Every December, I tell myself the same story. That I’ll slow down. That I’ll spend my afternoons reading by the fire, catching up on the books I didn’t finish during the year. That I’ll rest, breathe, and maybe even enjoy doing nothing for a change.

And every December, reality unfolds differently.

This week, I found myself once again escaping to the woods after lunch, grateful for the silence between the trees. The leaf blowers have been relentless this season, drilling into my concentration, as if the world refuses to let anyone sit still. But out here, it’s quiet. Cold, yes, but manageable. And strangely comforting. Maybe because it gives me space to think about everything I’m trying to juggle right now.

I’ve been pouring my energy into two big projects this month. The first is a podcast series about saints, launching in early January. I’ve challenged myself to write each script in the present tense, not to make it harder—though it definitely does—but to draw the listener into each story as if they’re right there, walking beside the saint. It’s powerful work. Spiritual, even. But writing those scripts takes time. And focus. And on some days, I simply don’t have enough of either.

The second project is my Advent novel, a cozy fantasy story told one chapter at a time. It was meant to feel like an Advent calendar—25 chapters, one each day until Christmas. But there have been days when the words wouldn’t come. Days when I was too tired to think straight. So I’ve let go of the idea of writing two chapters in one day, or racing ahead. I’m just walking forward, one page at a time.

What I’ve come to realize—perhaps the hard way—is that more planning doesn’t magically create more hours in the day. Better time management doesn’t solve the problem of being human. Sometimes, no matter how hard you try, there just isn’t enough energy or clarity or inspiration to do it all.

And that’s okay.

Because when I do manage to focus—when I write something that makes me pause, that makes me feel something—I remember why I’m doing this in the first place. These stories matter. Whether it’s the tale of a forgotten saint who stood firm in a time of persecution, or a dragon rider learning to heal through friendship, the act of telling them shapes me. It teaches me. And I hope it touches others too.

I used to think the goal was to do more, be more, give more. Now I’m starting to believe that the real art lies in doing less, but doing it with care. With intention. With love.

So I’ll keep walking. Keep writing. Keep trying to focus on what truly matters.

And if you’d like to come along, I’d love to have you join me for this week’s walk.