anesthetize yourself—out of anything: working out, binge-watching TV, working,having sex, shopping, volunteering, cleaning, dieting. Anyof those things can keep you from feeling pain for a while—that’s what drugs do. And, used like a drug, over time,shopping or TV or work or whatever will make you less andless able to connect to the things that matter, like your ownheart and the people you love. That’s another thing drugsdo: they isolate you.Most of us have a handful of these drugs, and it’sterrifying to think of living without them. It is terrifying:wildly unprotected, vulnerable, staring our wounds right inthe face. But this is where we grow, where we learn, whereour lives actually begin to change.
Dethroning the IdolBusyness is an illness of the spirit.—Eugene PetersonI come from a long line of hard workers—sheet metalworkers, farmers, people for whom work is an estimablething, something to respect and be grateful for. I got my firstsummer job when I was eleven. I rode my bike two miles tothe windsurfer shop down by the marina in South Haven,and while the owner and his friends—all in their twenties—slept off hangovers and ran out to the beach at a moment’snotice if the wind piped up, I decorated the shop’s windowdisplays and rearranged the stickers and sunglasses.And I went to one of those high schools where muchwas expected of us—AP classes and academic scholarshipsto good colleges, high test scores, loads of extracurricularsrounding out our applications. While I was in high school, Iwas also volunteering several days a week and a few nightsa t my church, too—devoted to the high school ministry,teaching Sunday school to grade school kids. And I workedat the Gap, and at Boloney’s, a much-loved deli near my
high school.In college, I was all over the map spiritually and couldn’tbe bothered to attend chapel or church, but I took a fullclass load every semester, worked in the library, and workedat a summer camp that kept me running from morning tillnight, quite literally.All that to say, I’ve been working all my life. Work hasbeen a through line, one that I’m very thankful for, one thathas taught me so much about the benefits of structure,discipline, skill, communication, and responsibility.But at some point, good clean work became somethingelse: an impossible standard to meet, a frantic way of living,a practice of ignoring my body and my spirit in order toprove myself as the hardest of hard workers.As I unravel the many things that brought me to thiscrisis point, one is undeniably my own belief that hard workcan solve anything, that pushing through is always the rightthing, that rest and slowness are for weak people, not forhigh-capacity people like me.Oh, the things I did to my body and my spirit in order tomaintain my reputation as a high-capacity person. Oh, themoments I missed with people I love because I was so verycommitted to being known as the strongest of the strong.Oh, the quiet moments alone with God I sacrificed in orderto cross a few things off the to-do list I worshiped.Productivity became my idol, the thing I loved andvalued above all else. We all have these complicated tanglesof belief and identity and narrative, and one of the early
stories I told about myself is that my ability to get-it-done iswhat kept me around. I wasn’t beautiful. I didn’t have aspecial or delicate skill. But I could get stuff done, and itseemed to me that ability was my entrance into the roomsinto which I wanted to be invited.I couldn’t imagine a world of unconditional love orgrace, where people simply enter into rooms because thedoor is open to everyone. The world that made sense to mewas a world of earning and proving, and I was gutting it outjust like everyone around me, frantically trying to prove myworth.Over time, a couple things happened. I wish I could tellyou that when my health suffered, I paid attention, listenedto my body, changed course. I did not. I kept going when Iwas sick, when I was pregnant, when I was still bleedingfrom a miscarriage. I kept going when I had vertigo—seasick on dry land—when I couldn’t sleep past 3 a.m.,when I threw up a couple times a week in stressfulsituations.But what I eventually realized is that the return oninvestment was not what I’d imagined, and that theexpectations were only greater and greater. When youdevote yourself to being known as the most responsibleperson anyone knows, more and more people call on you tobe that highly responsible person. That’s how it works. Sothe armload of things I was carrying became higher andhigher, heavier and heavier, more and more precarious.At the same time, I was more and more aware that I was
miserable. Not all the time, of course, but sometimes, inthose rare moments when I let myself really feel honestlyinstead of filling in the right answers, I realized with greatsurprise that this way of living was not making me happy atall.People called me tough. And capable. And they said Iwas someone they could count on. Those are all nice things.Kind of. But they’re not the same as loving, or kind, orjoyful. I was not those things.I believed that work would save me, make me happy,solve my problems; that if I absolutely wore myself out,happiness would be waiting for me on the other side of allthat work. But it wasn’t.On the other side was just more work. Moreexpectations, more responsibility. I’d trained a whole groupof people to know that I would never say no, I would neversay “this is too much.” I would never ask for more time orspace, I would never bow out. And so they kept asking, andI was everyone’s responsible girl.And I was so depleted I couldn’t even remember whatwhole felt like. I felt used up by the work, but of course itwas I who was using the work, not the other way around. Iwas using it to avoid something, to evade something. I wasusing it to prevent myself from becoming acquainted withthe self who sat hidden by all the accomplishment. I wantedto get to know that person, make friends with her. I wantedto learn to beckon her out from behind the accomplishment,and, when the wind piped up, take her off to the sea.
You Put Up the ChairsI hope you live a life you’re proudof. If you find that you are not, Ihope you have the strength to startall over again.—F. Scott FitzgeraldI was at a pool party with some of my oldest, most-favoritefriends. I’ve known them since high school, so at this pointthey feel more like sisters. Anyone who knew you as anadolescent and still wants to spend time with you is a truefriend, and really, their opportunity to blackmail you withstories of who you kissed and photos of you in overalls isenough reason to keep them around. We don’t see eachother nearly often enough, but when we do, we fall rightback into familiar rhythm, like a song we’ve been singingall our lives.While we watched our kids jump off the diving boardand dive for rings, while Jenny’s husband grilled chickenand we drank lemonade icy from the cooler, we had the
same conversation we always have when we see each other:we should get together more. It’s just so busy, everyone’s sobusy. Kids, you know. School, right? Work is insane. Pianoand hockey. In-laws and baby showers and moving housesand book club and who has time?And then someone buttoned up that conversation thesame way we always do: But what are you going to do?We murmured agreement, sipped our lemonade, dangledour legs in the cool water, reminded our kids not to run nearthe pool.And on the way home, I couldn’t help but think aboutthat conversation, and in particular, that phrase: But whatare you doing to do?There we were, women in our thirties. Educated,married, mothers, women who have careers, who managehomes and oversee companies. And there we were, utterlyresigned to lives that feel overly busy and pressurized,disconnected and exhausted.But that’s shifting the blame, right? Who’s the boss, ifnot us? Who’s forcing us to live this way? Or, possibly, dowe not want to face the answer to that question, preferring tobelieve we can’t possibly be held responsible for whatwe’ve done?Years ago, Aaron and I were talking with the pastor of afast-growing church, and another friend, a more seasonedpastor. The first pastor was telling the story of how thechurch had exploded, how they couldn’t stop the growth,how it was utterly out of their control, an inexplicable,
unstoppable phenomenon.The seasoned pastor pushed him gently: “You’ve builtthis, and it’s okay to say that. You’ve intentionally andstrategically built a very large church. It’s okay to say that.”The young pastor kept protesting, preferring thenarrative of wild and unexplained growth. “We had nothingto do with it,” he insisted.“Well, not nothing,” said the older pastor. “You keptputting up more chairs.”And then our minds sort of exploded, because it didn’toccur to us that there was another option. We were all raisedto build, build, build. Bigger is better, more is better, fasteris better. It had never occurred to us, in church-building orany other part of life, that someone would intentionally keepsomething small, or deliberately do something slow.This conversation happened more than a decade ago,before slow food and artisanal everything, before a culturalreturn to handmade and homemade, toward limited editionsand small-batch cooking.And even though small-batch cooking is now all therage, for those of us who came of age in the “more is more”mentality, it can be hard to grasp the idea that we have somesay over the size of our own lives—that we have the agencyand authority and freedom to make them smaller or larger,heavier or lighter.We were playing Legos a few weeks ago, and Aaron andI asked Henry about what he wants for our family in thenext year. More adventures? More trips? Does he want to
play soccer again? Does he want to start piano, or move to adifferent town, or get bunk beds?“More this,” he said. “More time all together like this.And at home. I like it when we’re all together at home.”Aaron and I looked at one another over his head, letting theother know that we heard it, too, that we were payingattention.Aaron and I are both intense, passionate people. We’reartists and makers, and neither of us ever saw ourselves in aleave-work-at-the-office, nine-to-five kind of arrangement.When we were single, we worked around the clock, andloved it. And when we were married without kids, we didthe same—we worked together, yelling across the hall fromone office to the other about where we should stop fordinner on the way home, often after 10 p.m.But now those patterns are being upended, for our twowild and silly darlings. And although we’re making thechanges for them, I can see how the changes benefit ourneighbors and extended families and church community.And I can see very clearly how these changes benefit ourmarriage.Loving one’s work is a gift. And loving one’s workmakes it really easy to neglect other parts of life.Aaron and I are talking a lot these days about work andtime and calling, hoping to hold each one of them in theirappropriate place, hoping to be honest about which onesmatter more than the others.Being good at something feels great. Playing ninja turtles
with two little boys for hours on end is sometimes less great.It’s so easy to hop on a plane or say yes to one moremeeting or project, to get that little buzz of being good atsomething, or the pleasure bump of making someonehappy, or whatever it is that drives you.And many of us continue to pretend we don’t have achoice—the success just happened, and we’re along for theride. The opportunities kept coming, and anyone in ourposition would have jumped to meet them.But we’re the ones who keep putting up the chairs.If I work in such a way that I don’t have enough energyto give to my marriage, I need to take down some chairs. If Isay yes to so many work things that my kids only get to seetired mommy, I need to take down some chairs.I know I’ve let my work win sometimes. I know I’vegotten the math wrong, sometimes unwittingly, believing Icould fit in more than I could. There have been times I’vehidden behind my work, because work is easier to controlthan a hard conversation with someone you love.That’s part of the challenge of stewarding a calling, forall of us: you get it wrong sometimes. And part ofstewarding that calling is sometimes taking down somechairs. We have more authority, and therefore, moreresponsibility than we think. We decide where the time goes.There’s so much freedom in that, and so muchresponsibility.That old question: But what are you going to do?I’m going to take down some chairs.
The Word That ChangedEverythingThe word that changed everything, of course, is no. I’d beensaying yes and yes and yes, indiscriminately, haphazardly,resentfully for years. And I realized all at once that I’d spentall my yeses, and in order to find peace and health in mylife, I needed to learn to say no.People love it when you say yes, and they get used to it—they start to figure out who the people are who willalways say yes, always come through, always make ithappen.If you are one of these people, it does cause a littlefreakout when you begin saying no. People are notgenerally down with this right away. That’s okay.You may know that yes is an important word for me.Maybe you’ve seen my yes sweatshirt, my yes earrings, myyes tote bag, my yes tattoo. I’m not kidding about any ofthose things. Yes matters to me on a deep level—saying abroad and brave yes to this beautiful world, to love andchallenge and hard laughter and dancing and trying andfailing. Yes is totally my jam.But you can’t have yes without no. Another way to say
it: if you’re not careful with your yeses, you start to say noto some very important things without even realizing it. Inmy rampant yes-yes-yes-ing, I said no, without intending to,to rest, to peace, to groundedness, to listening, to deep andslow connection, built over years instead of moments.All my yeses brought me to a shallow way of living—anexhausting, frantic lifestyle that actually ended up havinglittle resemblance to that deep, brave yes I was searchingfor.And so if you, like me, have said too many yeses, andfound that all that hopeful, exciting, wide-open intention hasactually left you scraped raw and empty, the word that canchange everything is no.I know. I don’t like it either. Yes is fun and sparkly andprinted on tote bags. No? What if you saw someone wearinga sweatshirt that just said no? I do not want to sit next to thatbundle of fun.But no became the scalpel I wielded as I remade my life,slicing through the tender tissue of what needed to go andwhat I wanted to remain.My mentor’s words rang in my ears: Stop. Right now.Remake your life from the inside out. I don’t know a way toremake anything without first taking down the existingstructures, and that’s what no does—it puts the brakes onyour screaming-fast life and gives you a chance to stop andinspect just exactly what you’ve created for yourself, asdifficult as that might be.It was very difficult for me to learn to say no. I did it
badly, awkwardly, sometimes too forcefully, and sometimeswith so many disclaimers and weird ancillary statements thatpeople actually had no idea what I was saying. I hoveredendlessly after I said it—Was that okay? Are we okay?Because I love you—you know I love you, right? We’reokay?But like anything you learn, it gets easier over time. Youbegin to build up muscle memory for what it feels like tosay exactly what you feel, what you need, what yourlimitations are. And a very interesting thing begins tohappen: some people peer into your face with fascination—Iwant some of that, essentially, is what they’re saying. Yourhonesty and freedom is giving them the permission to behonest and free as well.And some people are not down with this way of living atall. They’d prefer you continue over-functioning for theirown purposes, thank you very much. Or they’re so wrappedup in their own hyper-functioning life that it’s a personalaffront to their value system when you say something insanelike, “I’m sorry, I can’t do that.”Bless them. But don’t spend too much time with them.Draw close to people who honor your no, who cheer you onfor telling the truth, who value your growth more than theyvalue their own needs getting met or their own pathologiescelebrated.Our little Cooking Club—my day-to-day lifeline bestpeople—we’re cheering each other on along this journey,and it makes all the difference. We talk every day, usually
many times a day, and our constant refrain sounds like this:what can you lay down? How can we make this simpler?Are you getting enough rest? Can I take your kids for acouple hours?Instead of competing for who’s busier or who’s moretired, who’s keeping more balls in the air, we’re constantlylooking for ways to help each other’s lives get lighter, easierto carry, closer to the heart of what we love, less cloggedwith expectations and unnecessary tasks. These women arelike my training wheels as I learn this, keeping me uprightas I wobble along, and I’m so thankful.And don’t worry: no won’t always be the word you usemost often. I hate that for a season, no had to be the answerto almost everything. But over time, when you rebuild a lifethat’s the right size and dimension and weight, full of thethings you’re called to, emptied of the rest, then you do getto live some yes again. But for a while, no is what gets youthere.
On Disappointing PeopleSome people are very uncomfortable with the idea ofdisappointing anyone. They think that if you are kind, you’llnever disappoint anyone. They think that if you try hardenough, if you manage your time well enough, if you’reselfless enough, prayerful enough, godly enough, you’llnever disappoint anyone. I fear these people are headed fora rude awakening.I know this, because I was one of those people. For somany years, I was deeply invested in people knowing that Iwas a very competent, capable, responsible person. I neededthem to know that about me, because if that was true aboutme, I believed, I would be safe and happy. If I wasresponsible and hardworking, I would be safe and happy.Fast forward to a deeply exhausted and resentful woman,disconnected from her best friends, trying so darned hard tokeep being responsible, but all at once, unable. Somethingsnapped, and my anger outweighed my preciouscompetence. Something fundamental had to change.This is what I know for sure: along the way you willdisappoint someone. You will not meet someone’s needs orexpectations. You will not be able to fulfill their request.You will leave something undone or poorly done. Possibly,
this person will be angry with you, or sad. You’ve left themholding the bag. Or maybe instead of sadness or anger,they’ll belittle you or push all your shame buttons—maybethey’ll say things like, “I guess you’re just not a hardworker.” Or, “I guess you’re just a low-capacity person.”Or, “I thought I could count on you.” These are basicallysharp blades straight into the hearts of people like me,people who depend very heavily on meeting people’sexpectations.But here’s the good news: you get to decide who you’regoing to disappoint, who you’re going to say no to. And itgets easier over time, the disappointing.What you need along the way: a sense of God’s deep,unconditional love, and a strong sense of your own purpose.Without those two, you’ll need from people what is onlyGod’s to give, and you’ll give up on your larger purpose inorder to fulfill smaller purposes or other people’s purposes.To be sure, finding your purpose can take a long time tofigure out, and along the way it is tempting to opt instead forthe immediate gratification, the immediate fix, of someone’sapproval. But the sweet rush of approval, the pat on thehead, can often derail us from real love, and real purpose.Time always helps me make these decisions, because ifI’m rushed, I always say yes. When I have time, I caninstead say to myself: Go back to being loved; go back toyour purpose. This thing I am being asked to do will not getme more love. And this will not help me meet my purpose.Some of us have trouble disappointing people in
authority. Or people we want to impress, or people whoseem fancy or important in some way. I’ve realized onething that makes it hard for me to disappoint people is mytendency to overestimate how close I am to someone, andthen how imperative it is that I don’t disappoint this dear,dear friend. But upon closer inspection, I am probably notthis person’s dear friend. This is probably not a deep heartwound, but probably more a small professionaldisappointment. Those are very different. And there’s adifference between forsaking a friendship or familyrelationship and speaking the truth about our limitations. I’mfinding that many of our friendships actually grow whenwe’re more honest about what we can and can’t do.People who don’t care much about what other peoplethink of them don’t generally struggle with disappointingpeople. Frankly, I’m not there yet. I think this is harder forwomen than for men, and harder for moms than for otherwomen, possibly because we’re in that mode—that nose-wiping, cereal-pouring, need-meeting season of life.I remind myself: This will not make me feel loved, so ifthat’s why I’m saying yes, that’s not a good reason. Thelove I want will not be found here, and what I will feel in itsplace is resentment and anger.I’m committed to a particular, limited amount of thingsin this season, and if what’s being asked of me isn’t one ofthose, then it stands in the way. That’s why knowing yourpurpose and priorities for a given season is so valuable—because those commitments become the litmus test for all
the decisions you face.Picture your relationships like concentric circles: theinner circle is your spouse, your children, your very bestfriends. Then the next circle out is your extended family andgood friends. Then people you know, but not well,colleagues, and so on, to the outer edge. Aim to disappointthe people at the center as rarely as possible. And then learnto be more and more comfortable with disappointing thepeople who lie at the edges of the circle—people you’re notas close to, people who do not and should not require yourunflagging dedication.To do this, though, you have to give even the peopleclosest to you—maybe especially the people closest to you—realistic expectations for what you can give to them.We disappoint people because we’re limited. We have toaccept the idea of our own limitations in order to accept theidea that we’ll disappoint people. I have this much time. Ihave this much energy. I have this much relational capacity.And it does get easier. The first few times I had to say nowere excruciating. But as you regularly tell the truth aboutwhat you can and can’t do, who you are and who you’renot, you’ll be surprised at how some people will cheer youon. And, frankly, how much less you’ll care when otherpeople don’t.When you say, This is what I can do; this is what I can’t ,you’ll find so much freedom in that. You’ll be free to loveyour work, because you’re not using it as a sneaky way tobe loved or approved of. You’ll be free to love the things
you give to people, because you’re giving them freely,untangled from resentments and anger.My knee-jerk answer is yes. My default setting is yes.But I’m learning that time and honesty and space and prayerand writing and talking with Aaron help me see more clearlywhat I can and can’t do, with a full heart and withoutresentment or hustling.A friend I don’t know well asked for help withsomething recently. And all the old impulses kicked in. Ofcourse! I’m your girl! Anything for you! And then I waitedand breathed and prayed and waited some more, and then Ilovingly, kindly disappointed her, and I’m happy to reportwe both survived. Baby steps.
What the Lake TeachesThis story begins and ends on the water, and our life at thelake is a theme threaded throughout. The water continues tobe, for me, an enduring spiritual image.This book, if it wasn’t told in words, could be told in amap—zigzagging all over, coming home to Chicago, andthen a solid blue line to the lakeshore town we love, 80miles across Lake Michigan.It’s at the lake that I realize how far I’ve come, or howfar I have yet to travel. Both, maybe. It’s at the lake that mypriorities reshuffle, aligning more closely with my truenature.I’ve wondered from time to time if we should movehere, permanently, to this small Michigan town. But it seemsto me that we’d bring our bustling and hustling here, andpretty soon we’d need a new place to escape to in order torecalibrate. Part of the magic of the lake is that it isn’t home—it’s away, and away allows us to see the rhythms anddimensions of our lives more clearly.So it doesn’t necessarily work for us to live here at thelake, but I do want the way of living that I’ve tasted here toinform and ground how I live everywhere, all year long.The lake gives me something to aspire to—a reminder, a
rhythm, a pattern. Simple, connected to God and his worldand people, uncomplicated by lots of stuff.Along this passage, my life has become decidedly lessimpressive. It has, though, become so much more joyful,here on the inside, here where it matters only to me and tothe people closest to me. There’s less to see—fewer booksbeing published, fewer events being spoken at, fewer trips,fewer blog posts, fewer parties. And the space that remainsis beautiful and peaceful and full of life and connection,what I was looking for all along with all that pushing andproving.In my experience with this process, you have to startwith the outsides—it’s the only way to begin. So it startswith calendars and concentric circles, lists, saying yes,saying no. And over time you gain a little breathing room,and with those first, beautiful deep breaths, you begin topeel the next layer: why am I doing this? What is it in methat keeps things moving so breakneck fast, that believesachieving will keep me safe, that sacrifices my own healthand happiness so that people who aren’t me will think I’mdoing a good job, in some vague, moving-target kind ofway?I tried, on and off for the first years of this journey, toinch my way toward sanity and peace. And every fall I fellapart again, having said yes to too many things. I neededmore than just a vague intention to slow down a little bit.Fo r some of us, the addiction to motion is so deep, sopervasive, that only dramatic gestures are enough to take
hold.A friend of mine told me I was pulling the ripcord on mycareer by being so outspoken about how badly I didn’t wantto travel and speak anymore. Didn’t I realize the people whowere asking me to speak might read my blog, and then notinvite me? Exactly, I said. That’s the plan, I told him. I’m awriter, not a speaker, but I’ll never write another book againif I can’t get out of this constant cycle of output andexhaustion.I had the sense that my essential self, my best self, wasslipping away, and the new person in her place wassomeone I very much didn’t want to be. She was shaped outof necessity—tough and focused enough to bear the weightof my work life, when the real me, tender and whimsical,would have crumpled under the weight.Some of being an adult, though, is about protecting andpreserving what we discover to be the best parts ofourselves, and here’s a hint: they’re almost always the partswe’ve struggled against for years. They make us weird ordifferent, unusual but not in a good way. They’re our child-sides, our innate selves, not the most productive orcompetitive or logical, just true. Just us. Just very simplywho we are, regardless of how much quantitative value theyadd.It’s the perfect weather for writing: gray, cool, windy. Too
sunny and you feel like you’re missing out. Too cold andyou can’t have the balcony door open, and the balcony isthe very best part of my temporary little retreat home.When I look across the street, I can see the river, thepilings, the weathered docks. The trees are old and tall,higher than the roof, almost like I’m in a treehouse, and thewind off the river is fresh and whipping. Sometimes a gustspins through the room, and a piece of paper flies off thenightstand or a door rattles on its hinges.This last weekend was one of the sweetest yet, and partof it, certainly, owes itself to my new learning: MemorialDay Weekend in the past has been frantic shopping andcooking and menu planning, guests upon guests, plans uponplans, times and places and texts, a chaotic effort to ring inthe summer season with one more drink, one more icecream cone, one more boat ride before falling into bed.And this year, none of that. We stayed on the beach forhours, because there’s something about the beach that justbrings out the best in little kids—imagination and sand andsun and yelping and tumbling around, all the good stuff. Wewent to bed early knowing that, with all the fun, it wouldtake the little boys some extra time to settle down. Westayed in our pajamas till eleven on Sunday, my cousins,their kids and mine, their parents and mine, all sittingaround the Blue House kitchen table, a box of donuts fromGolden Brown Bakery and a pot of coffee. We mades’mores and played with sidewalk chalk. We had breakfasttacos from the farmer’s market and kept the kids happy with
bowls of strawberries outside on the lawn. It was slow, andit was simple, and it was sweeter than I can remember,because it felt more like a glass of water than a firehose.Pride, for years, has told me that I am strong enough todrink from a firehose, and gluttony tells me it will all be sodelicious.But those voices are liars. The glass of cool water ismore lovely and sustaining than the firehose will ever be,and I’m starting to trust the voices of peace and simplicitymore than pride and gluttony. They’re leading me well thesedays.The more I listen to myself, my body, my feelings, andthe less I listen to the “should” and “must” and “to-do”voices, the more I realize my body and spirit have beenwhispering all along, but I couldn’t hear them over thechaos and noise of the life I’d created. I was addicted to thischaos, but like any addiction, it was damaging to me.Here’s what I know: I thought the doing and thebusyness would keep me safe. They keep me numb. Whichis not the same as safe, which isn’t even the greatest thing toaspire to.If you’re not like me—prone to frantic levels of activity,swirling chaos, fast-moving cycles of over-commitment andresentment—then you might press your face up to the glassof my life with something like wonder and a little confusion.“Why don’t you,” you might suggest gently, “just slowdown?” I understand the question, but I find it’s a little bitlike asking people who are ruining their life and health with
their addiction to alcohol why they think they’re so thirsty.The stillness feels sort of like walking on the ceiling—utterly foreign. What makes sense to me: pushing. Lists.Responsibility. Action, action, action. What’s changing mylife: silence. Rest. Letting myself be fragile. Asking for help.This weekend at the lake, Friday and Saturday wereclear-skied and gorgeous, and we played outside absolutelyall day long, morning till night. Sunday, though, andMonday were cloudy, storms moving through, showers onand off, and that cloud cover fell over us like a soft blanket,slowing us down, urging us toward naps and movies andcoloring books. Lake life has those invitations to rest andslowness woven right into the fabric of our days—rainshowers that send us inside, nightfall that lays us down. Butso many of us, myself chief among them, have forsakenthose natural rhythms and stayed at full speed, through thenight, through the storms.I think one reason I come alive so thoroughly at the lakein a way I don’t at our home deep in the Midwesternsuburbs is because I can feel the presence of the naturalworld here—in a lakeshore town, when it rains, everythingchanges. When you want to eat, you go to the farmer’smarket, not the grocery store; and when the lightningcrackles across the sky, you run for cover, throwing extralines on the boats, securing awnings and umbrellas and deckfurniture. At home, deep in the suburbs, it would takesomething along the lines of a true natural disaster to disruptour well-trod routines and rhythms. I like that life at the lake
depends on the sky, the water, the wind.It’s raining now, and I love the sound of the dropsfalling on the awning outside my window, love the smell ofdirt and water, love the way rain necessarily slowseverything and everyone down just a little.What kept me running? That’s the question I keepreturning to, the lock I keep fiddling with. I was highlyinvested in maintaining my reputation as a very capableperson. I thought that how other people felt about me orthought about me could determine my happiness. When Isee that on the page now, staring back at me in black andwhite, I see how deeply flawed this idea is, how silly even.But this is what I’ve learned the hard way: what peoplethink about you means nothing in comparison to what youbelieve about yourself. Essentially, my identity thendepended on outward approval, which changes on a dime.So you dance and you please and you placate and youprove. You become a three-ring circus and in each ringyou’re an entirely different performing animal, anythinganyone wants you to be.The crucial journey, then, for me, has been fromdependence on external expectations, down into my ownself, deeper still into God’s view of me, his love for me thatdoesn’t change, that will not change, that defines andgrounds everything.I bet it all on busyness, achievement, being known asresponsible, and escaping when those things didn’t work.What I see now is that what I really wanted was love, grace,
connection, peace.When you decide, finally, to stop running on the fuel ofanxiety, desire to prove, fear, shame, deep inadequacy—when you decide to walk away from that fuel for a while,there’s nothing but confusion and silence. You’re on theside of the road, empty tank, no idea what will propel youforward. It’s disorienting, freeing, terrifying. For a while,you just sit, contentedly, and contentment is the mostforeign concept you know. But you learn it, shocking as itis, day by day, hour by hour. You sit in your own skin,being just your own plain self. And it’s okay. And it’schanging everything.After a while, though, you realize you weren’t madeonly for contentment; that’s only half the puzzle. The otherpart is meaning, calling, love. And this is a newconversation, almost like speaking a second language—faltering, tongue-twisting, exhilarating.
Part 2TunnelsWe can’t trade emptyfor emptyWe must go to thewaterfallFor there’s a break inthe cup that holds loveInside us all—David Wilcox
