The Walk

My impressions on the first week of my Camino to Santiago de Compostela.

I’m getting ready for a trip that feels both exciting and slightly overwhelming: I'm going to walk my second Camino to Santiago de Compostela! There’s a long list of things that need to be done, deadlines that don’t move, and a body and mind that are already feeling the pressure. Normally, this would be the moment where I push harder, try to finish everything, and ignore the warning signs. But this time, I’m trying something different. Instead of forcing my way through the chaos, I’m learning to slow down, to choose what really matters, and to accept that not everything will be finished before I leave. What’s changed is not the workload, but how I respond to it. In the past, I would measure myself against an invisible standard and tell myself I wasn’t doing enough. That voice is still there sometimes, but I’m starting to recognize it for what it is. I’m learning to work with my limits instead of constantly pushing against them. That means taking breaks, stopping when I’ve done enough, and trusting that I can pick things up again the next day. It’s not always easy, especially when everything feels urgent, but it does make a difference. And maybe that’s already part of the journey I’m about to begin. Not just the physical pilgrimage, but a different way of moving through life. A slower pace. Less pressure. Fewer expectations about how things should go. I don’t know what this trip will bring, and for once, I’m okay with that. I’ll do what I can, leave the rest, and trust that something meaningful will unfold along the way.

Lately, I’ve been noticing a deeper question underneath everything I do. Not just how I plan my days, or how I manage my energy, but something more fundamental: can I actually trust the rhythm of my life? Because if I’m honest, I often try to control it. I plan, I push, I expect myself to perform. And then there are those days where nothing works. I’m tired, unfocused, and whatever I try just doesn’t land. What’s new is that I’m starting to respond differently. Instead of forcing it, I step outside, go for a walk, and slowly I feel things come back. Not because I made it happen, but because I gave it space.   That shift is changing how I look at my work. I’m experimenting with giving each day a clear purpose, not to control everything, but to create room. Room for focus, room for rest, room to close the loops that keep buzzing in the back of my mind. But the real challenge is not the system. It’s letting go of the idea that I have to do everything. That my value depends on how much I produce. Choosing one focus for a month sounds simple, but it forces me to say no to a hundred other things. And that’s where it becomes spiritual. It’s about trust. Trust that what I leave undone doesn’t define me. In this episode, I’m trying to put words to that tension. Between calling and limitation. Between wanting to do more and learning to choose well. I don’t think this is just my struggle. If you’ve ever felt torn between everything you could do and what you actually have the energy for, then you’ll probably recognize this. Maybe the real question isn’t how to do more, but how to live in a way that is sustainable, faithful, and grounded in trust.

The news has been heavy lately. Every day brings new reports about the war in Iran, images of destruction, and stories of people whose lives are suddenly turned upside down. It is easy to feel overwhelmed by it. In this episode I reflect on what it means to stay attentive to that suffering without losing hope ourselves. One thing that helps me is remembering how powerful stories can be. News often focuses on what is going wrong right now. Stories, on the other hand, help us imagine where we might still go. They remind us that the future is not written yet. In the podcast I talk about how storytelling, whether in books, films, or even the stories we tell each other about our lives, can keep our imagination alive. And that imagination is closely connected to hope. If we can still picture a better future, we are less likely to give in to despair. That is also why creative work matters to me right now. Writing stories, reading them, and sharing them with others helps me keep looking forward instead of getting stuck in the darkness of the moment. Hope is not pretending that the world is fine. It is choosing to believe that the story is still unfolding. And as long as the story continues, there is still room for courage, kindness, and change.

Sometimes the world feels like a constant stream of urgency. News updates, deadlines, expectations, and worries about things far beyond our control. In this episode, recorded during a quiet walk through the woods on a bright spring day, I reflect on how easy it is to get pulled into that whirlwind, either by endless scrolling or by escaping completely into distraction. But there might be a healthier place somewhere in between. During these walks I notice how the rhythm of nature slowly changes my perspective. The problems of the world do not disappear, but they begin to settle into a different order. From that calmer place I talk about learning to set boundaries, protecting time to rest, and discovering that balance is not about ignoring suffering, but about making space to process it without losing hope or empathy. In the podcast I also share some of the lessons I’ve learned recently while juggling intense work, creative projects, and the temptation to overwork. It turns out that recalibrating your life often takes longer than you expect, but the peace that slowly returns is worth the effort. If you’ve ever wondered how to stay compassionate without becoming overwhelmed, this conversation might resonate with you.

The birds are loud again. The days are getting brighter. And somewhere between winter and spring, I’ve made a decision that is changing everything. In this week’s episode, I talk about something very simple: stopping at five. No more “just one more thing.” No more evenings that slowly dissolve into unfinished tasks. I used to think my hyper-focus was my greatest strength. Now I’m learning that without boundaries, it was the very thing draining me. What happened when I finally drew a clear line around my time? Better sleep. Sharper focus. More peace. In this episode, I share why protecting your evenings might be the most productive thing you can do — especially in Lent.

On the verge of Lent, I found myself asking a different question than usual. Not, what big project can I launch, or how can I make these forty days impressive, but what actually needs rebalancing in my life right now? The past few months taught me that enthusiasm and overcommitment can look very similar from the inside. I love creating, I love writing, I love saying yes to meaningful work. But I also discovered what happens when there is no margin, no boundary, no protected evening. Lent, for me, is not going to be about adding pressure. It is going to be about intention. One of the biggest shifts has been learning to protect my evenings. No more sneaking in extra work, no more late night editing sessions disguised as “creative freedom.” The surprising result is that I am more rested, more focused, and actually more productive during the hours that I do work. I am slowly letting go of the idea that I have to prove myself through constant output. Instead, I am reclaiming agency in healthier ways, like taking long walks and writing simply because I love the story, not because I publicly announced a deadline. That inner freedom changes everything. So for these forty days, I am choosing a quiet commitment. I will write daily, but not as a performance. I will walk, think, pray, and create without turning it into a public challenge. Lent invites us to look honestly at what is out of balance and to take small, deliberate steps toward change. Not for applause, not for productivity, but for peace. Maybe that is the real preparation for Easter, protecting what truly matters so that new life has space to grow.

A few weeks ago, I could feel it in my body before I fully admitted it to myself. My blood pressure was up. My sleep was fragmented. Even at night, my brain was on orange alert. And during the day, I had this nagging feeling that I was living for work instead of working so I could live . On paper, nothing was new. I’ve worked hard my entire life. Deadlines don’t scare me. But this time it was different. Producing daily saint podcasts under constant pressure had quietly taken over everything. And I was overcompensating for organizational issues that weren’t even mine to fix . So instead of pushing harder, I tried something radical. I stopped. I started with the basics. Better sleep. Simpler mornings. Protein first, one cup of coffee instead of two. I stopped overthinking small decisions. I stopped pretending that exhaustion was noble. Then I tackled the real issue: boundaries. For the first time in my life, I calmly told people what they could expect from me, and what I needed from them. No emotion. No apology. Just clarity . When there was pushback, I didn’t argue. I repeated myself. And something surprising happened. They accepted it. I began stopping work at five. Hard stop. Even mid-sentence. I protected one weekday as a non-work day. And instead of everything collapsing, I felt my creativity return. I launched a second TikTok account just for books and writing, without pressure. It grew almost instantly . I finally fixed things in my house that had been broken for years, including a ticking radiator that had been waking me up all winter . And in the middle of all that, I wrote and published a small booklet about love in The Lord of the Rings . Not because I forced it. But because I finally had margin. In this week’s episode of The Walk, I talk about what happens when you stop negotiating with your own limits. About the freedom of a five o’clock boundary. And about how protecting your health can unlock more creativity than any productivity hack ever could. I’m only a few weeks into this experiment. But I feel lighter than I have in years.