I don’t run for fitness. I don’t run for fun. But give me a deadline or a mission I believe in? I’m sprinting, and spoiler alert, that sprinting has sent me straight to burnout. I don’t know why I’m wired this way. Why I equate success with hustle. Why I feel most alive when I’m contributing, moving, fixing, and leading. I have a hard time sitting still. I like results. I like action. And yes, I’ve been called a control freak more times than I can count.

I didn’t post a blog post last week, just because it felt too forced. I haven’t even posted on my Instagram in over a week. The HORROR! Why? Honestly, it felt like performing, or more like needing to mark off another notch on my goal of 52 posts this year, or growing a following and having something to show for it. A few weeks ago, I felt a deep pull to stop posting altogether. And what did I do?

So here’s some tea: people can be wildly disappointing. I’ve been there—mad, walked over, hurt to my core, questioning if I’m even capable of loving well. The stories I could tell—but they’re not for the internet to know.