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.
The key was knowing which choice fit the season I was in.
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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