Stuffed
Something reached fever pitch in my life, and then
something snapped, died. And no amount of coaxing will
bring that thing back to life again. Something, it seems, is
over.
Maybe these things go in cycles. Someone told me
recently that we experience a fundamental change every
seven years. Maybe that’s it. Maybe it’s about having a new
baby, one that we struggled for, one that arrived after a long
and difficult pregnancy, one that will most likely be our last
child, the baby of our little family. Maybe it’s about biting
off more than I can chew professionally—more books, more
deadlines, more traveling and speaking. Maybe it’s God,
calling a big cosmic time-out on me, giving me a chance at
a new way of living.
This is what I know: I’ve always been a more is more
person, and something shifted this summer. Something
inside me said no more.
No more pushing and rushing. No more cold pizza at
midnight, no more flights, no more books, no more
houseguests, no more of all these things, even things I love,
things I long for, things that make me happy. No more.
Only less. Less of everything. Less stress. Less crying. Less