This week, I walked under trees that seemed almost alive, swaying like Ents in the wind. And for a moment, I felt incredibly small—and also strangely rooted.
That sense of being tiny in a giant world mirrored what I’ve been feeling lately in my creative work. I’m wrapping up two books of short stories. Sixty thousand words each. A number that once felt impossible. But step by step, Pomodoro by Pomodoro, story by story… I’m getting there.
What I’ve learned is this: Finishing anything big isn’t about sudden genius. It’s about showing up, over and over. And maybe vacuuming the bathroom in your five-minute breaks.
I used to get so frustrated with my own limitations—like why can’t I finish everything on my to-do list? But lately, I’ve started treating that list like a wish list. It’s not a contract. It’s a conversation between the version of me that dreams and the version of me that’s just trying to do the next right thing.
--------
54:30
--------
54:30
The Walk - I Can Finally Breathe Again
You know that feeling when you’ve been holding your breath for weeks—without even noticing? That was me. Caught in a storm of what-ifs, low-level anxiety, and a thousand racing thoughts.
When that happens, my brain goes into overdrive. It writes disaster stories with the same creativity I normally use for fairy tales. So I did what I always do when I’m overwhelmed: I cooked. I walked. And I wrote. A lot.
I’ve been working on a new anthology, full of darker short stories. In just over a week, I’ve written dozens. Not because I had to—but because writing is how I cope. When I’m telling a story, I’m not stuck in my own. I can put the fear on mute. For a while, at least.
And then, out of nowhere, came peace.
Not because anything dramatic happened. Just the slow realization that… things are okay. I’m safe. I don’t have to brace for impact. I don’t have to overperform to earn my place.
That feeling opened the door for other things. Rest. Reading. Drawing again. Cleaning out the fridge. Making soup. Cooking lasagna and portioning it like some sort of domestic wizard. I even installed a matte screen on my iPad so I could draw without the glare. It sounds silly, but it felt like a quiet act of self-care.
This episode of The Walk is about that shift. That moment when the tension leaves your shoulders. When the noise in your head finally softens. It’s about how stories, rituals, and the smallest gestures can help us survive the anxious seasons—and slowly move back into ourselves.
--------
48:55
--------
48:55
The Walk - The Hidden Cost of Seeming Fine
There are weeks when nothing dramatic happens—and yet, you feel exhausted before anything even begins.
That was this past week for me. A slow drain of energy, not from doing too much, but from carrying too many things in my head. Conversations I’m dreading. Deadlines that feel like cliffs. Meetings that demand a kind of energy I don’t always have.
On this episode of The Walk, I talk about what it's like when your brain keeps running simulations of worst-case scenarios. About how hard it is to prepare for a meeting with your bishop when you already fear you’re not doing “enough” as a priest. I also share the story of the last diocesan gathering I went to—how the sound of motorbikes and the pressure to perform triggered a shutdown I didn’t understand until years later.
I’ve been trying to work with my brain, not against it. Creating routines that start with writing—because at least then, the day begins with something that feels solid. Learning how to notice friction instead of calling it laziness. Letting myself start small. Sometimes, the most merciful thing I can do is allow myself to fold just two socks—and be okay with that.
This episode is really about humility. The kind that Jesus talks about in the Gospel: choosing the lower place at the table, not because you're worthless, but because that’s where help can reach you. That’s where grace begins.
If you’ve ever felt like you’re not quite made for the world you’re in, or like you have to explain your whole interior life just to be understood—maybe this walk is for you, too.
--------
51:00
--------
51:00
The Walk - How Daily Walks Changed My Life
It’s been 100 days.
One hundred days since the white smoke rose over the Vatican and Pope Leo stepped onto the balcony as the first American pope.
And also—one hundred days since I started walking every single day and telling stories.
At first, it was just a fun idea: write a tiny story inspired by that seagull chick we saw during the conclave livestream. But something shifted. What began as a small creative spark turned into a daily ritual that changed my life.
Since then:
I’ve written 77 short stories.
I’ve drafted two entire books.
I’ve walked through woods, fields, cities, rain, and heatwaves.
I’ve preached sermons that feel more alive than ever.
And I’ve finally started to feel... grounded.
There’s something about walking that changes the way I think. It slows me down. It clears the noise. And it connects me—both to the world around me and the one within. When I run, I track my speed and heart rate. When I walk, I notice butterflies, sunflowers, gravel paths, ancient stories, and the voice of God.
Sometimes the walk leads to a homily. Sometimes to a podcast. Sometimes it becomes a story or an insight at 5:30 in the morning that I have to record before I can go back to sleep.
Other times, it’s just quiet. But never empty.
The past 100 days reminded me that I’m not here to run. I’m here to dwell. To walk with others. To follow a voice that says, “Come, follow me.” Even when it leads back into the fire.
If you’ve ever wondered what might happen if you showed up for your creative self—just a little bit—every day… this is your sign. Go for a walk. Tell a story. Share your world.
It might just become the beginning of a new one.
--------
47:57
--------
47:57
The Walk - When Life Switches to Red Alert
I was walking in the woods, trying to escape the heatwave—and the mental heatwave in my head. I’d just come out of a Sunday that flipped everything upside down.
You know that feeling when life throws a sudden curveball, and your brain hits red alert before your heart even catches up? That was me, standing behind the altar, trying to mask the panic when I heard that our pastor, Father Mauricio, is being transferred. Again. Another change. Another goodbye.
I talk a lot about slowing down, about being present. But sometimes, even a slow walk through the forest can’t stop the mental acceleration. My ADHD brain was off to the races—worrying, overthinking, preparing for worst-case scenarios.
This episode of The Walk is about that moment. The one where you realize that even after years of learning, healing, and growing… it’s still hard. When life doesn’t follow your carefully crafted routine. When you're just trying to keep going—and not fall back into old burnout patterns.
I also share what I’m doing differently this time:
Recognizing the signs of overwhelm early.
Asking for help before things spiral.
Creating a simpler structure for my ministry—and my mind.
Remembering my core identity: priest, author, geek.
If you're navigating change, dealing with anxiety, or just trying to understand why some days your brain won't start—this episode is for you.
A weekly walk with Fr. Roderick during which he shares his thoughts as a priest on the struggles and challenges as well as the joys and surprises of day-to-day life.
Netherlands