This week, I walked through the woods—and through a lot of thoughts.

After last week’s intense physical challenge (four marathons' worth of walking!), my body hit the brakes. Fatigue rolled in like a heavy fog, and I had no choice but to slow down. At first, I was frustrated. Then I realized: maybe this was exactly what I needed.

When I stopped pushing, I began noticing small things:

The cool breeze through the summer leaves

How audiobooks help me read a book a day (yes, really!)

That post-lunch dip where all I want is to nap under a tree

The emotional “aftershocks” of being constantly on the go

But most importantly, I noticed how judgment—of others, and especially of myself—creeps in when I’m overwhelmed or tired. And how freeing it is to let go of that inner voice that whispers “you’re not doing enough.”

This episode isn’t polished. It’s more like a rambling walk through my thoughts. But sometimes, that’s where the real insight happens.

If you’ve ever:

Felt guilty for needing rest

Been too harsh on yourself

Struggled with being judged—or judging others

Wanted to break free from the pressure to always perform

…then come walk with me.

After a month of traveling—first to Ireland for a writing retreat, then to the Walk of the World—I’m finally back home, walking in the woods near where I live. And as I reflect on those weeks, one thing keeps returning to my mind: how deeply different life feels when you simplify.

In Ireland, I had one goal: write.
During the 4-day walk: just finish each day’s 40 kilometers.

No multitasking. No racing the clock. Just presence.
And strangely enough… I learned more during those four weeks than in the whole year before.

Here’s what stood out:

When you give your mind space, reflection happens naturally.

Friendships grow faster when you're walking side by side, not online.

Aging doesn’t mean losing purpose—it’s an invitation to live it more intentionally.

You don’t need to meet all your goals to know you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.

I used to plan ahead in big leaps: where I’d be in 10 years, what I’d accomplish. But I’ve come to see that fruit grows when I focus not on the harvest, but on today’s seed.

And like the sower in the parable, I’ve learned that it’s enough to simply sow. Whether it bears fruit is not up to me. What matters is that I walked, I wrote, I rested, and I trusted the time given to me.

Maybe that’s the invitation for all of us.
Not to rush ahead.
Not to cling to the past.
But to ask: What can I do today with the time I’ve been given?

I just finished the Walk of the World in Nijmegen—40 kilometers a day, for four days straight—and I feel… surprisingly great.

That wasn’t always the case. The last two times I joined this epic Dutch hiking event, it was painful. I nearly gave up. But this time? I trained. I climbed Irish hills in the rain. I pushed myself. And somehow, by day four, I was practically walking on sunshine (yes, that old song echoed through the villages constantly).

What struck me most wasn’t the distance or the discipline—it was the vibe. This walk isn’t just a sports event. It’s a celebration of humanity. All along the route, villagers handed out drinks, snacks, and high-fives. Kids offered cherry tomatoes and cucumbers. Elderly folks cheered from chairs. Strangers smiled. The music was loud (too loud for my ADHD brain at times), but the joy was louder.

There’s something deeply moving about being carried—figuratively—by kindness. Especially in a world that often feels so divided. Here’s what I noticed along the way:

Most people are good. Genuinely good.

Pain fades faster when you’re encouraged.

Walking clears your head like nothing else.

And sometimes, strangers believe in you more than you believe in yourself.

On the final stretch, when everything hurts and you're not sure you’ll make it, you hear someone yell: “You’ve got this!” And suddenly, you do.

This episode is more than just a travelogue. It’s about resilience, connection, and why sometimes, the best way to find peace is to put on your walking shoes and go.

This week’s episode of The Walk was recorded on a quiet trail in the Wicklow Mountains. It’s my last full day in Ireland, and I wanted to soak up every second of it. No plans, no pressure—just following my nose, as I often say.

I ended up walking past pine forests being replaced with ancient native trees, climbing fences into meadows full of purple wildflowers, and eventually finding my way to a mirror-still lake that felt like something out of Tolkien’s Middle Earth. It was breathtaking. And quiet. So, so quiet.

But this walk wasn’t just about the scenery.

It was also about letting go. Over the last two weeks, I’ve finally done what I came here to do: finish the first draft of my novel. Well, almost. The most important pieces have fallen into place. And the surprising part? Most of that writing happened while walking. Dictating scenes, finding rhythm in the story and in my steps.

What I’ve discovered is this:

Writing doesn’t require pressure. It thrives in peace.

Faith isn’t just about what you believe—it’s about trusting that what you’re doing matters, even if no one sees it.

Not everything has to be productive. Some days are just for walking. For noticing. For resting.

There’s a line I share in the episode that’s stuck with me: “The deer aren’t anxious about whether they’re good enough.” And honestly, I needed to hear that. Maybe you do too.

If you’ve ever wrestled with creativity, doubt, or the need for approval, I hope this episode will give you a bit of space. A bit of quiet. A glimpse of a lake that reminds you: you’re right where you need to be.

I always thought retreats had to happen in silence. In a monastery. With stillness, books, and maybe the sound of a distant bell.

But this week, soaked to the bone on a rain-slicked mountain trail in Wicklow, I realized something: my real retreat begins when I move.

When I walk through mist and sheep-speckled hills. When a deer appears out of nowhere and follows me like an old friend. When my only distractions are waterfalls, wind, and the sound of my own footsteps.

It’s in those long, quiet hours that my mind finally clears. That’s how I finished outlining the last acts of my novel. That’s how I found the energy to rethink a new “geeky catechism” project. That’s how I remembered who I am.

I share all that—and a few unexpected encounters—in this episode, recorded mid-hike as the rain returned and the deer showed up again.

If you’ve ever felt like you’re not “doing retreats right,” this one’s for you.

You’ll hear about:

The silent magic of Glendalough’s ruins and forests

Why movement helps me write and pray better

The curious deer that walked beside me (twice!)

A behind-the-scenes look at my book’s final chapters

And how old geeky sermons might become something new

Sometimes, the most sacred places aren’t behind monastery walls—they’re on muddy trails with wet socks and wild grace.

I’m writing this from a quiet mountain trail overlooking the Upper Lake of Glendalough. The same path Saint Kevin walked 1,500 years ago. And maybe, in some small way, I’m walking it too.

I came to Ireland not for a vacation, but for something I’ve needed for a long time: space. A chance to step out of the noise of everyday life and into the stillness that lets me hear again—really hear—what matters.

Why do we create, write, or tell stories when the world feels like it’s falling apart?

That’s the question I brought with me to this retreat. And it’s the question I explore in this episode. Along the way, I talk about:

Why storytelling is a form of resistance

What C.S. Lewis said about writing during war

How Saint Kevin’s cave taught me something about my own mission

What a real writer’s retreat looks like (yes, it involves laundry, hiking, and no Wi-Fi)

I’m not here to escape the world. I’m here to recharge so I can return to it with something worth sharing.

Come walk with me.

This week, I walked 40 kilometers in the heat, visited my favorite zoo, got a nasty blister, and accidentally outlined three new books. All while talking to myself.

That’s the power of walking. It doesn’t just move your legs—it unclutters your mind. When I walk, I stop performing. I start creating. No timer. No to-do list. Just me, the trees, and a brain full of stories that won’t shut up.

But then I come home… and the temptation hits. I post a story on Substack and immediately want to check:
“Did anyone see it?”
“Why hasn’t anyone commented?”
“Was it good? Was I good?”

It’s a trap. (Cue General Akbar.)

In this episode, I share:

how meerkats reminded me of community

why I’m learning to treat likes as gifts, not fuel

the difference between writing and performing

what God’s infinite galaxies taught me about creating with abundance

And yes, I also talk about penguins politely taking turns to dive into a pool.

I used to be what the Dutch call a “stress chicken.” Always on edge, grinding my teeth over deadlines, trying to please everyone, and convinced that anything less than perfect was failure.

In high school, I’d wait till the last minute to study—then push myself so hard that I’d physically hurt. I carried that mindset into seminary, parish life, and media work. Even good things—like writing or podcasting—could become stressful if I felt I had to do them.

But here’s what changed everything: I started noticing the signs.

When I was in “yellow alert”—edgy, irritable, pushing through too much.

When I was in “red alert”—barely functioning, overwhelmed, shutting down.

That’s when I learned a simple rule from Star Trek: shields up.

Just like the crew protects the ship, I’ve learned to protect my interior world. To step away. To say no. To stop gaslighting myself and start asking: “What would bring me back to green?”

In this episode, I share how I’ve gone from panic-mode productivity to a gentler rhythm built around:

Daily journaling (seriously, it helps)

Ditching the to-do list

Defining three non-negotiables per day

Reclaiming my own “five-year mission”

And I ask a big question you might need too:
If this thing you're stressed about won’t matter in five years... why let it steal your peace today?

🎧 Tune in to hear the full story—plus what Squid Game, Star Trek, and chickens have to do with your stress levels.

For years, I kept telling myself the same story.

That I never finished my doctorate.
That I start too many things and finish too few.
That I’m wasting time while others are moving ahead.

And honestly, that story shaped how I saw everything. It drained my energy. Made me doubt every new idea before it even had a chance.

But something changed. I started telling a different story.

Yes, I didn’t finish that academic degree. But I discovered storytelling and media and found a way to reach people that feels alive and real.

Yes, I’ve abandoned projects. But I’ve also written more in the past few months than I ever have before. I’ve found my rhythm. My voice. My joy.

The facts didn’t change. But the story I chose to tell about them did.

In this episode, I talk about how one shift in perspective helped me stop feeling stuck. And how you can do the same.

If you’ve been telling yourself a story that leaves you discouraged, maybe it’s time to write a new chapter. Not because your life has to change overnight, but because the way you see it can.

Last week was a blur. Between TV interviews, an online course, rainy bike rides to Mass, and hosting a Star Wars convention, I found myself teetering between total exhaustion and surprising moments of grace.

In this episode of The Walk, I share:

What it was like to interview three radically different guests for TV in one day—especially one who claimed God told her she’d die at 62 if she didn’t stop drinking.

Why being a priest at a fantasy convention might be the most “Jesus-like” thing I do.

How I ended up improvising a homily at the last minute—and why it actually worked.

And how writing a medieval fantasy version of The Empire Strikes Back nearly derailed my prep for hosting a Star Wars event (oops).

Looking back, I realize how much my ministry has changed. I used to think being a priest meant preaching and teaching. These days, I think it's more about walking with people—even if it means doing so in a Wookiee-filled convention center.

I’m still figuring things out. But one thing I’ve learned: trust opens doors. To conversations. To faith. To joy.

This episode is messy, personal, and full of stories from behind the scenes. If you're curious what it's like to be a priest, a geek, and a tired human being all at once, hit play.