The Walk

This week, I realized something I didn’t expect: doing less can actually help you do more.

After weeks of high blood pressure and creeping exhaustion, I finally took a step back to reevaluate how I work. With the help of an AI coach, I started looking at the patterns behind my stress. What emerged was confronting. I’ve spent most of my life in overdrive—driven by deadlines, fueled by people-pleasing, and constantly measuring myself by what I produce. Even when I thought I was resting, I wasn’t. I was just switching gears and calling it downtime.

This week, I tried a different approach. One script a day. No work at night. Shorter walks. No “just one more thing” before closing the laptop. And to my surprise, it started working. My mind cleared. I felt calmer. The sense of urgency began to fade. And then something unexpected happened: I finally launched a BookTok channel I’d been overthinking for more than a year. Not out of pressure or guilt, but because I had space to breathe. I had energy again.

That’s when I started to understand what it really means to “protect the process.” I’ve always been focused on progress, on finishing, on pushing through. But now I see that the process itself needs care. It needs time, and margin, and trust. You can’t keep planting seeds if the soil is dry and cracked.

I used to think rest was a reward you had to earn. Now I’m learning it’s the foundation everything else depends on.

If you’ve been feeling overwhelmed or stretched thin, you’re not alone. It’s easy to fall into the trap of believing that you’re only valuable when you’re achieving. But that pressure is a weight we’re not meant to carry. And maybe it’s time we stopped trying to carry the world on our shoulders.

We’re not built for that. We’re not superheroes. We’re not gods. We’re just people. Beloved, limited, called—not to be perfect, but to be faithful.

And sometimes, being faithful means closing the laptop, stepping outside, and letting the sun remind you that life continues, even when you slow down.

This week might quietly become one of the most important of the entire year. Not because of a big success or dramatic moment, but because something inside me finally shifted.

After weeks of pushing myself beyond the limit to finish a major podcast project, I crashed—hard. My sleep was awful. I started having strange hot flashes. One evening, I checked my blood pressure and it was alarmingly high. That got my attention.

At first, I blamed the usual suspects—too much ramen, too little rest. But the more I looked into it, the clearer it became: this wasn’t just about the past few weeks. It was about years of pushing myself, overplanning, and tying my value to how much I could get done. It was about a lifetime of workload stacking, amplified by ADHD and the fear of not being useful enough.

And the worst part? I knew all this already. I’ve spoken about it, preached about it even. But I hadn’t let it sink in—not emotionally. Not in a way that actually changed how I live.

This week, I finally started making real changes. I stopped working after five. I cut back my daily workload to something that felt absurdly small. I resisted the urge to “just do one more thing.” And when I felt uncomfortable—like I was wasting time or not being productive enough—I tried to see that discomfort not as a sign of failure, but as a signal that I was doing something new. Something necessary.

I didn’t expect it, but letting go felt like obedience. Not to a rule, but to reality. To the truth that I’ve spent years avoiding. And maybe, in a deeper sense, to God—who never asked me to earn love through exhaustion.

I still have questions. I still worry I’ll fall behind. But I also know I’ve never slept this well in months. And for the first time in a long while, I don’t end the day feeling like I have to prove I deserve to rest.

If you’ve ever struggled with feeling like you’re only as good as your output, this episode of The Walk is for you. It’s not about giving up—it’s about unlearning. And maybe that’s where the real healing begins.

I had a clear plan for January. It was going to be my month to get away, take a writing retreat, change my surroundings, and recharge after the intense December production sprint. Instead, I stayed home. And I worked. Hard.

The new daily podcast about saints has been very well received, which I’m truly grateful for. But each episode takes a lot of effort—researching, writing, recording, and editing. I’ve set myself the goal of always staying a full month ahead, so there’s a buffer in case I get sick or life throws a curveball. That’s why I pushed so hard to finish all the episodes for February this past week.

The Saint of the Day podcast demanded everything I had. Twenty episodes, fully written and produced. That’s the length of a short novel in just a few weeks. And while I managed to get it all done, it came at a price. I gave up my daily walks, most of my rest, and ended up sitting at my desk for 10- to 12-hour days. Unsurprisingly, I crashed. Twice.

But this time something was different. I didn’t panic. I didn’t beat myself up. I didn’t immediately try to “get back on track.” I let myself crash. I listened to what my body and brain were telling me. And I learned a few things along the way.

First, recovery isn’t a sign of weakness. It’s part of the creative rhythm. When I push past that, I don’t win—I just delay the consequences. I’ve done that too many times. This time I stepped back and said, not again.

Second, I’ve realized that I often try to regain control of my life too quickly. The moment the pressure lifts, I want to fill the silence with something new: a fresh project, a new idea, a podcast revival. Anything to regain a sense of structure. But I’m learning that when I’m tired, that urge doesn’t come from creativity—it comes from stress.

The biggest shift has been learning to sit with that discomfort. To admit, even out loud, that I can’t do it all. That I don’t have the energy right now. That it’s okay to let a few things stay unresolved.

And when people ask for my time, even for good things, I’ve started to pause instead of jumping in. I used to say yes out of habit, out of guilt, out of fear of disappointing someone. Now I give myself time to see whether it’s truly right for me in that moment.

So no, I didn’t get my retreat this month. But I got something else: clarity. A clearer understanding of how I work, where my limits are, and what I need in order to create sustainably. I’m not making any big decisions right now. I’m still in recovery mode. But I do feel a quiet desire surfacing—a desire to write something small, fun, and manageable. Maybe a short novella. Something I can share with readers who follow my email newsletter. A little time-traveling mystery with monks, maybe.

Whatever it ends up being, it feels light. Playful. And that’s a good sign.

So no, this January didn’t go to plan. But it still taught me what I needed to learn.

This week, I finished something I didn’t think was possible: I wrote 20 podcast scripts in just a few days. That’s about 25,000 words. I recorded and edited a dozen of them. I skipped walks, meals, sleep. I pulled the lever on the Millennium Falcon and went full hyperfocus.

But this post isn’t a humblebrag about productivity. It’s a reflection on something that hit me hard as I walked through the woods afterward, blinking into the sunlight like a bear after hibernation.

In the middle of this whirlwind, I realized this sprint wasn't just about meeting a deadline. It was about reclaiming something deeper: my sense of direction. My identity.

Because yes, producing daily stories of saints is beautiful and fulfilling. But it’s also a job. A contract. A task with a scope and timeline and deliverables. And somewhere in the middle of it, I started waking up with bursts of ideas for other things: new podcasts, new stories, new books. My brain was trying to tell me something.

It wasn’t just distraction. It was hunger.

I want my life to be about more than deadlines and deliverables. I want to write stories that come from my heart, not just the ones that fill a broadcast schedule. I want to reach the people beyond this one project. To build a creative life that reflects who I am, not just what I’m capable of producing under pressure.

And that’s why I’m setting new boundaries. I’ll give my best to this podcast project — but only within the space I’ve defined for it. One week per month. No more. That way, I can protect time for retreats, writing, and dreaming. For the books I long to write. For the broader mission I feel called to live.

Because here’s the truth: hustle alone is not holiness. Doing “enough” will never feel like enough if it’s not aligned with your heart.

So yes, I’m proud of what I’ve accomplished this week. But more than that, I’m grateful for what it taught me. That the work is not just about output. It’s about becoming. And I want to become the kind of person who remembers to walk in the woods. To tell the stories that move me. And to carry others, like Sam carried Frodo, one small act of mercy at a time.

If you’re in a similar season — juggling projects, wrestling with overwhelm, wondering where your dreams went — maybe this is your reminder too.

It’s okay to protect your calling.
It’s okay to say no.
It’s okay to want more than efficiency.
It’s okay to be a happy hobbit.

On the Feast of the Epiphany, I kicked off my new daily Dutch podcast Heilige van de Dag with the first episode about the Magi. It’s a year-long journey, telling the stories of saints and martyrs—one per weekday. The project began with a simple idea: what if I could bring these sometimes dusty old tales to life in a way that makes them feel personal, surprising, and real?

But launching a new podcast isn’t just about hitting “publish.” There’s the writing, recording, editing, and promoting. And when it’s in a language and format you’ve never tried before, it’s equal parts thrilling and terrifying.

What helped was this: going outside. Making my daily walks non-negotiable. Letting the snow slow me down just enough to reflect and re-center.

Because here’s the challenge I’m walking into this year:

I want to be creative—but not burned out.

I want to publish more stories—but with enough care to make them shine.

I want to build something lasting—but without losing joy in the process.

That’s why I’m committing to sustainable routines this year: early mornings for writing, focused weeks for podcasting, and hopefully a retreat or two to give new projects the breathing room they deserve.

The launch of Heilige van de Dag is only the beginning. There are books to finish, stories to polish, covers to design, readers to reach. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned from snow-covered trails and saintly tales, it’s that slow steps can still carry you far—especially when taken with purpose.

Thanks for walking with me.

– Fr. Roderick