Permission to Push Pause

I’m often asked at conferences and readings about how I manage to “get it all done.” I’ve published three novels since 2015 (and have written two more). I travel regularly for author events. I’m a college professor teaching four classes a semester (plus meetings, etc.). I homeschool two kids and have two dogs and two cats. (I have a partner who helps with this.) I am also active in the community.

So, when someone comes up to me, thinking about all the balls they’re juggling, I understand the twinge of panic mixed with a tint of doubt or even judgment in their question of how I make it all work. Most of the people asking it are, like me, people who are working full-time jobs AND taking care of others in some capacity AND have additional social or community obligations AND are trying to write and publish novels. 

I’ve written pieces on how to manage your time and strategies for getting the writing done (click the links to check them out), but sometimes the best plans get chewed up by life.

Sometimes the answer to the question of how I make it all work is—I don’t.

People need things. Our bodies and spirits need things. Often these needs run hard up against our wants. Most times, we can navigate both—maybe not with equal balance and probably with a lot of juggling—but there are times when we have to momentarily let go of a want in order to address a need. 

It’s a hard decision to make, but what makes it all the more difficult to bear is the guilt that comes with the choice to push pause on a goal, the sense of failure that shadows the decision to step back for a little while and take care of ourselves and others who might need us. 

Our culture drives us to always be striving for more, to do more, obtain more, write more, publish more. That’s okay–up to a point. Drive is good. Goals are good. Aspiring to stretch ourselves is good. But not if we stretch ourselves too thin. And what’s not okay is the attitude (sometimes shoved in our faces by others’ judgement, sometimes self-inflicted) that we are somehow less than when we stop doing more. 

We shouldn’t feel guilty or like we failed some litmus test of success just because we rest or pause to take care of needs—ours or someone else’s. It’s okay to put down one of the balls you’re juggling. You can pick it back up again when you’re ready. It’ll be right there waiting for you. I promise.