The car needs gas.
The house needs new windows.
I need to call my dad.
I need to send that email people are waiting on.
We need a bigger house.
I need to learn how to code.
I could go on. I bet you could too. But today the weight of the mental load feels heavier than ever. So heavy, in fact, it feels like its about to come to a head. I’m racking my brain, trying to think of ways to intercede things before they crumble, as they’re crumbling, but I’ve got nothing.
“Something in our lives has to change, I think,” I text my husband as he waits at the doctor’s office. Wouldn’t you know it, he’s being seen for stress-induced shingles. Shingles, guys. As in the offshoot of chicken pox. Stressed-induced chicken pox. That’s where he is. Frankly, that’s where we are. There’s too much going on. Leave it to your body to let you know, formally and officially, when enough is enough.
I keep repeating to myself: this is just a season. We have small, precious children who are the stars of the show. I repeat, also: yes, that’d be great, but that can’t happen right now. Well, I think I’m in the pit of the season. The part of the season where hope is all around but the eyes fail to recognize it. Oh, Lord, help me in my unbelief.
It will get better.
Fits + Starts 