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.

This week, I realized something I didn’t expect: doing less can actually help you do more. After weeks of high blood pressure and creeping exhaustion, I finally took a step back to reevaluate how I work. With the help of an AI coach, I started looking at the patterns behind my stress. What emerged was confronting. I’ve spent most of my life in overdrive—driven by deadlines, fueled by people-pleasing, and constantly measuring myself by what I produce. Even when I thought I was resting, I wasn’t. I was just switching gears and calling it downtime. This week, I tried a different approach. One script a day. No work at night. Shorter walks. No “just one more thing” before closing the laptop. And to my surprise, it started working. My mind cleared. I felt calmer. The sense of urgency began to fade. And then something unexpected happened: I finally launched a BookTok channel I’d been overthinking for more than a year. Not out of pressure or guilt, but because I had space to breathe. I had energy again. That’s when I started to understand what it really means to “protect the process.” I’ve always been focused on progress, on finishing, on pushing through. But now I see that the process itself needs care. It needs time, and margin, and trust. You can’t keep planting seeds if the soil is dry and cracked. I used to think rest was a reward you had to earn. Now I’m learning it’s the foundation everything else depends on. If you’ve been feeling overwhelmed or stretched thin, you’re not alone. It’s easy to fall into the trap of believing that you’re only valuable when you’re achieving. But that pressure is a weight we’re not meant to carry. And maybe it’s time we stopped trying to carry the world on our shoulders. We’re not built for that. We’re not superheroes. We’re not gods. We’re just people. Beloved, limited, called—not to be perfect, but to be faithful. And sometimes, being faithful means closing the laptop, stepping outside, and letting the sun remind you that life continues, even when you slow down.

This week might quietly become one of the most important of the entire year. Not because of a big success or dramatic moment, but because something inside me finally shifted. After weeks of pushing myself beyond the limit to finish a major podcast project, I crashed—hard. My sleep was awful. I started having strange hot flashes. One evening, I checked my blood pressure and it was alarmingly high. That got my attention. At first, I blamed the usual suspects—too much ramen, too little rest. But the more I looked into it, the clearer it became: this wasn’t just about the past few weeks. It was about years of pushing myself, overplanning, and tying my value to how much I could get done. It was about a lifetime of workload stacking, amplified by ADHD and the fear of not being useful enough. And the worst part? I knew all this already. I’ve spoken about it, preached about it even. But I hadn’t let it sink in—not emotionally. Not in a way that actually changed how I live. This week, I finally started making real changes. I stopped working after five. I cut back my daily workload to something that felt absurdly small. I resisted the urge to “just do one more thing.” And when I felt uncomfortable—like I was wasting time or not being productive enough—I tried to see that discomfort not as a sign of failure, but as a signal that I was doing something new. Something necessary. I didn’t expect it, but letting go felt like obedience. Not to a rule, but to reality. To the truth that I’ve spent years avoiding. And maybe, in a deeper sense, to God—who never asked me to earn love through exhaustion. I still have questions. I still worry I’ll fall behind. But I also know I’ve never slept this well in months. And for the first time in a long while, I don’t end the day feeling like I have to prove I deserve to rest. If you’ve ever struggled with feeling like you’re only as good as your output, this episode of The Walk is for you. It’s not about giving up—it’s about unlearning. And maybe that’s where the real healing begins.

I had a clear plan for January. It was going to be my month to get away, take a writing retreat, change my surroundings, and recharge after the intense December production sprint. Instead, I stayed home. And I worked. Hard. The new daily podcast about saints has been very well received, which I’m truly grateful for. But each episode takes a lot of effort—researching, writing, recording, and editing. I’ve set myself the goal of always staying a full month ahead, so there’s a buffer in case I get sick or life throws a curveball. That’s why I pushed so hard to finish all the episodes for February this past week. The Saint of the Day podcast demanded everything I had. Twenty episodes, fully written and produced. That’s the length of a short novel in just a few weeks. And while I managed to get it all done, it came at a price. I gave up my daily walks, most of my rest, and ended up sitting at my desk for 10- to 12-hour days. Unsurprisingly, I crashed. Twice. But this time something was different. I didn’t panic. I didn’t beat myself up. I didn’t immediately try to “get back on track.” I let myself crash. I listened to what my body and brain were telling me. And I learned a few things along the way. First, recovery isn’t a sign of weakness. It’s part of the creative rhythm. When I push past that, I don’t win—I just delay the consequences. I’ve done that too many times. This time I stepped back and said, not again. Second, I’ve realized that I often try to regain control of my life too quickly. The moment the pressure lifts, I want to fill the silence with something new: a fresh project, a new idea, a podcast revival. Anything to regain a sense of structure. But I’m learning that when I’m tired, that urge doesn’t come from creativity—it comes from stress. The biggest shift has been learning to sit with that discomfort. To admit, even out loud, that I can’t do it all. That I don’t have the energy right now. That it’s okay to let a few things stay unresolved. And when people ask for my time, even for good things, I’ve started to pause instead of jumping in. I used to say yes out of habit, out of guilt, out of fear of disappointing someone. Now I give myself time to see whether it’s truly right for me in that moment. So no, I didn’t get my retreat this month. But I got something else: clarity. A clearer understanding of how I work, where my limits are, and what I need in order to create sustainably. I’m not making any big decisions right now. I’m still in recovery mode. But I do feel a quiet desire surfacing—a desire to write something small, fun, and manageable. Maybe a short novella. Something I can share with readers who follow my email newsletter. A little time-traveling mystery with monks, maybe. Whatever it ends up being, it feels light. Playful. And that’s a good sign. So no, this January didn’t go to plan. But it still taught me what I needed to learn.

This week, I finished something I didn’t think was possible: I wrote 20 podcast scripts in just a few days. That’s about 25,000 words. I recorded and edited a dozen of them. I skipped walks, meals, sleep. I pulled the lever on the Millennium Falcon and went full hyperfocus. But this post isn’t a humblebrag about productivity. It’s a reflection on something that hit me hard as I walked through the woods afterward, blinking into the sunlight like a bear after hibernation. In the middle of this whirlwind, I realized this sprint wasn't just about meeting a deadline. It was about reclaiming something deeper: my sense of direction. My identity. Because yes, producing daily stories of saints is beautiful and fulfilling. But it’s also a job. A contract. A task with a scope and timeline and deliverables. And somewhere in the middle of it, I started waking up with bursts of ideas for other things: new podcasts, new stories, new books. My brain was trying to tell me something. It wasn’t just distraction. It was hunger. I want my life to be about more than deadlines and deliverables. I want to write stories that come from my heart, not just the ones that fill a broadcast schedule. I want to reach the people beyond this one project. To build a creative life that reflects who I am, not just what I’m capable of producing under pressure. And that’s why I’m setting new boundaries. I’ll give my best to this podcast project — but only within the space I’ve defined for it. One week per month. No more. That way, I can protect time for retreats, writing, and dreaming. For the books I long to write. For the broader mission I feel called to live. Because here’s the truth: hustle alone is not holiness. Doing “enough” will never feel like enough if it’s not aligned with your heart. So yes, I’m proud of what I’ve accomplished this week. But more than that, I’m grateful for what it taught me. That the work is not just about output. It’s about becoming. And I want to become the kind of person who remembers to walk in the woods. To tell the stories that move me. And to carry others, like Sam carried Frodo, one small act of mercy at a time. If you’re in a similar season — juggling projects, wrestling with overwhelm, wondering where your dreams went — maybe this is your reminder too. It’s okay to protect your calling. It’s okay to say no. It’s okay to want more than efficiency. It’s okay to be a happy hobbit.

On the Feast of the Epiphany, I kicked off my new daily Dutch podcast Heilige van de Dag with the first episode about the Magi. It’s a year-long journey, telling the stories of saints and martyrs—one per weekday. The project began with a simple idea: what if I could bring these sometimes dusty old tales to life in a way that makes them feel personal, surprising, and real? But launching a new podcast isn’t just about hitting “publish.” There’s the writing, recording, editing, and promoting. And when it’s in a language and format you’ve never tried before, it’s equal parts thrilling and terrifying. What helped was this: going outside. Making my daily walks non-negotiable. Letting the snow slow me down just enough to reflect and re-center. Because here’s the challenge I’m walking into this year: I want to be creative—but not burned out. I want to publish more stories—but with enough care to make them shine. I want to build something lasting—but without losing joy in the process. That’s why I’m committing to sustainable routines this year: early mornings for writing, focused weeks for podcasting, and hopefully a retreat or two to give new projects the breathing room they deserve. The launch of Heilige van de Dag is only the beginning. There are books to finish, stories to polish, covers to design, readers to reach. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned from snow-covered trails and saintly tales, it’s that slow steps can still carry you far—especially when taken with purpose. Thanks for walking with me. – Fr. Roderick

It’s the day before New Year’s Eve. I’m walking through the woods, watching my step—there’s still some sneaky patches of ice on the pavement. The sun is out, the air is crisp, and despite everything, I’m still going. Still walking. I never expected this year to be what it turned out to be. In some ways, it was the hardest I’ve had in a while. But also, without a doubt, the most creative. The most alive. I started 2025 in a tiny, overheated closet of a room—my “writing cabin” after the radiator broke—determined to try something new: writing my first novel. I didn’t know what would come of it. But looking back now, I realize that was the spark that lit the whole fire. Since then, I’ve written not one but seven books. Some are short story collections, others full-length novels, each one stretching me in new directions. I wrote fantasy. I wrote fairy tales. I even wrote a pirate story, just because I could. And I didn’t just write—I walked. Almost every day. Through sun, rain, and snow. And somehow those daily walks became the fuel for everything else. They gave me the space to think, to breathe, to figure out what mattered and what didn’t. They kept me sane during one of the busiest, most overstretched months I’ve ever lived through. This December, I took on two major projects at once: launching a daily saints podcast (twenty episodes written, recorded, and now being edited) and finishing Advent of Dragons, my cozy fantasy novel for charity. I thought I could handle it. I did, just about—but I won’t make the same mistake twice. I’m learning. Slowly. But more than the projects or the word count, the real story of this year was about change. I began to understand more about how my brain works, how ADHD and possibly autism shape the way I experience the world. I stopped beating myself up for the things I used to label as flaws. I gave myself more grace. And that’s made all the difference. I also discovered that I’m not actually an introvert—I’m just someone who used to spend a lot of energy masking. Once I stopped trying to be what others expected and just showed up as myself, things changed. I met amazing people at conventions, festivals, and writing events. I found a community of readers and writers that truly feels like home. I don’t know exactly what 2026 will bring. I’ve got plans, of course—maybe more cozy fantasy, one novel for each season. Maybe something entirely unexpected. But I know this: I want to keep walking, keep writing, and keep learning to live at a sustainable pace. Thanks for walking with me this year. Truly. – Fr. Roderick

I don’t know what happened, but somehow, I’m ready for Christmas this year. Not the scrambling-at-the-last-minute kind of ready. Actually ready. The house is clean, the work is done, the pantry doors are closed on all the clutter—and I’m not hosting. That alone feels like a small miracle. I didn’t get here by accident. The last few weeks were intense: writing 20 podcast scripts, sprinting toward a novel deadline, recording videos, finishing up admin tasks. I worked 10 to 12 hours a day. But it paid off. For once, I’m entering Christmas without the usual stress. Saying yes to a one-minute promo video shoot in my home tricked me into making the place presentable. No tree this year, no guests to impress, just quiet and space. It feels like I gave myself the gift of margin. There’s still one project left: finishing my daily Advent novel. Ten days, ten chapters to go. But that feels like a joy, not a chore. I love the world I’ve created. Cozy. Forgiving. A gentle mirror of what the world could be if we slowed down and chose kindness. I know this isn’t everyone’s December. Maybe yours is full of noise and running around. I’ve had years like that too. But if you get a moment—just one quiet breath—I hope it reminds you what it’s all for. I talk more about this in the final podcast episode of the year. About saints, writing, childhood Christmases, and the strange peace of a clean house. Hope you enjoy it. —Fr. Roderick

Every December, I tell myself the same story. That I’ll slow down. That I’ll spend my afternoons reading by the fire, catching up on the books I didn’t finish during the year. That I’ll rest, breathe, and maybe even enjoy doing nothing for a change. And every December, reality unfolds differently. This week, I found myself once again escaping to the woods after lunch, grateful for the silence between the trees. The leaf blowers have been relentless this season, drilling into my concentration, as if the world refuses to let anyone sit still. But out here, it’s quiet. Cold, yes, but manageable. And strangely comforting. Maybe because it gives me space to think about everything I’m trying to juggle right now. I’ve been pouring my energy into two big projects this month. The first is a podcast series about saints, launching in early January. I’ve challenged myself to write each script in the present tense, not to make it harder—though it definitely does—but to draw the listener into each story as if they’re right there, walking beside the saint. It’s powerful work. Spiritual, even. But writing those scripts takes time. And focus. And on some days, I simply don’t have enough of either. The second project is my Advent novel, a cozy fantasy story told one chapter at a time. It was meant to feel like an Advent calendar—25 chapters, one each day until Christmas. But there have been days when the words wouldn’t come. Days when I was too tired to think straight. So I’ve let go of the idea of writing two chapters in one day, or racing ahead. I’m just walking forward, one page at a time. What I’ve come to realize—perhaps the hard way—is that more planning doesn’t magically create more hours in the day. Better time management doesn’t solve the problem of being human. Sometimes, no matter how hard you try, there just isn’t enough energy or clarity or inspiration to do it all. And that’s okay. Because when I do manage to focus—when I write something that makes me pause, that makes me feel something—I remember why I’m doing this in the first place. These stories matter. Whether it’s the tale of a forgotten saint who stood firm in a time of persecution, or a dragon rider learning to heal through friendship, the act of telling them shapes me. It teaches me. And I hope it touches others too. I used to think the goal was to do more, be more, give more. Now I’m starting to believe that the real art lies in doing less, but doing it with care. With intention. With love. So I’ll keep walking. Keep writing. Keep trying to focus on what truly matters. And if you’d like to come along, I’d love to have you join me for this week’s walk.

I almost didn’t go outside to record this episode. I was sitting at my desk, staring at my to-do list, convincing myself that staying put was the responsible thing to do. After all, I had committed to finishing twenty scripts by the end of the week for a new podcast series about the saints. And I was already behind. The temptation to keep pushing was strong. But I’ve learned, the hard way, that when your body starts sending warning signals—like poor sleep, flushed cheeks, constant tension—you ignore them at your own risk. So I put on my coat, hit record, and went for a walk. As I talked, I realized how much pressure I had piled onto myself. Not just with the podcast project, but with the Advent story I’m publishing daily. At first, both felt doable. The saint scripts were supposed to be short, around six minutes each. I estimated two hours per episode—research, writing, recording, editing. It sounded reasonable. Until I discovered that many of the sources contradicted each other, and some of the research had names or events that were completely made up. I ended up spending entire mornings rewriting one script from scratch, checking the smallest historical details. Meanwhile, the Advent story, which I thought would be a light and cozy creative outlet, started demanding more structure, more consistency, and a lot more energy. I’m no longer writing just for myself—I’m sharing each chapter publicly, which adds a whole new layer of pressure. I find myself triple-checking every plot point, worrying about continuity, trying not to introduce something that will break the story later on. The real issue, I think, isn’t the workload itself. It’s my unrealistic expectations. I always seem to start with an ideal version of how things should go, and then try to bend reality to match that. But it never quite works. I plan with best-case scenarios in mind, and when things take longer—as they always do—I’m left scrambling, overextending myself, working late, and wondering why I feel so depleted. There’s a part of me that just doesn’t want to let people down. That still believes the only way to be valuable is to deliver, no matter what it costs. But I’m learning, slowly, that there’s a difference between challenging yourself and pushing yourself past the breaking point. Between being committed and being chronically overcommitted. This episode became a way for me to pause and look at the bigger picture. To admit that I can’t sprint through every day, and that working smarter means respecting my limits, not denying them. I don’t want to give up on either project—the saint series is deeply meaningful to me, and the Advent story supports a cause I care about. But I also don’t want to lose sleep, energy, or health trying to prove that I’m faster or stronger than I am. So I walked. I talked. I tried to be honest with myself and with you. And I came away with this small reminder: you can’t give what you don’t have. Rest matters. Pacing matters. And sometimes, the bravest thing you can do is take the walk you almost skipped.

December is already wild, but this week has been next-level: I can finally reveal the huge project I’ve been hinting at. Starting January, I’ll be writing, narrating, and producing a daily podcast about the lives of the saints for the Dutch national broadcaster KRO-NCRV. This isn’t your typical info-dump podcast. I want to take listeners into the stories—make you feel like you’re standing next to a saint as they make the hard choices that defined their lives. It’s all about emotional connection, not just dates and facts. That means: Story-first episodes, 5–7 minutes each A full year of daily content (yes, 260 episodes!) Written, performed, and produced with love and lots of tea It’s daunting. The scripts alone are like writing a full novel every two months. But this feels like the natural next step in everything I’ve been building toward: storytelling as vocation. And because I can never do just one thing at a time… I also launched a cozy fantasy Advent story, written live each day as a fundraiser for Cato, a fellow fantasy author who urgently needs life-saving surgery. It’s madness, and it’s mission. I’ve never been more exhausted—or more excited. 🎧 Check out the full story in this week’s episode of The Walk, where I explain how it all came together, why I nearly burned out two days into December, and how I’m trying to find a sustainable rhythm for the creative marathon ahead.

It’s pitch dark outside as I’m recording this. Advent has begun, and while the Christmas lights sparkle on leafless trees, I’ve been working like a madman indoors—writing, pacing, writing some more. Because today, on the 30th of November, I did something I’ve never done before: I finished writing a full novel in just 30 days. Not just any novel. A story that feels like the best thing I’ve written so far. The last few days were a blur of writing marathons, church duties, a Comic-Con surprise, and trying to babysit a thousand spinning plates. There were times I was sure I was behind. Turns out, I was actually way ahead—I just hadn’t had the time to notice. That’s the power of moral commitment. When you push forward, even when it feels impossible, sometimes you find yourself standing on the summit without realizing how far you’ve climbed. This month taught me that: I can write an epic story in a month. I must continue making space for personal, playful storytelling—even when professional projects threaten to take over. Balance doesn’t mean doing less. It means choosing well and walking daily (literally and figuratively). Now here’s the wild part: December starts tomorrow. I could write a cozy Advent story next—24 mini chapters, one per day. A magical, heartwarming tale set in the same universe as my novel. I even have the plot ready. But should I? That’s the question. My heart says yes. My calendar screams no. But you’ll find out soon which one wins. Head over to my Substack and subscribe if you want to read along as the next story unfolds—or doesn’t. That might be the story too.

Today was a potato day. Not the comforting kind with blankets and movies, but the kind where your brain checks out and refuses to clock in. The kind of day where you sit at your desk and just can’t get into gear, no matter how many productivity tricks you try. I’ve had fewer of these days over the past year, but today, it hit hard. Still, even on a day like this, I didn’t end up on the couch. I went for a walk, even though the rain hadn’t stopped like the radar promised. It was cold, wet and muddy, but walking is one of those non-negotiable habits for me. I’ve learned that once I step outside, even if nothing else gets done, something inside starts to shift. Sometimes it’s subtle. Sometimes it sparks ideas. Today, it sparked reflection. As I walked, I recorded this podcast episode and talked through what’s been on my mind lately. Part of the fog, I realized, is because something big is happening behind the scenes. I’ve been sitting on the news for a while, but I can finally start hinting at it: a major new project has been greenlit by the Dutch broadcasting company I work with. I can’t share the full details yet, but it’s easily the biggest media commitment of my life. It’s a daily production project, and it’ll require me to write over 250,000 words across the year. It’s exhilarating and daunting at the same time. What makes this even more meaningful to me is how deeply aligned it is with my core mission: storytelling that reaches people where they are. It builds on nearly everything I’ve learned in the past 20 years—TV, radio, writing, podcasting—and finally weaves all those threads together into one sustained creative effort. But with something this big, I’ve had to draw some clear lines. Writing has become essential to me, not just as a creative outlet but as a way of living. Since January 1st, I’ve been writing regularly—almost daily—and I can’t imagine giving that up. That means protecting the space I’ve carved out for novels and creative work, even as this new project ramps up. I’ve realized I can’t do everything. So I’m making choices. Some side projects and social media channels may be set aside. Others might evolve into something more sustainable. If it’s not aligned with the long-term vision or fueling the mission, it’s time to let it go. And strangely, on a day when I couldn’t concentrate, I ended up doing some of the most important thinking I’ve done all week. Potato days don’t always look productive. But sometimes, they’re the reset your mind needs before stepping into something big. I’m standing at the edge of a creative year that could change everything. And I’m incredibly grateful to everyone who’s supported me on the journey so far. Your encouragement, your donations, your feedback—it’s what made this possible. So here’s to more walks, more words, and yes, even more potato days.

This week, the forest floor turned golden under my feet. The air was still, the sun low. One of those rare perfect fall days that remind you how good it is to be alive and outside. I’ve come to think of walking as a “non-negotiable”—something my body and mind need, like food or prayer. It’s my daily reset, my thinking time, and often, my secret writing tool. Because here’s the thing: I’m in the middle of writing a novel. Not just dabbling, but deep in it—54,000 words deep, to be precise. That’s two acts down, one to go. And I didn’t think I had it in me, not like this. Most days, I draft new chapters while walking, recording voice memos as I go. Yesterday, I came back with not one, not two, but three chapters. Nearly 10,000 words. I couldn't believe it either. There’s something about allowing a story to surprise you—especially when it grows from grief. One of the characters, a mentor monk, died in the story this week. That loss fueled the emotions, deepened the dialogue, and pulled out something raw and real. I didn’t plan it. But it made everything click. Of course, this isn’t the polished version. I call it my "horse-beep" draft. But that’s okay. I’ve learned the value of pushing forward, not perfecting too soon. If I stop to edit, I never finish. If I keep moving, I grow. Outside of writing, life’s been busy too. Masses, interviews, a fantasy book fair in Tilburg—an exhausting but inspiring mix. I met other writers, made new connections, and came home energized. Tired, yes. But motivated. This past year, I’ve written three novels and three story collections. That still blows my mind. And even with all that, I’m still learning: about routine, about skincare (yes, sunscreen even in November!), about habit-stacking and how to ride the wave of creativity without burning out. What fuels me isn’t just the dopamine of word counts. It’s the joy of becoming someone I never thought I could be. A writer with a real writing life. A creator who finishes things. There’s more to come. For now, I'm walking, writing, and wondering what happens next—both in the story and in my own life.

This wasn’t the month I had in mind. Originally, I planned to be walking the windswept hills of Scotland on a writing retreat—journaling by candlelight, breathing in crisp air, and letting new stories rise up from silence and solitude. Instead, I’ve been home. At my desk. Every day. With the soundtrack of jackhammers and construction noise just outside my window. Not quite the peaceful pilgrimage I had hoped for. But here’s the strange thing. Sitting in the noise, the chaos, the disruption... I started to realize something important. This tension between what I long for and what’s actually happening? That’s the very heart of what I’ve been writing about. In my new novel—a prequel to my Story Mages saga—a young man sets out to save the people he loves. His parents have been abducted. The girl he cares about is dying. Everything in him screams to act. But before he can begin his quest, he meets a monk who tells him: yes, you’re right... but first, you must wait. You must spend forty days in fasting and prayer before you are ready. That moment—of being asked to pause when everything in you wants to run—is one I know far too well. So much of my anxiety, I’ve come to see, isn’t caused by what’s happening. It’s caused by the feeling that I’ve lost control over what should be happening. And the harder I try to hold on to my original plan, the more everything slips through my fingers. It’s frustrating. It’s humbling. And strangely enough, it’s healing. Because when I stop trying to force things, and just start telling the story, something shifts. I stop thinking in terms of outcomes, success, income, approval. I start writing from a place of joy. Of trust. Of surrender. And that’s when the magic happens. So no, this isn’t the month I envisioned. But maybe it’s the month I needed.

This week, I finally found the source of the fruit flies in my house. Not in the compost bin. Not in the trash. But in a forgotten box in the pantry—above eye level—where a collection of rotting onions had turned into a buzzing fruit fly festival. It was gross. But also kind of poetic. Because I realized: those annoying flies were just symptoms. The real problem was hidden, out of sight, slowly decomposing. And that's exactly how I've been feeling lately—mentally flustered, physically drained, and emotionally stretched. Turns out, my life has a few metaphorical onions too. I’ve been pushing through fatigue, ignoring signs of overwhelm, blaming my screen time or workload—but the deeper issue? Likely a combination of ADHD, burnout, and my tendency to go full throttle until I crash. Here's what helped me start untangling it: Ask questions instead of assigning blame. My new physician doesn't rush to prescribe—she listens, asks, investigates. I’m trying to do the same with myself. Track the symptoms. A flushed face, skipped meals, screen binging—these aren’t flaws, they’re clues. Find the calming trifecta: Nature (my daily walks in the woods) Technology boundaries (with a little help from the ScreenZen app) Creativity (drawing, especially during Inktober, brings me back to earth) Most importantly, I’m learning that procrastination and distraction aren’t moral failings—they’re signals. If I want to clear the fruit flies from my brain, I’ve got to deal with the onions first.

I almost gave up on the story I was trying to write. I was tired. Mentally drained. Behind on my Inktober streak. And the word of the day—button—felt like it had zero story potential. What was I supposed to do? Write a gripping epic about haberdashery? But I’ve learned something over the years: creativity often asks for trust. Not confidence. Not brilliance. Just the simple willingness to begin. So I did. I started a story about a woman and her favorite vest. One of the buttons is missing, and she goes searching for it. At first, it felt pointless—even to me. But then something shifted. The journey took her to a remote, abandoned factory in northern China (don’t ask why), and somehow everything clicked into place. The supernatural showed up. The heart of the story emerged. And it all made sense. This week marked 29 years since my ordination as a priest. I almost forgot the date—again. But that moment, along with the story of the button, made me reflect on the twists and turns of life. There are so many moments when it all feels pointless. When things don’t go according to plan. When our dreams shift. Or fade. Or feel too big. Or too small. But here's what I’ve learned—whether you're writing a story or living one: You won't always know where it's going. You won't always feel inspired. You will be tempted to quit. But if you keep going, even with tired feet and half a map, you might find yourself in exactly the right place.

The roundabout outside my window is a construction zone again. Saws scream, bikes whiz by, even the cemetery mower joins the chorus. I catch myself tensing up—and that’s my tell. When every sound feels invasive, I’m not just annoyed. I’m overwhelmed. Last weekend didn’t help: hours of travel, a full day at a fantasy event, and then the social hangover. Good conversations, yes—but I’m still paying the energy bill midweek. Old me would have powered through, stacked on more goals, and crashed later. This time I’m choosing differently. I’m leaning on a few non-negotiables that calm my nervous system and keep creativity alive: A daily walk in the woods (often “working,” but always restorative). An hour of drawing after dinner—rough, imperfect, public. Progress over polish. A simple email triage (star what’s actionable, archive the rest) so my brain can breathe. Around that, I’m practicing the harder thing: boundaries. I love helping with community projects and church events, but when every month fills with other people’s priorities, my own mission—writing—shrinks. This episode is me saying it out loud and choosing a course correction: a two-week writing retreat instead of more “shoulds.” If you’ve been there—torn between what’s urgent and what you know you’re called to do—this one’s for you. I talk about reframing regret (“Next time I will…”), resisting the perfection trap, and making decisions ahead of temptation (from snacks to screen time to schedule). It’s not heroic. It’s hygiene. Creative hygiene. Hit play to hear the full story, plus the moment I finally decide—and why a loud roundabout might be exactly the nudge I needed.

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about change—and how it sneaks up on us. It started when I looked out my window and noticed something was missing: the hedge that used to block my view is gone. Now, I can see the road, the roundabout construction, and a little more of the world. That simple shift made me reflect on how much has changed since I moved into this house, and even more since the parish built it in the 1950s. Time has transformed the view, the village, and me. The walls are the same, but everything else has grown, aged, softened. These days, I’m trying to slow down and listen more closely to what I’m really called to do. I’ve cut back on some things—podcasts about gadgets and movies, weekly live classes—and leaned into what truly gives me peace: writing. Every morning I wake up, journal, reflect, and ask: “Am I still on course?” That question, simple as it is, helps me make sense of all the noise. I’ve realized something else too: I no longer want to do everything. I just want to do the things that matter most. Writing stories. Walking in the woods. Celebrating Mass. Talking to real people, not just timelines and algorithms. These small habits—walking, writing, reflecting—feel like my real vocation now. This week on the podcast, I talk about all of this. About how change isn't always dramatic—sometimes it's just a missing hedge, or a conversation with an old friend that reminds you who you are. And about how I’m slowly finding my pace again, chapter by chapter, story by story.

Something surprising happened this past week. I started drawing again. It began with a challenge—Inktober—where you make one drawing a day, inspired by a single word. The first word was mustache. I ended up sketching a tree with a mustache. Not sure why. But I loved it. The more I drew, the more I felt time slow down. Most days, time rushes by. I blink and it’s evening. But when I draw, everything quiets. My mind calms. Time stretches. It reminds me of childhood afternoons spent making comics or carving linoleum prints in school. Not to be productive. Just because it was fun. I used to think I didn’t have time for things like this. That it wasn’t useful. But I’ve come to believe that these small, creative acts—like drawing for no reason—might be the most meaningful moments of the day. They don't serve a purpose. They don’t impress anyone. They just make me feel more alive. And somehow, more connected to God. That’s what this podcast episode is about: drawing, childhood memories, slowing down, and why the most “useless” things might actually be the most important.

Lately, I’ve been finding peace in the simplest of routines: putting on my noise-canceling headphones, setting a Pomodoro timer, and cleaning—just one small surface at a time. It’s part of the The Organized Method, and it’s helped me stay focused during busy days full of email migrations, writing, and parish work. But it’s more than just cleaning. During this walk, I reflected on a gospel parable—the rich man and Lazarus—and how easy it is to judge others without knowing their story. I thought about my grandmother, who grew up in poverty in China, yet became a wealthy businesswoman in the U.S. Her drive to succeed came from a deep place of love and survival. Knowing that changed how I saw her. It reminded me that the real danger in life isn’t wealth—it’s closing your heart. It’s trying to fill the hole in your soul with possessions, power, or control, instead of love. Even the smallest acts—like cleaning a kitchen counter—can become a way to open your heart again. Sometimes, that’s where healing begins.

You know that feeling when your to-do list becomes a guilt list? That’s been me lately. It always starts the same way: “I’ll go for a walk… just after I do this one quick thing.” But that one thing becomes another, and another, and then—poof—it's evening and I haven’t moved. I even talked about this in a previous episode: your to-do list should be more of a wish list—something to guide you, not rule you. But I still got caught in the trap. I spent over 12 hours straight building a website to help a young fantasy author raise funds for a life-saving surgery. Worth it? Absolutely. Healthy? Not really. What helped me get back on track was remembering my non-negotiables: Daily walk Clean living space 7–8 hours of sleep Eating healthy No evening snacking (I now game and listen to audiobooks instead!) Writing at least 500 words a day These habits aren’t about perfection. They’re about protecting my energy so I can actually do what I’m called to do: be a light. The darker the world gets, the more important that mission becomes. Not because I’m special, but because I know that when I’m rested, focused, and hopeful, I can reflect something bigger than myself. And so can you. Whether it’s Frodo carrying the ring, Mother Teresa caring for the sick, or you simply making someone smile—small lights matter. If your list is overwhelming, step back. Ask yourself: What fuels my light? Then make that your priority.

This week, I walked under trees that seemed almost alive, swaying like Ents in the wind. And for a moment, I felt incredibly small—and also strangely rooted. That sense of being tiny in a giant world mirrored what I’ve been feeling lately in my creative work. I’m wrapping up two books of short stories. Sixty thousand words each. A number that once felt impossible. But step by step, Pomodoro by Pomodoro, story by story… I’m getting there. What I’ve learned is this: Finishing anything big isn’t about sudden genius. It’s about showing up, over and over. And maybe vacuuming the bathroom in your five-minute breaks. I used to get so frustrated with my own limitations—like why can’t I finish everything on my to-do list? But lately, I’ve started treating that list like a wish list. It’s not a contract. It’s a conversation between the version of me that dreams and the version of me that’s just trying to do the next right thing.

You know that feeling when you’ve been holding your breath for weeks—without even noticing? That was me. Caught in a storm of what-ifs, low-level anxiety, and a thousand racing thoughts. When that happens, my brain goes into overdrive. It writes disaster stories with the same creativity I normally use for fairy tales. So I did what I always do when I’m overwhelmed: I cooked. I walked. And I wrote. A lot. I’ve been working on a new anthology, full of darker short stories. In just over a week, I’ve written dozens. Not because I had to—but because writing is how I cope. When I’m telling a story, I’m not stuck in my own. I can put the fear on mute. For a while, at least. And then, out of nowhere, came peace. Not because anything dramatic happened. Just the slow realization that… things are okay. I’m safe. I don’t have to brace for impact. I don’t have to overperform to earn my place. That feeling opened the door for other things. Rest. Reading. Drawing again. Cleaning out the fridge. Making soup. Cooking lasagna and portioning it like some sort of domestic wizard. I even installed a matte screen on my iPad so I could draw without the glare. It sounds silly, but it felt like a quiet act of self-care. This episode of The Walk is about that shift. That moment when the tension leaves your shoulders. When the noise in your head finally softens. It’s about how stories, rituals, and the smallest gestures can help us survive the anxious seasons—and slowly move back into ourselves.

There are weeks when nothing dramatic happens—and yet, you feel exhausted before anything even begins. That was this past week for me. A slow drain of energy, not from doing too much, but from carrying too many things in my head. Conversations I’m dreading. Deadlines that feel like cliffs. Meetings that demand a kind of energy I don’t always have. On this episode of The Walk, I talk about what it's like when your brain keeps running simulations of worst-case scenarios. About how hard it is to prepare for a meeting with your bishop when you already fear you’re not doing “enough” as a priest. I also share the story of the last diocesan gathering I went to—how the sound of motorbikes and the pressure to perform triggered a shutdown I didn’t understand until years later. I’ve been trying to work with my brain, not against it. Creating routines that start with writing—because at least then, the day begins with something that feels solid. Learning how to notice friction instead of calling it laziness. Letting myself start small. Sometimes, the most merciful thing I can do is allow myself to fold just two socks—and be okay with that. This episode is really about humility. The kind that Jesus talks about in the Gospel: choosing the lower place at the table, not because you're worthless, but because that’s where help can reach you. That’s where grace begins. If you’ve ever felt like you’re not quite made for the world you’re in, or like you have to explain your whole interior life just to be understood—maybe this walk is for you, too.

It’s been 100 days. One hundred days since the white smoke rose over the Vatican and Pope Leo stepped onto the balcony as the first American pope. And also—one hundred days since I started walking every single day and telling stories. At first, it was just a fun idea: write a tiny story inspired by that seagull chick we saw during the conclave livestream. But something shifted. What began as a small creative spark turned into a daily ritual that changed my life. Since then: I’ve written 77 short stories. I’ve drafted two entire books. I’ve walked through woods, fields, cities, rain, and heatwaves. I’ve preached sermons that feel more alive than ever. And I’ve finally started to feel... grounded. There’s something about walking that changes the way I think. It slows me down. It clears the noise. And it connects me—both to the world around me and the one within. When I run, I track my speed and heart rate. When I walk, I notice butterflies, sunflowers, gravel paths, ancient stories, and the voice of God. Sometimes the walk leads to a homily. Sometimes to a podcast. Sometimes it becomes a story or an insight at 5:30 in the morning that I have to record before I can go back to sleep. Other times, it’s just quiet. But never empty. The past 100 days reminded me that I’m not here to run. I’m here to dwell. To walk with others. To follow a voice that says, “Come, follow me.” Even when it leads back into the fire. If you’ve ever wondered what might happen if you showed up for your creative self—just a little bit—every day… this is your sign. Go for a walk. Tell a story. Share your world. It might just become the beginning of a new one.

I was walking in the woods, trying to escape the heatwave—and the mental heatwave in my head. I’d just come out of a Sunday that flipped everything upside down. You know that feeling when life throws a sudden curveball, and your brain hits red alert before your heart even catches up? That was me, standing behind the altar, trying to mask the panic when I heard that our pastor, Father Mauricio, is being transferred. Again. Another change. Another goodbye. I talk a lot about slowing down, about being present. But sometimes, even a slow walk through the forest can’t stop the mental acceleration. My ADHD brain was off to the races—worrying, overthinking, preparing for worst-case scenarios. This episode of The Walk is about that moment. The one where you realize that even after years of learning, healing, and growing… it’s still hard. When life doesn’t follow your carefully crafted routine. When you're just trying to keep going—and not fall back into old burnout patterns. I also share what I’m doing differently this time: Recognizing the signs of overwhelm early. Asking for help before things spiral. Creating a simpler structure for my ministry—and my mind. Remembering my core identity: priest, author, geek. If you're navigating change, dealing with anxiety, or just trying to understand why some days your brain won't start—this episode is for you.

This weekend, I followed a bunch of gnomes into a rock concert. That sentence alone should explain why I love Castlefest. But honestly, what stood out most wasn’t the fantasy costumes or the festival energy—it was the quiet conversations behind the masks. Over two intense days, I filmed portraits, interviewed indie authors, and bumped into people I hadn’t seen in years (including someone who remembered me as an altar boy!). What moved me most were the unexpected stories: A man in a devil costume talking candidly about cancer and kindness. An author reflecting on how burnout changed his life—and what he learned from stopping. Readers and cosplayers telling me how much it means that a priest is just… there. Listening. Sharing. Being present. It made me realize how much of my ministry now happens outside the walls of a church. And maybe that’s where real connection starts: Not in preaching, but in walking alongside.

This week, I walked through the woods—and through a lot of thoughts. After last week’s intense physical challenge (four marathons' worth of walking!), my body hit the brakes. Fatigue rolled in like a heavy fog, and I had no choice but to slow down. At first, I was frustrated. Then I realized: maybe this was exactly what I needed. When I stopped pushing, I began noticing small things: The cool breeze through the summer leaves How audiobooks help me read a book a day (yes, really!) That post-lunch dip where all I want is to nap under a tree The emotional “aftershocks” of being constantly on the go But most importantly, I noticed how judgment—of others, and especially of myself—creeps in when I’m overwhelmed or tired. And how freeing it is to let go of that inner voice that whispers “you’re not doing enough.” This episode isn’t polished. It’s more like a rambling walk through my thoughts. But sometimes, that’s where the real insight happens. If you’ve ever: Felt guilty for needing rest Been too harsh on yourself Struggled with being judged—or judging others Wanted to break free from the pressure to always perform …then come walk with me.

After a month of traveling—first to Ireland for a writing retreat, then to the Walk of the World—I’m finally back home, walking in the woods near where I live. And as I reflect on those weeks, one thing keeps returning to my mind: how deeply different life feels when you simplify. In Ireland, I had one goal: write. During the 4-day walk: just finish each day’s 40 kilometers. No multitasking. No racing the clock. Just presence. And strangely enough… I learned more during those four weeks than in the whole year before. Here’s what stood out: When you give your mind space, reflection happens naturally. Friendships grow faster when you're walking side by side, not online. Aging doesn’t mean losing purpose—it’s an invitation to live it more intentionally. You don’t need to meet all your goals to know you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be. I used to plan ahead in big leaps: where I’d be in 10 years, what I’d accomplish. But I’ve come to see that fruit grows when I focus not on the harvest, but on today’s seed. And like the sower in the parable, I’ve learned that it’s enough to simply sow. Whether it bears fruit is not up to me. What matters is that I walked, I wrote, I rested, and I trusted the time given to me. Maybe that’s the invitation for all of us. Not to rush ahead. Not to cling to the past. But to ask: What can I do today with the time I’ve been given?

I just finished the Walk of the World in Nijmegen—40 kilometers a day, for four days straight—and I feel… surprisingly great. That wasn’t always the case. The last two times I joined this epic Dutch hiking event, it was painful. I nearly gave up. But this time? I trained. I climbed Irish hills in the rain. I pushed myself. And somehow, by day four, I was practically walking on sunshine (yes, that old song echoed through the villages constantly). What struck me most wasn’t the distance or the discipline—it was the vibe. This walk isn’t just a sports event. It’s a celebration of humanity. All along the route, villagers handed out drinks, snacks, and high-fives. Kids offered cherry tomatoes and cucumbers. Elderly folks cheered from chairs. Strangers smiled. The music was loud (too loud for my ADHD brain at times), but the joy was louder. There’s something deeply moving about being carried—figuratively—by kindness. Especially in a world that often feels so divided. Here’s what I noticed along the way: Most people are good. Genuinely good. Pain fades faster when you’re encouraged. Walking clears your head like nothing else. And sometimes, strangers believe in you more than you believe in yourself. On the final stretch, when everything hurts and you're not sure you’ll make it, you hear someone yell: “You’ve got this!” And suddenly, you do. This episode is more than just a travelogue. It’s about resilience, connection, and why sometimes, the best way to find peace is to put on your walking shoes and go.

This week’s episode of The Walk was recorded on a quiet trail in the Wicklow Mountains. It’s my last full day in Ireland, and I wanted to soak up every second of it. No plans, no pressure—just following my nose, as I often say. I ended up walking past pine forests being replaced with ancient native trees, climbing fences into meadows full of purple wildflowers, and eventually finding my way to a mirror-still lake that felt like something out of Tolkien’s Middle Earth. It was breathtaking. And quiet. So, so quiet. But this walk wasn’t just about the scenery. It was also about letting go. Over the last two weeks, I’ve finally done what I came here to do: finish the first draft of my novel. Well, almost. The most important pieces have fallen into place. And the surprising part? Most of that writing happened while walking. Dictating scenes, finding rhythm in the story and in my steps. What I’ve discovered is this: Writing doesn’t require pressure. It thrives in peace. Faith isn’t just about what you believe—it’s about trusting that what you’re doing matters, even if no one sees it. Not everything has to be productive. Some days are just for walking. For noticing. For resting. There’s a line I share in the episode that’s stuck with me: “The deer aren’t anxious about whether they’re good enough.” And honestly, I needed to hear that. Maybe you do too. If you’ve ever wrestled with creativity, doubt, or the need for approval, I hope this episode will give you a bit of space. A bit of quiet. A glimpse of a lake that reminds you: you’re right where you need to be.

I always thought retreats had to happen in silence. In a monastery. With stillness, books, and maybe the sound of a distant bell. But this week, soaked to the bone on a rain-slicked mountain trail in Wicklow, I realized something: my real retreat begins when I move. When I walk through mist and sheep-speckled hills. When a deer appears out of nowhere and follows me like an old friend. When my only distractions are waterfalls, wind, and the sound of my own footsteps. It’s in those long, quiet hours that my mind finally clears. That’s how I finished outlining the last acts of my novel. That’s how I found the energy to rethink a new “geeky catechism” project. That’s how I remembered who I am. I share all that—and a few unexpected encounters—in this episode, recorded mid-hike as the rain returned and the deer showed up again. If you’ve ever felt like you’re not “doing retreats right,” this one’s for you. You’ll hear about: The silent magic of Glendalough’s ruins and forests Why movement helps me write and pray better The curious deer that walked beside me (twice!) A behind-the-scenes look at my book’s final chapters And how old geeky sermons might become something new Sometimes, the most sacred places aren’t behind monastery walls—they’re on muddy trails with wet socks and wild grace.

I’m writing this from a quiet mountain trail overlooking the Upper Lake of Glendalough. The same path Saint Kevin walked 1,500 years ago. And maybe, in some small way, I’m walking it too. I came to Ireland not for a vacation, but for something I’ve needed for a long time: space. A chance to step out of the noise of everyday life and into the stillness that lets me hear again—really hear—what matters. Why do we create, write, or tell stories when the world feels like it’s falling apart? That’s the question I brought with me to this retreat. And it’s the question I explore in this episode. Along the way, I talk about: Why storytelling is a form of resistance What C.S. Lewis said about writing during war How Saint Kevin’s cave taught me something about my own mission What a real writer’s retreat looks like (yes, it involves laundry, hiking, and no Wi-Fi) I’m not here to escape the world. I’m here to recharge so I can return to it with something worth sharing. Come walk with me.

This week, I walked 40 kilometers in the heat, visited my favorite zoo, got a nasty blister, and accidentally outlined three new books. All while talking to myself. That’s the power of walking. It doesn’t just move your legs—it unclutters your mind. When I walk, I stop performing. I start creating. No timer. No to-do list. Just me, the trees, and a brain full of stories that won’t shut up. But then I come home… and the temptation hits. I post a story on Substack and immediately want to check: “Did anyone see it?” “Why hasn’t anyone commented?” “Was it good? Was I good?” It’s a trap. (Cue General Akbar.) In this episode, I share: how meerkats reminded me of community why I’m learning to treat likes as gifts, not fuel the difference between writing and performing what God’s infinite galaxies taught me about creating with abundance And yes, I also talk about penguins politely taking turns to dive into a pool.

I used to be what the Dutch call a “stress chicken.” Always on edge, grinding my teeth over deadlines, trying to please everyone, and convinced that anything less than perfect was failure. In high school, I’d wait till the last minute to study—then push myself so hard that I’d physically hurt. I carried that mindset into seminary, parish life, and media work. Even good things—like writing or podcasting—could become stressful if I felt I had to do them. But here’s what changed everything: I started noticing the signs. When I was in “yellow alert”—edgy, irritable, pushing through too much. When I was in “red alert”—barely functioning, overwhelmed, shutting down. That’s when I learned a simple rule from Star Trek: shields up. Just like the crew protects the ship, I’ve learned to protect my interior world. To step away. To say no. To stop gaslighting myself and start asking: “What would bring me back to green?” In this episode, I share how I’ve gone from panic-mode productivity to a gentler rhythm built around: Daily journaling (seriously, it helps) Ditching the to-do list Defining three non-negotiables per day Reclaiming my own “five-year mission” And I ask a big question you might need too: If this thing you're stressed about won’t matter in five years... why let it steal your peace today? 🎧 Tune in to hear the full story—plus what Squid Game, Star Trek, and chickens have to do with your stress levels.

For years, I kept telling myself the same story. That I never finished my doctorate. That I start too many things and finish too few. That I’m wasting time while others are moving ahead. And honestly, that story shaped how I saw everything. It drained my energy. Made me doubt every new idea before it even had a chance. But something changed. I started telling a different story. Yes, I didn’t finish that academic degree. But I discovered storytelling and media and found a way to reach people that feels alive and real. Yes, I’ve abandoned projects. But I’ve also written more in the past few months than I ever have before. I’ve found my rhythm. My voice. My joy. The facts didn’t change. But the story I chose to tell about them did. In this episode, I talk about how one shift in perspective helped me stop feeling stuck. And how you can do the same. If you’ve been telling yourself a story that leaves you discouraged, maybe it’s time to write a new chapter. Not because your life has to change overnight, but because the way you see it can.

Last week was a blur. Between TV interviews, an online course, rainy bike rides to Mass, and hosting a Star Wars convention, I found myself teetering between total exhaustion and surprising moments of grace. In this episode of The Walk, I share: What it was like to interview three radically different guests for TV in one day—especially one who claimed God told her she’d die at 62 if she didn’t stop drinking. Why being a priest at a fantasy convention might be the most “Jesus-like” thing I do. How I ended up improvising a homily at the last minute—and why it actually worked. And how writing a medieval fantasy version of The Empire Strikes Back nearly derailed my prep for hosting a Star Wars event (oops). Looking back, I realize how much my ministry has changed. I used to think being a priest meant preaching and teaching. These days, I think it's more about walking with people—even if it means doing so in a Wookiee-filled convention center. I’m still figuring things out. But one thing I’ve learned: trust opens doors. To conversations. To faith. To joy. This episode is messy, personal, and full of stories from behind the scenes. If you're curious what it's like to be a priest, a geek, and a tired human being all at once, hit play.