I signed up for the retreat, paid the reservation fee, and proceeded to stress over it for the next month.

That was back in late September. A group of ladies from our church were—for the first time since our family joined over 13 years ago—attending a ladies’ conference. Excitement for the bonus time with friends and the conference itself couldn’t overshadow the guilt and pressure I felt.

Thursday evening would be my goodnight and goodbye to my family for the next 48 hours. The first part of Friday would be a normal workday. Friday afternoon, the experience would begin: just shy of a four-hour drive east with the group of ladies to that evening’s destination, a lovely Airbnb. Saturday was the all-day conference, and we wouldn’t return until Saturday evening. Attending the conference left Sunday for me to relax (ish, around church services) and spend time with family before the work week started over on Monday.

So this past weekend was slated to look much different from how it played out.

Before I followed through with the reservation, I asked my husband what he thought. He stays home with our daughter to homeschool her during the week, so he’s used to holding down the fort. He’s also incredibly flexible and understanding, so naturally, he said to do whatever I felt was best.

So kind. But not helpful.

That’s a bit unfair because he couldn’t decide for me. I needed to be accountable for this choice, regardless of the outcome. As someone who’s generally extremely decisive, I had a generous share of decision paralysis regarding this conference. (In my defense, the stakes were a bit higher than choosing what to have for dinner.)

After our conversation, I made the reservation…and that’s when the pressure got worse.

The initial decision to attend the conference wasn’t a bad one, and it wasn’t wrong. My reaction to the event confirmation didn’t imply I needed to cancel either. Feelings don’t get to make decisions.

What solidified my choice to bow out this year was taking a closer look at what the weeks leading up to and following the conference—personal, professional, and otherwise—held. That’s when I knew my body would revolt if I didn’t make mental margin.

The conference had to be removed from the list.

The relief was instant. That pressure I felt? Gone.

Yet, the guilt persisted.

Why?

I don’t love committing to doing something and then flaking out. I also don’t commit to things and exert partial effort. Either I was attending and putting my heart and soul into it, or I was backing out and immediately removing it from my mind.

What I didn’t know at the time was that my husband would catch the flavor of the season, what we suspected was strep throat, taking him down for the next two weeks. I hate that and am glad I didn’t add to his plate when he needed to focus on healing.

I traded a retreat (personal growth) for time with family.
Great options.
But which choice was the right one?

Both.

This past Sunday (the day after the retreat), a friend came up to me after the church service, tears glistening in the corners of her eyes.

“I’ve never been to a ladies’ retreat before.”

She’d taken my place at the conference and went on to tell me how life-changing the event had been.

Wow.

And I almost stayed on the list just to avoid feeling bad about canceling.

I’m still uncomfortable with canceling. It feels like lying, quitting, or both.

But guilt isn’t a compass. And a “no” isn’t always a closed door.

Sometimes it’s an open seat for someone else.

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Writing in books feels so wrong.

While textbooks and workbooks don’t count as a part of it, some of my schoolbooks from back in the day were extremely uninviting; I didn’t even want to crack the cover. The blank space inside didn’t beckon me to do anything with it.

But even writing in a blank journal or notebook has me hes…

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Becoming a published author taught me a lot. It’s hard to believe my first book was officially released six months ago. Self-publishing it was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done, and the lessons I drew from it weren’t what I expected.

Setting expectations low (realistically) is totally fine and highly recommended.

I tackled this process like the project it was: a dream, a goal, a calling I’d had for nearly three and a half decades. I pictured the book release as both a finish line and a quiet celebration.

My husband was having a major surgery weeks before, so I opted not to have an official book release or launch party. Looking back, I’m glad I made that choice. It didn’t make the book any less important, and I wasn’t disappointed.

People get excited to read your book; they don’t always actually read your book.

My team leader at the time was psyched to read my book. It seemed like years’ worth of our weekly one-on-one meetings were filled with status updates, the current roadblock I was experiencing, or the section I was working on. (His wife is an author, too, so he could relate to many of my woes secondhand.)

After the book was published, one of our one-on-ones ended with him dramatically pushing the Buy Now button on Amazon. I saw imaginary confetti.

Two days later, he texted me a picture of him holding the book.

A month later, he reported that one of his daughters had spilled a drink on it, drenching most of the book. He expressed his frustration with this event.

And that was the end of it.

One of the best parts has been hearing feedback and stories from readers.

A dear friend whom I thought I knew fairly well emailed me after finishing the book. She shared how much it meant to her. She’d read it in a sitting or two and could strongly relate to my childhood. As she shared details about her parents, I saw myself in her story.

Then I was right back to that little eight-year-old girl from the introduction of my book.

My favorite part was reading my book aloud to my husband and daughter Gabby.

My husband asked that we take our time with it, reading a chapter or so a night so it would last about a week. (We might skip some nights due to general busyness, and that was ok.) There are 121 pages with a dozen chapters, so it wouldn’t take long anyway. Might as well space it out!

Each evening, we cuddled up on the bed in our master bedroom, and I’d begin reading. Some of the words got caught in my throat. Others couldn’t escape without my pushing through tears of laughter. We all cried and giggled together. It was our journey, our story.

We finished the book in three evenings, well ahead of my husband’s plan. Each time a chapter ended and I paused, they would gawk at me like I’d done something wrong. “Is that the end?” they’d ask. I’d chuckle, knowing my cliffhanger strategy had worked. Then we’d keep reading.

Six months in, the biggest lesson isn’t about publishing at all. It’s about sharing stories with the people who mean the most to me.

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“How has your approach changed based on that experience?”

A conversation I had with my leader last week went much deeper than I anticipated.

Her question took me back to a hard moment I experienced almost a decade ago, one that left me feeling the pain of being compelled to leave my role. This strong nudge was both abrupt and intentional.

If I chose to stay in the current role, it would be like attempting to run through quicksand. Digging my heels in, so to speak, would involve deep accountability and heavy consequences for mistakes.

From where I sat, the decision was simple: pursue a different role.

During the same season, I’d reached the three-month mark of accompanying congregational singing on the piano at church. There was something incredibly important I came to realize: that it’s ok to have “empty air.”

If I embedded a pause or silence into the piano accompaniment, it helped me perform better moving forward. Literally taking my fingers off the keys caused me to pick back up right where I left off—and in a much better position than before.

It seems odd, I know. But doing so between verses of the song created a more natural breath than right in the middle. Once I jumped back in after taking that millisecond break, I performed better.

Letting my leader’s question marinate, I realized I already knew the answer…

“I slow way down, give myself space to think, and make sure I’m not the first one to speak if in a group setting.”

Nearly ten years later, I'm still learning to take my fingers off the keys.

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Artisan bread, oven-roasted turkey, Colby Jack cheese slices.

Last week’s meal prep process was sandwich assembly on steroids. Tomato slices were de-slimed and set aside for each of the five sandwiches, which would become my lunches for this week.

The red onion—the best part, in my opinion—was saved for last. When I reached that delightful step, I pulled my favorite knife from its slot in the organizer on the counter, preparing to gingerly slice a set of slim circles, starting with the first sandwich.

Normally, the veggie is oozing with freshness, and its rings jump off the knife.

This time, there were no rings or jumping to be had.

Tired, dry, and shrunken, the vegetable in my hand had folded in on itself. The scary part was, it gave no indication of its condition on the outside. Had I not cut into it, I would’ve never known the inner ugliness. This was completely unexpected since groceries had been delivered hours before.

I stood there holding the ruined onion over the trash. Then it hit me.

I’ve met some people just like this onion.

They’re colorful and polished on the outside, but getting to know them reveals the inside… and it ain’t pretty. Sometimes, there’s simply nothing there. No substance. A facade. Even worse, a malleable individual, influenced by anyone and everyone.

My favorite people are like the typical “red onion experience.” It’s delightful, and I’m left wanting more.

And let’s not forget the fence-riders, the “ish” people.

The next time you reach for a red onion, or a person, remember: it’s what’s on the inside that determines whether you’re left wanting more, or just left wondering.

Which one are you?

I know which one I want to be: the kind of onion people are glad they cut into.

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“The spider stays.”

I hate spiders.

There are other creepy crawlers I can tolerate, but this is not a favorable one of God’s creations in my eyes. Maybe it’s the plethora of legs or their stance or their speed. Perhaps a combination of all of the above.

I’m actually good with Daddy Longlegs. They’re a less intense color, seem slower and more docile… and we as kids used to pull their legs off to watch them twitch. Good times; much nostalgia.

All bets are off for the other spiders if I catch a glimpse of them. If I lose sight of them… World War III till I find and eliminate them. Ideally, my husband sees and takes care of them before they hit my radar.

Last night, my husband and I had a particularly interesting conversation.

But let me take a step back in time first…

Days earlier, when I was up getting ready for work, around 5:00 AM (before sunrise), I noticed our motion-sensing floodlight was on. It illuminates the backyard, primarily since we have three dogs.

The fact that everyone but me—including the dogs—was asleep and the light came on was weird, but I didn’t have the time or feel the need to spend the effort to see why.

Investigating could mean coming face-to-face with an uninvited backyard guest, and I didn’t want to open that can of—well, you get the point. I figured it was one of the stray cats that often prowls our neighborhood, or a field mouse from the woods behind our house. It could have been a snake or a bobcat too.

Point being, I didn’t want to know.

Turns out, a spider decided the corner between our floodlight and the siding of the house behind it would make a lovely new home. It crafted an elaborate web, so each time the web flitted in the wind, the floodlight would come on at night.

That’s when my husband declared the spider would be staying.

I wasn’t excited about the prospect until I fully understood why.

The floodlight is by our back door, which opens to the backyard. With three dogs, we’re constantly going in and out. Flies love to sneak in, as do other creatures.

When my husband observed the spider’s ornate new home, there were already hundreds of bugs collected there. The web is so big now, I don’t doubt it’ll catch our most uninvited of all houseguests: flies.

When I grasped why the spider would be staying, I agreed.

Then my husband said, “If it [the spider] gets inside, it’s dead.”

Deal!

We have this unspoken rule that any creepy crawler or not-so-fantastic flier that gets in the house signs its death sentence, so this commitment was in full alignment.

For those who’ve found that thing they’re meant to do, bravo!

For those still browsing, that’s fantastic—as long as they’re still searching, not hanging out on the lazy river of life.

So the spider stays.

And I'm working on staying too.

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The last thing I want to do is write!

The first thing I need to do?

Write.

Ok, then. Let’s do this thing…

::Cracking Knuckles::

“Once upon a time in a faraway land—”

Great line, but disgustingly overused.

To give my writing sessions some oomph, I need the right inspiration.

A fellow writer and dear friend of mine noticed my attempt at consistency in writing, so she asked where I draw my inspiration.

“Anywhere!” was a tempting answer. It feels accurate, but like the first line of my make-believe fairy tale above, it’s not the best.

For your education and enjoyment, here are some of my most revisited vehicles:

1️⃣ Inspirational Venue. Anything outdoors. A walk. A rainy day by the window.

2️⃣ Water. The shower. The sound itself counts. Something about water inspires me.

3️⃣ Killer Playlist. Lyrics kill my focus, but soundtracks? Fair game.

4️⃣ Writing Prompt. AI can help with this one (if trained properly).

5️⃣ Ask Someone. “What should I write about today?” or “What would you like to read about from me?”

6️⃣ Current Events. Scour the web to learn what people are searching/talking about these days and write your take on it. We’re experts on our own opinion!

7️⃣ Rewrites | Part 1. Don’t like how a story or TV series ended? Rewrite it!

8️⃣ Rewrites | Part 2. Repurpose something you wrote before. Practice saying the same thing differently.

I don't always have these on hand, especially at work, which is fine. Most days, having two of them is enough to get my fingers moving. The trick is knowing which ones are available to me in the moment.

I can't control the weather, but I have AirPods. Sneaking outside would be difficult (especially during a meeting!), but maybe I can run the water a little longer than necessary. The key is being creative with what's already within my reach.

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Sixty days.

Here’s what they held:

• Week-long reunion/trip

• Involuntary role change

• Friend in need; couldn’t help

• Home alone (family away for almost a week and a half)

• Another friend in need; tried to help

• Boss left company unexpectedly

• Family’s return

• Daughter left (Disney weekend trip with best friend and her family)

• Friend in town; couldn’t visit

• Weekend “retreat” with hubby

• Daughter returned

• Daughter’s playdate during heat advisory with side of injury

• Daughter’s sickness

• Dog’s seizure

• My sickness (and navigating “calling out” with new leadership due to role shift)

• Another seizure (same dog)

• Company-wide event with hundreds of attendees; left early

• Finding some semblance of normalcy and rhythm (yeah, right!)

• Teaching small group

• Teammate needed a ride to work; couldn’t help

What does this mean?

It’s an indefinite season of saying “no” to everything but survival.

As I told a friend, I feel like I could sleep for 3-4 days straight and not be caught up or released from the present exhaustion.

So when it came time to teach our ladies small group, “no” was locked and loaded. It would have been a completely reasonable, fully justified “no.”

Nobody would have blinked.

I almost took it.

Recognizing I’m in survival mode, it felt odd, even off, to teach our ladies small group at church yesterday. “Procrastinating” isn’t the right word. I put off preparing for this lesson until the days leading up to it because of all the things mentioned earlier.

Rather than bow out or request a substitute, I powered through it. After all, teaching this group of ladies is one of my all-time favorite tasks. I’m honored (and a bit surprised) each time our pastor’s wife asks me to teach our class. I always accept, and it’s humbling to be requested again.

I studied the lesson I’d prepared for the ladies, but it wasn’t until I actually delivered the talk that it hit its mark—dagger to the heart. Even though I had every excuse to be stressed out, complain, opt out of adulting—this is what it was about.

I returned to my seat after teaching, and a lady I’d never met before came over to introduce herself. Sure, I’d seen her at church before, but we’d never spoken.

“You’re a great teacher,” she said.

I almost lost it.

Apart from whatever I’d shared in the last 30-40 minutes, she knew nothing about me. Nothing. And yet, that was her response.

As I continue marinating on what the last sixty days have handed me, I keep landing in the same place:

I don’t mean good as in well, an adverb.

I mean good as a noun.

Not “it went good.”

A good.

A thing.

Something gifted to me, not a description of how things turned out.

God gives what’s best for me. And most of the time, I don’t see it until it hits me in the face.

Sixty days of “no.”

And in the middle of all those “no’s,” one small, specific good, which I didn’t ask for and almost didn’t have room for.

If it touches one heart, it’s worth it.

And I know it touched my life and that of my new friend.

I still don’t know what the rest of these sixty days were for.

But I know what yesterday morning was for.

And that’s enough.

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Healthy spending and saving habits are the antacid to our budget indigestion. When gas prices rise, so do our anxiety levels. Let’s grab some Pepcid and be on our way more comfortably, because even if it’s attitude reflux, the stuff to follow can still work.

While I’m no financial guru, I’ve had some pennies to play with (and pinch) occasionally and have learned a few things along the way. Spending, saving, and especially giving are the best ways to handle money. Time is finite, and cash is a close second. When the proverbial poo hits the fan, I’d like to think I’m inflation immune.

Budgeting is an ideal way, in my humble opinion, to categorize the most finite things we have: time and money. We set a schedule and settle into the almighty calendar crunch. Yet we don’t always feel the same about money. What makes it different? Perhaps we should budget our money like we do our time, or vice versa.

Managing time is a topic to tackle another day, so let’s dive into the world of wonder, also known as some small ways that have helped me feel inflation-resistant. These are the things I personally do or use and experience success with. While there are no guarantees, I hope you’ll experience some wins using them too!

Small Tasks: Some Reward

Small habits can create surprising returns. None of these will fund a private island or erase a Target run gone rogue, but they can soften the blow of everyday spending and stretch the budget a just little bit further.

Digitized Receipts.

Paper receipts lying around induce my anxiety, so unless they’re 100% necessary, I make them disappear. I’ve found that receipts containing a barcode are easily readable digitally, thanks to modern tech. I’ve been scanning receipts for at least a decade now.

CoinOut & Receipt Hog offer the best options for this process, in my opinion. I can scan my physical receipts into these apps, and this weekly task has earned me an extra $20 here and there.

The two-birds-one-stone approach is fabulous. Cash rewards (once I’ve reached applicable in-app milestones) are sent through PayPal, which—unlike some rewards systems I’ve used that “cash out” only in gift cards—translates to income. Payouts go back into the budget for groceries.

My weekly receipt-scanning ritual takes less than 15 minutes. With Receipt Hog, I linked my Amazon account, which auto-loads digital receipts for additional points. Cha-ching! With how much time and treasure I spend on Amazon, it’s a win-win.

Snail Mail Stamps.

My 9-year-old daughter loves getting mail. She doesn’t have email, but somehow she’s got pen pals. (It’s how I grew up, too, so I respect it.) We also mail over a hundred Christmas cards each year, which could get expensive at $0.78 a pop. I never buy stamps at full price; I buy Forever stamps at a discount.

The website looks questionable, and all email communications may land in spam, but I’ve purchased many times using this method with zero issues. The trick is to order ahead, be patient with shipping timelines, and check the spam folder. This is the place (USPS Stamps Outlet). Sure, it feels slightly sketchy. But yes, it’s legit.

Grocery Pick-Up & Delivery (availability may vary).

A year and a half ago, I uncovered a glorious trifecta: Kroger pickup, Boost program, Instacart delivery. When someone else picks grocery items for me through this process, I can return items for a refund with no questions asked and no returns needed. (These items can’t be returned to the store, likely due to standard policy…and health codes.) Huge win.

What I save through returned (free) products more than covers what I spend on Instacart tips. I don’t encourage excessive returns, but the policy is there for things that aren’t what I would choose. If something is substituted for a product I wouldn’t normally select, I consider it an experiment, an invitation to branch out a bit.

If I just plain don’t like the product I received, I can request a refund and keep the product. Someone in my household is bound to like it.

Cell Phone Bill.

I used to pay $150 per month for unlimited everything, which didn’t include monthly payments toward my husband’s and my brand-new iPhones. These phones were not-so-new by the time they were paid off. That reality always stung.

We’d sell our old iPhones to help pay for the next upgrade, which was impossible before they were fully paid for, and it was even harder when the phones were tethered to a specific cell phone carrier. This dilemma disappeared when we found US Mobile.

We currently pay $33 per month for unlimited calls/texts and the precise amount of monthly data we need for our household: 12 GB. When we travel (and thus, need more data), another $10-$20 “tops off” the plan with an additional 5-10 GB, which, if unused, transfers to the next month’s data allowance.

Time Trades

Not every reward comes from spending less. Sometimes the better deal comes from trading time, effort, creativity, or patience in exchange for opportunities, products, or long-term savings. A strange little modern barter system, if you will.

User Testing.

The UserTesting platform provides an option to exchange time for income through surveys, recorded tests, and live conversations. I’ve done each, and my favorite opportunities are the live conversations!

Amazon Vine (invite-only).

Once upon a time, I discovered Amazon…and never looked back. (Who’s with me? 🙋🏽‍♀️) When I review purchased products, I like to provide tons of details, complete with photos and videos whenever possible.

Apparently, someone noticed when I was invited to join the Amazon Vine program almost two years ago. Once I received enough “helpful” (heart) votes on my reviews, I hit Amazon’s radar, and they reached out with an invitation. Vine is an opportunity to trade my time for free products, which I can keep, discard, give away, or sell.

Most of what I receive gets donated, so it’s a cool way to flex my writing muscle and try out free products. Tell the world what I think about something? Yes, please! Blessing local ministries through donations of new items is a great byproduct as well.

Bigger Buys

The larger the purchase, the larger the margin for regret…or wisdom. These are the areas where patience, research, and resisting impulse can save hundreds or even thousands over time. Painful lessons from adulthood, generously passed down free of charge. You’re welcome.

Homeschooling Curriculum.

We started homeschooling our daughter when she first started school over five years ago. Her curriculum cost felt reasonable at that time, at a few hundred dollars a year. The younger the child and the lower the grade level, the less expensive it was.

Enter inflation, price increases, and grade advancements, and the cost is now in the thousands annually. When additional savings are available, we prefer to pay bigger bills in full. Her curriculum always goes on sale in the spring, too, which helps.

She typically starts school sometime between July and September, so I always purchase the upcoming grade’s curriculum between February and April to take advantage of the annual sale. To date, this process has saved me over $1,000!

Technology Purchases.

After graduating from high school, I used my graduation gifts of cash to buy my first computer, a Gateway laptop, for $500. (Gateway was acquired by Acer back in 2007, which is why we never hear about or see those cow-covered computers anymore.)

I know what you’re probably thinking… For a laptop 20+ years ago, that’s outrageously expensive! You are correct. And it wasn’t even new; it was a rebuild. The good ol’ Gateway chugged along for just shy of four years, almost my entire college career.

One delightful afternoon, while it sat on my lap, I experienced a sneeze—the kind you can’t hold back or you’ll self-implode. Out came the sneeze, and up went the laptop. When it landed back in my lap, it had turned off. And it never turned on again.

Perfect timing. I had the opportunity to start my multi-page, thousands-of-words, hours-of-research term paper over. Ouch.

That experience left me bitter toward anything rebuilt, refurbished, or repurposed. Even those words were a trigger for years to follow. Fortunately, repurposed technology has come a long way since then.

Earlier this year I decided to take the plunge again, this time in the form of an Amazon-renewed iPhone 15 Pro. After tons of research, I learned of the heightened requirements for redone and resellable tech products. That put my mind at ease.

If you’re curious, for my iPhone purchase specifically: the remaining battery life must meet or exceed 80%, there can only be minor (almost unnoticeable) wear on the body, and everything else has to be just as if I purchased it new.

So I did it. I purchased a renewed iPhone 15 Pro from Amazon just over six months ago, for over $1,000 less than the cost of a new iPhone 17 Pro.

Fun Fact: Most renewed Amazon purchases qualify for a 90-day return instead of their standard 30-day return window.

Once I was confident in the iPhone 15 Pro’s abilities, I sold my iPhone 13 for over half the cost of my “new-to-me” iPhone. That put my total out-of-pocket cost around $200.

Compared to the iPhone 13, the iPhone 15 feels like a massive upgrade in both hardware and software.

Spoiler Alert: I rinse and repeat this process with vehicle purchases too.

I won’t upgrade iPhones again for at least two years. If I follow this same formula, I’d buy an iPhone 17 at that time, giving me a couple of years to see how it functions for other folks and decide if I want that model.

Having an iPhone costs me ~$100/year compared to buying a new iPhone annually at 10x the cost! 🤯

Insurance.

Insurance is riveting, isn’t it? I’ll try to keep things fun in this area too. For purposes of this section, I’m only referring to auto, home, and umbrella insurance. They say the only guarantees in life are death and taxes. May we please add insurance to that list?

Had our family not had the right insurance coverage in place, we would have shelled out $15,000 for a new roof a couple of years ago, and another chunk of change for the cost of a newish vehicle when my sedan was totaled over a decade ago.

Insurance is an annoying expense, primarily because we don’t see the benefits if/until something goes wrong. But not having it (or the right amount of it) is the kicker. My insurance tricks to help soften the blow—once we reached that point in our budget—are as follows:

Tip 1: Have an Emergency Fund (i.e., a savings account filled with gobs of money) that could cover at least three months’ worth of expenses, including the cost of your auto and home deductibles (as applicable).

• If your auto deductible is $500 per incident, make sure you have that $500 in savings.

• If your home deductible is $1,000 per incident, have that amount set aside in savings.

• If you’re like us and have a separate hail/wind-damage deductible ($5,000 for us), have that amount in savings too.

• Add it all together, and you should have at least $6,500 in your savings account based on the numbers above.

• If we’re getting nitpicky, you could probably get away with $5,500 in your Emergency Fund since home deductibles don’t stack. (Translation: You’d either pay $1,000 or $5,000 for a home insurance claim.)

Tip 2: If you’re stocked up in the savings department above, and if it makes sense to do so, increase your insurance deductibles.

The standard deductibles for both auto and home are $500-$1,000. Could you increase your auto to $1,000 and home to $2,500 or $5,000? Yes, if it makes sense.

Tip 3: Pay annually and in full. Insurance carriers typically offer a discount for doing so.

Tip 4: Ask for discounts and additional savings opportunities.

• Are your policies bundled (as in, all your insurances are with the same carrier/company)?

• Are you a safe driver? (What is considered safe? 🤔)

• Does your vehicle have extra safety bells and whistles?

• Do you have a home security system?

• Reach out to your insurance agent to see if any of these features translate to savings.

Vehicles.

A decade ago, my husband got the “itch,” the one that says, “I’m a dude. I need a truck.” So we sold his sedan and went shopping. We settled on a small, green-colored GMC, a sorry excuse for a truck. But it had a bed, and it ran.

The seller—a dude—had a bad dye job and haircut, and we should have asked so many more questions. In that moment, we learned that it’s fair to judge the seller just as much as the vehicle. Had I gone with my gut, we would’ve avoided that rod-knock truck altogether.

The engine blew a few months later.

My husband and I have owned over two dozen vehicles thus far between the two of us. We’re well-versed in vehicle recalls. But never had we experienced the recall of an entire vehicle.

Another financial face-plant came in the form of the Volkswagen Jetta. I’ll spare you the saga, but VW got lazy and installed a “test” part into thousands of production vehicles, which included our TDI (Turbocharged Direct Injection) Jetta.

We also used a loan to purchase our Jetta, so the impact went multiple layers deep. VW bought the Jetta back from us, a nice gesture, but we lost significant money between the loan and the severely discounted buyback amount. We’ve never taken out a vehicle loan since.

A couple of years ago, we bought an SUV from an interesting couple. They were kind, but I could sense the sketchiness. I could feel the concerns piling up, even as I messaged the point of contact on Messenger from Facebook Marketplace.

Based on my spidey-senses, I knew there would be things wrong with the SUV. We were prepared to low-ball the price—and we did, and they accepted the offer. This scenario wasn’t as risky as the junky truck because we’d set aside extra funds and budgeted $3,000 to fix it.

The vehicle is still worth more than we paid all-in. As a rule, $1,000/year in vehicle purchase cost is what we like to spend.

The Payoff (or Payout)

After experimenting with weird systems, practical shortcuts, and anti-inflammatory spending habits, I’ve noticed a few patterns: they have less to do with math and more to do with behavior, patience, and learning how to live slightly outside default settings.

So what did we learn?

1. Convenience can cost more than we notice, so we have to calculate the trade-off (delivery fees and tips vs. an in-person grocery run).

2. Patience can be financially profitable (i.e., taking the time to digitize receipts).

3. Bulk and pay-in-full purchases can bring additional benefits.

4. Using time as a resource is next level.

5. Pride can make us overspend, so words like “used” or “preowned” or even the words “borrow” or “rent” can be a trigger. These aren’t things to be ashamed of.

Spend money and resources on the things that matter.

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I see you. Those of you who use Substack notes to feature your delightful art forms. It’s inspiring! I enjoy these collections and series popping up, and I’m feeling a bit left out. Seeing that kind of creativity makes me want to try my own version.

My outlet is typically in the form of words, so I’m challenging myself to think outside that box. You might’ve read the story I shared about an accidental hobby, which started unexpectedly last month during a trip. I’m ramping up this idea!

But there’s another reason too… Last night, in a moment of high anxiety and stress—just minutes before bedtime—I decided to create another custom rubber band bracelet that I could wear to work today. I’ve lovingly named it Sanctuary.

Sanctuary features soft, calming colors. Once I put the bracelet on this morning, it had the desired effect: it calmed me down and reminded me that nothing is worth the worry—and I've been in some pretty sticky situations.

I'm going to start small (for now) and keep this going. For the next five days, I will post these daily creations to my notes with the story or thought process behind them, and of course, their name. I'm excited to see what the next five days bring!

Day 1: Picasso

Day 2: Camo

Day 3: Sprite

Day 4: Blue

Day 5: Indulge

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This past week was memorable. My husband and daughter were 500+ miles away, surprising my mother-in-law for her birthday, while I held down the fort. Said “fort” consisted of a normal 40-hour work week and my usual tasks (tidying the house, laundry, etc.), plus taking care of our three dogs, watering the plants, getting the mail, putting out the trash bin, keeping track of deliveries, and the list goes on. Like my phone during this time, I rarely had any battery left at the end of each day.

The last few days were the grand finale. Apparently, we had to go out with a bang…literally. I slammed my head into a kitchen chair one morning—a chair that hadn’t moved in quite some time—while bending down to coax one of the dogs into her kennel. That left an impression. The next day I found out my boss of six years was no longer my boss—he wasn't at the company anymore. I didn’t even get to say goodbye.

Another morning I got up to let the dogs outside. As I opened the door to the master suite, a distinct and overwhelming odor came wafting in. I’m quite skilled in the scent department, but this one didn’t need any analysis. Sometime before I awoke, the outdoor A/C unit startled a skunk who thought it was a predator and did its thing, circulating its special surprise throughout the entire house via the HVAC unit. I wasn’t planning on changing the filters that day, but it was time. A couple of hours later, a transformer went down. No power. No circulation. No fresh air. Thankfully, the crew was on it. The outage only lasted an hour, enough time for inside the house to get even mustier, if that was possible.

By the time the lights flickered back on, I'd stopped counting how many things had gone wrong that week. There wasn’t enough caffeine, candles, or vinegar to prepare me for this adventure. Some weeks just want to see if you'll break. This one didn't get the satisfaction.

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When I was 15, I got my first outside-the-house, outside-the-neighborhood job, a role that didn’t include babysitting—my siblings or my neighbors’ kids. I began working for the local “haircut place.” (I called it that because it wasn’t a barbershop, but it also wasn’t a salon; it was an establishment that primarily provided co-ed haircuts, but could also do slightly fancier things like a shampoo/blowdry, an updo, and even a perm.)

It was at this job that I learned the value of clear communication. It wasn’t that I didn’t know how to share information in a way that made sense. One particular week, I’d come down with a cold, an elevated case of the sniffles. When I was deemed noncontagious, I went back to work. Except my communication skills were challenged.

The cost of a haircut back in the late 90s was $9.99. With a stuffed-up nose, it proved difficult, sometimes impossible, to articulate this price to inbound callers. That’s usually all they wanted to know: the price of a cut… in addition to whether they could get their hair cut when they arrived in “X” minutes. (Usually the answer to the latter was “no.” Even if it was a “yes,” that typically changed once they physically arrived at the store because a rush of customers followed.) Thank goodness for online check-in these days!

Getting the words out clearly, that was one kind of problem. Knowing which words to say at all, that turned out to be a much harder one.

A stuffy nose was one thing. Telling a manager her work was garbage was another kind of impossible altogether. I had to keep the managers happy—and their workstations spotless of hair clippings—but I also needed to keep the customers happy. Unavoidable scenarios arose in which I couldn’t do both simultaneously. Like the one time my main manager, the head honcho, gave a poor victim the worst excuse for an updo I’d ever seen. I didn’t have a beautician’s license and would’ve done a better job.

The customer was a teenage girl who was headed to prom that evening… or maybe not after her visit. She left in tears. I’m sure it was hard for her mom to pay the bill after that. Of course, the manager asked me why the girl was upset afterwards. I feigned ignorance. There was no answering that question honestly. The girl and her mom had already left; I was stuck with the manager indefinitely.

Looking back, I wonder what would have happened if I’d been 100% honest. Other managers would’ve thanked me for the feedback. That manager? Probably not. I didn’t feel like risking my job that day. I still lived at home and went to high school locally. It wasn’t the time or place to push back.

These days, there’s more on the line, now that I pay my own bills and support a family. And yet, somehow, I’ve found more boldness. I still don’t know if that’s growth, or if I just ran out of places to hide the truth.

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“Is this a phase?” my husband asked recently. (He knows my history of unashamedly diving onto the bandwagon, going all in, and then completely burning out with nothing short of hardcore emotional fallout.)

But this time feels different.

At our family reunion a couple of weeks ago, my youngest sister set her tackle box on the kitchen table. It was full of brilliant-colored, tiny rubber bands…

She didn’t need to say, “We’re going to make bracelets.” Our curiosity was piqued. “Can you help me decipher these instructions?” she asked instead, shuffling through the complicated pamphlet. I was already hooked.

Hours later, everyone at our Airbnb was wearing one of our creations.

This new adventure…

Forces me to slow down.
Feels calming and centering.
Helps me be generous.

My sister still has that silly tackle box somewhere at home. I have my own kits now too—yes, kits, plural—complete with half-memorized instructions and fancier bracelet designs and techniques waiting to be attempted.

Earlier this week, something seemed off with a teammate of mine. Later, she admitted to having a hard day and being on the verge of tears. A lot was happening beneath the surface.

I didn’t need to ask or understand. I took the rubber band bracelet I was wearing—with its pops of coral and white and pink (one of her favorite colors)—and placed it on her wrist. No words needed; she just smiled.

When she was feeling better and back to work, she told me how much that moment meant. And that she’s going to do the same thing for someone else.

Somewhere in your house, the coffee shop, the studio, there’s a version of this. That thing you picked up once and haven’t put down since. Or the something you’re scared to pick up again. It doesn’t have to make you a dime. And it doesn’t have to make sense to anyone watching or listening.

If it causes you to slow down just enough to notice you’re happy, or you’ve had the opportunity to make someone else happy, mission accomplished.

My new obsession isn’t really about rubber bands or bracelets.

It never was.

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Last week, my husband, daughter, and I went on one of the most expensive trips we’ve ever taken. Between the Airbnb and hotel, gas (multiple travel days), food, and experiences, it was a whopping $1,500. That probably doesn’t sound like much in today’s economy, but when we typically only spend $150-$200 on gas and a couple of meals during a trip, to 10x our vacation budget felt significant.

It wasn’t about the budget, nor was this just any trip.

My parents celebrated their fiftieth wedding anniversary in March. My mom turned 70 this month. Both beautiful milestones thoroughly worth celebrating. And so we did—all 35 immediate family members—that’s 14 adults and 21 kids.

To make the adventure even more interesting, my dad was taken to the ER the day before everyone headed out of town. He was admitted to the hospital that evening. Heart issues, they said. The enemy was at work, I’m convinced.

Prayers were lifted, and he was released a record-breaking 48 hours later.

He and my mom arrived at our Airbnb just 7.5 hours after check-in. We were relieved. Dad is still healing. The scheduled events could commence! 🎉

To say it was a relaxing, restful week would be inaccurate. Here was our jam-packed schedule:

• Monday: A casual evening get-together at our Airbnb, the Mari Stonehouse, in the heart of downtown Lancaster, PA. (I highly recommend this home for its gracious “super” hostesses, as well as its character and charm!)

• Tuesday: An optional 45-minute train ride and gift shop at Strasburg Railroad, followed by lunch at Shady Maple Smorgasbord with a “shopportunity,” as I call it, at the gift shop in the venue’s basement, a great way to walk off some calories.

• Wednesday: Browsing and photo ops at Kitchen Kettle Village, followed by Joshua at Sight & Sound Theater and dinner at Freddy’s. (We attempted Down on the Farm Creamery, but they weren’t serving food, just sweets. Their petting farm gets five stars!)

• Thursday: A day at Strasburg Jaycee Park playing baseball, kickball, and whiffle ball, complete with bubbles and rocket launchers; lunch at Cracker Barrel. Afternoon shopping at Tanger Outlets Lancaster.

• Friday: Breakfast at Gracie’s and tearful goodbyes.

My brain plays tricks on me. A second ago, my siblings and I were the kids at the reunions. Now, we’re our parents; we’re not the kids anymore. Maturity doesn’t always come with age.

One of my younger nephews is following in my footsteps. And nope, he’s not an author; “class clown” is his title. I’m so proud of him. He doesn’t know his role…yet.

My sister-in-law is an influencer. (I don’t make reels—only watch them—but maybe I should branch out.) She created these videos: Love Birds and Cousin Fun.

That $1,500 didn't buy us an Airbnb, Sight & Sound tickets, and a smorgasbord lunch. It bought us five days where none of us had anywhere else to be. It bought us 35 people residing in the same town, watching my dad walk through the door 48 hours after we didn't know if he'd get to come at all. No receipt has a line item for that kind of relief, or that kind of joy.

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Last week was my favorite and most exhausting week of the year: VBS (Vacation Bible School). It's a time to connect with fellow church friends. It's also an opportunity to serve one of the most meaningful groups of people: kids. Ages range from 3-year-olds to almost-teenagers (those going into seventh grade).

I take the week off from my normal job to help wherever I'm needed. I'm doing it right if I feel slightly silly and a lot like a kid again myself. Making a fool of myself causes me to fit right in. Bonus time with my daughter isn't a bad byproduct either. (She only has two more years of attending VBS, then she'll morph into a volunteer. 🥹)

As I taught a lesson to pre-primaries (3- through 6-year-olds), a high, squeaky voice was pulled off the shelf, dusted off, and used again for the first time in a while. It turns out it's a challenge to get kids to want to ask questions and participate, especially when snack time is right after… and they know it.

Another one of my roles was teaching the entire group about animals during the Creature Feature segment. (So, I guess you could say I was a Creature Feature teacher.) I taught how each of the five animals relates to Jesus in some unique way:

Day 1: A cougar kitten showed us that Jesus came to earth as a baby.

Day 2: A gray wolf "teenager" reminded us that Jesus didn't stay little.

Day 3: An American bison demonstrated God's almighty, unmatched power.

Day 4: A grizzly bear's den taught us that Jesus didn't stay in the tomb.

Day 5: A horse painted a picture of what it looks like to share the Good News.

But seriously, did you know an American bison eats the equivalent of 24 loaves of bread a day? It becomes a snowplow in the winter and can toss a refrigerator or a car… or a car that looks like a refrigerator. A horse can run more than 40 mph. A grizzly bear can gain 400 pounds before hibernation, storing much-needed fat for the winter, and has a sense of smell 2,100 times stronger than a human's, catching scents from 10 miles away.

The animal facts were fascinating, but they weren’t what stuck with me most.

(And I suppose when adults say they enjoyed it, that’s a job well done.)

What impressed me more than these critter facts was the moldability of the young minds around me. Not only were the kids brilliant, soaking up learning like sponges, but they were also tender and kind. They took time away from point-making opportunities (because what is a week of VBS without healthy competition?) to help kids from the opposing team learn verses and earn points of their own.

Reflecting on this week, I can’t help but smile. The animals were memorable, but the kids? Unforgettable. Watching them learn, encourage one another, and celebrate each other’s success showed me that shaping young minds isn’t just about teaching. It’s a reminder of what matters most.

And if I’m lucky, I’ll get to do it all over again next year.

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Grumbling erupted from the corner of the living room. Teddy sat beside his bean bag chair with his arms crossed, glaring at the rain-soaked window.

“What’s wrong, Buddy?”

“I can’t play outside. The stupid rain won’t stop.” Teddy turned from the window and glared at the floor.

“Well, how about we fix that!”

“How? You can’t make the rain go away.”

“No, but we can find a fun activity to distract us until you can go outside.”

His look told her he didn’t believe her, but she continued anyway.

“I need to finish up the dishes, then I’ll come find you. OK?”

“Alright,” he huffed.

Twenty minutes later, Jen found her sulking son in the same spot.

“C’mon,” she motioned toward the stairs.

When they reached the second floor of their small townhome, she led Teddy into the study, a space that magically morphed into a guest bedroom just before visitors arrived. On the single bookshelf, a collection of children’s books and well-worn novels she’d collected over the years awaited them. She pulled a navy blue book from a high shelf.

She sat on the dual recliner and motioned him over. Teddy made a face before he flopped onto the couch beside her. Opening the book, she turned the insides toward Teddy and fanned through the pages quickly.

“I can read, Mom. I don’t need pictures anymore.”

“I want to read this one to you.”

He rolled his eyes, folded his arms, and leaned back, daring her to impress him.

“Take cover!” Andrew screamed, diving under the Jeep.

“I’m coming! Don’t leave me—” an explosion cut him short.

Andrew’s screams could barely be heard over the sound of debris pelting the vehicle above him.

“Mom! This is an older-people book. I’m not supposed to...”

Jen patted his knee in reassurance, and he relaxed. Slightly.

When the harsh sounds subsided, he inched out from under the vehicle to find his buddy, Ben, lying a few feet away.

“NO!” He ran closer to assess the damage.

It was done.

No time for tears.

Andrew pulled a tarp from the Jeep and carefully wrapped Ben before placing him in the back of the vehicle.

“Your life for mine, old friend.” He took a deep breath and turned over the ignition.

When he reached the edge of camp, the tips of green tents welcomed him. It felt like home, and yet, he dreaded what came next.

“Mission successful?” the captain asked as he exited the vehicle.

“Yes, Sir! But...”

The captain’s eyes followed Andrew’s to the back seat, and he nodded. Several of Andrew’s comrades joined the captain as they moved Ben to his resting place.

Teddy sat at attention, staring straight ahead and blinking back tears.

“You ok, Bud?”

He nodded vehemently.

“I’m sorry,” a teammate said, gripping his shoulder.

“If it weren’t for him, I—” Andrew’s frame slumped.

“Don’t go there,” the man named Franklin reassured him.

“There’s something I need to show you.” Jen closed the book and stood.

“What? You just started reading!”

She walked toward the bookshelf again, this time grabbing a tired album. Flipping through the pages, she settled on a spread and gingerly placed her finger on a photo with two uniformed men.

“This is Andrew.” She tapped the image of the gentleman on the left.

“No, that’s Grandpa Andy!”

“Right,” she smiled, taking in the resemblance.

“And that’s Great Uncle Ben beside him.”

Teddy looked pensively at her before his gaze drifted toward the window.

“The sun!” he yelled, launching out the back door in the direction of the playground that sat just beyond their tiny yard.

Jen grinned as she followed his spunky frame.

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“It is what it is,” my cousin responded when asked how he was doing in light of a recent divorce.

What was he actually saying?

“There’s nothing I can do about it.”

To me, this phrase feels like a cop-out, not only because it says nothing, but also because it’s borrowed language.

Consider these…

When in Rome…
But have you ever been to Rome?

If the shoe fits…
Does it? What about both of them?

If roles were reversed…
The fact that you’re saying it probably means they’re not.

What about lived language?

It doesn’t have to be dramatic; it’s about ownership.

“In my experience…” That phrase can be the beginning of a #humblebrag. Or, it can reflect experiences that genuinely inform our responses.

Those moments are gold. ✨

Borrowed language is easier than admitting we don’t yet have the words.
Speaking in recycle-ready phrases avoids our being truly known.

Don’t know about you, but I’d rather speak from lived moments than from the thrift shop of repurposed phrases.

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Watching a severed blue tail twitch wasn’t on my agenda for that weekend.

I was typing away on my laptop (or—if I’m being honest—probably binging something on Netflix) when it appeared just inside the room. It breached the threshold and now stood there, insulting me with its presence. Its body stayed perfectly still except for the tail, which twitched ever so slightly.

I sat there in stunned silence. I couldn’t believe my eyes and was a bit afraid to move for fear of what would happen. My two dogs slept peacefully nearby, undisturbed. Unaware of the uninvited guest. Useless. Completely adorable, but useless.

Many a creature has walked into my master bedroom, human and otherwise. Giant spiders? Sure! Centipedes? Absolutely! A plethora of dogs and puppies? Why not!

That day—that creature—was a first.

I knew better than to move, but I couldn’t just sit there either. A victim. A prisoner. And if there’s one thing I hate, it’s feeling trapped in my own house by something with a heartbeat the size of a popcorn kernel.

I got up to grab my salt gun, the one reserved for crawling and flying insects. Not for this visitor. But it’s what I knew. And from past experience, I knew if I could get close enough to shoot it, I could stun it long enough to decide what to do next.

But my opponent was bigger. And I wasn’t entirely sure what it was.

I slid slowly off the bed, and it darted into the coat closet just outside the room. Gone in a blur of claws and audacity.

The bad news: It got away.
The good news: I knew where it was.

That’s when I sent this text to my husband, upstairs and completely unaware of the psychological battle happening below:

He didn’t come down to help me…at first. He came to make sure I wasn’t crazy. Frankly, that’s fair. Marriage is largely verifying whether the other person is overreacting in real time.

Sure enough, there was the intruder’s tail, sticking out slightly from beneath the closet door. It was motionless now, which was somehow creepier.

Eventually, my husband handled the situation in seconds. Seconds I had apparently intended to spend preparing for battle. Asking for help—even when I can’t fully explain the problem or why it matters to me—is healthy.

Apparently, I’m still learning that.

One lizard at a time. 🦎

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In 2024, I posted a whopping four articles on Substack.

At the time, I’d been in a writing group for almost a year. This platform became a place to share stories shaped by what I was learning in that group. It wasn’t earth-shattering or life-changing.

One random post in April. A handful of posts at the end of the year. That was 2024.

In 2025, I wrote and shared 31 articles here, a mix of stories and things I was learning.

In 2026, only four months in, I’ve already posted 28 articles. There’s a bit more strategy now, usually one instructional piece and sometimes a story each week, but the goal is the same: keep writing something regularly.

I used to have a WordPress blog. In the beginning, all was well. It was called Busy But Blessed: A Little Caffeine and Philippians 4:13. Cute, huh? Once I had a blog name, I felt official. I bought a domain and paid for a fancy web hosting package because I thought that’s what official bloggers did.

Translation: I overpaid handsomely for something that distracted me from the one thing I actually needed to be doing: writing. I work full-time, so extra time is a luxury. Nice to have, but not always available. And I’d already been working on my first book since September 2021.

What have I found?

• An outlet for my writing.

• A group of like-minded people.

• A wealth of thoughtful, surprising, and genuinely helpful content.

• A reason to keep showing up.

• A creative rhythm I didn’t realize I needed.

• A place where writing stopped feeling like something I had to earn time for.

Somewhere between “I’ll post occasionally” and “I guess this is part of my life now,” Substack stopped being a side project. It became a place to think out loud, test ideas, tell stories, and stay accountable to the part of me that has always written.

I didn’t come here with a strategy. I came here with a few stories and a little curiosity. Turns out, that was enough to start something bigger than I expected. Humans love to make five-year plans, then get surprised when the small thing quietly becomes the real thing.

I thought I was building a place to post occasionally. Instead, I built a habit. A rhythm. A space that continues pulling me back to the page. Funny how the things we treat as small sometimes end up taking up the most meaningful space in our lives.

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If something didn’t change—and fast—I wasn’t going to make it to my forty-first birthday. I hadn’t taken a meaningful day off work in months. Going all-in, no brakes, was fun for a season: the feeling of adrenaline coursing through my veins as I made the final touches on a major project, moving miles a minute through obstacles that were no longer a problem. As a long-term strategy, this failed. Every time.

Sure, I’d taken plenty of personal and sick days along with holidays in the last year. But just because I wasn’t at the office didn’t mean I was resting. In the last three months alone, our family braved a dangerous ice storm; my husband had his last major surgery related to an unfortunate event from last year; we celebrated four years since Adoption Day for our daughter Gabby; my team survived Tax Day; I celebrated 13 years at my current company; and I launched my first book.

After the whirlwind was over, if I didn’t strategically step away, things would start to break down. The signs were already there. Allowing that to happen would be a costly and painful mistake. I was determined not to let it go there this time.

“Why don’t you take a day off?” my husband suggested. At first, the idea sounded too simple to work. A day away from the office wasn’t equivalent to a solution to burnout. But what could it look like to add intentionality behind some time off? Deciding to follow his advice was almost instant. What day would make sense? That’s when I nailed down the date: two days after Tax Day, I would step away.

But taking a day off wasn’t the hard part. Taking one intentionally was. I didn’t want a random Friday filled with errands, distractions, Netflix binging, or half-rest. I wanted to interrupt the rhythm I’d been living inside of long enough to remember what it felt like to be a person instead of a machine.

Expect things not to go as planned

Friday came, and all started according to plan… then my phone started blowing up.

All 35 members of my immediate family are taking a trip out East this summer to celebrate my parents’ fiftieth wedding anniversary. That’s too many people to squeeze into one rental, so we all coordinated short-term rentals to stay nearby. There will be group events throughout the week, but having almost three dozen humans in the same spaces will take some planning.

My family decided it would happen that day. The first day off I’d had in months. Perfect timing. Disruption rarely asks permission before arriving.

I turned the text thread and notifications off, and to solidify the decision, I turned all my electronics to “Do Not Disturb” mode. (Whoever invented that feature, Thank You!)

This day won’t be perfect, so it isn’t fair to expect it to be. Remember: the goal isn’t perfection; it’s disruption. If your normal rhythm is stress, speed, obligation, and reaction, then even a slightly imperfect day can still be wildly restorative.

Pick a day to step away

The minute you lock in the day, just know: invites will start rolling in. There will be conflicts galore. Protect that day. Don’t give in. Interrupting your rhythm will be worth it. Choose a day with intention. Don’t wait until burnout forces the decision for you.

Your body is usually polite before it becomes dramatic.

Plan ahead

Anything you can do beforehand, do it. Removing potential interrupters in advance will only help. The only person who knew how and where to find me that Friday was my husband. Accessibility is one of the biggest threats to rest. Constant availability trains your brain to stay alert, even when your body is technically off the clock. If everyone can reach you instantly, your brain never fully clocks out. Creating boundaries ahead of time isn’t selfish; it’s practical.

I get to work at 6:00 a.m., sometimes even arriving before the sun! I knew I wanted to stay up late the night before my day off, sleep in, yet still get up at a decent hour before the day slipped away entirely. I need 7-8 hours of sleep each night. If I stayed up till 1:00 a.m., I could get up at 8:00 a.m. and have squeezed in the bare minimum of sleep. That would give me just enough time to get ready for the day and head to my first venue by 8:30 a.m.

Note on the venue(s)… do your research. I lost some momentum during the two-hour writing retreat portion of my day while waiting in line for coffee (apparently, Friday mornings are when everyone has the same idea), trying to find the WiFi password (and utterly failing), and being distracted by the new venue. Don’t be like me. Choosing a familiar yet offsite enough venue can help.

Environment matters more than we admit. A change in scenery can shift your mindset, but unfamiliar places also come with friction. Strike a balance between “different enough to feel fresh” and “familiar enough to avoid wasting mental energy.”

The goal of this step is to clear your schedule and prime it for your Top Three.

This was the most important part of the entire day. Without intention, free time tends to disappear into scrolling, errands, chores, or vague productivity disguised as rest.

Ask yourself, “What do I want to feel like when this day is over?”

This question alone inspired the entirety of my day. I wanted to feel accomplished yet grateful and relaxed at the end of the day.

Establish your Top Three

If you can’t do anything else on the day you’ve chosen, what are the three things you want to have done that day? Think less about achievement and more about alignment. What would make the day feel worthwhile when it was over?

Naps in excess of an hour count! Notice the order of events: therapy/relaxation was last. I’m glad I planned this for the end of the day. I arrived home relaxed, ready to tackle tasks, but still refused to do them… until the next day.

Part of breaking your rhythm means refusing to follow your usual script. My weekdays typically begin before sunrise, which meant sleeping in felt almost rebellious. That alone made the day feel different.

Nothing dramatic happened that Friday. No breakthrough. No life-changing revelation. Just a quiet interruption to a pattern that had been running unchecked for too long.

How did I actually feel when Friday was over?

Accomplished. Meaningful. Relaxed. In that order.

Sometimes the healthiest thing you can do is disrupt the rhythm that’s slowly wearing you down. Not everything in life needs to be maintained. Some patterns deserve to be broken.

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