I do not like coffee. I am not sure anyone will read beyond that line, but I simply do not like the taste. My husband, however, is quite the fan of coffee and now our high school girls have taken a fancy to it as well. So we have the grinder thingy, the pour over thingy, the sit there thingy, and the hold-it-warm thingy and it is all very fascinating. All of these are involved in making an excellent cup of coffee, but arguably the most important tool is the timer. Good coffee cannot be rushed, and once you start it can’t be paused. 

And this is where I began to realize that when we live at breakneck speed and try to smush as much into a day as is possible (and oftentimes more than is possible), there is no time to make good coffee, good writing, or good living on the whole. We have left no time for the brewing.

I have three children and a couple of jobs, a house to keep, people to feed, water, and clothe. So nothing really gets me more riled up than someone telling me to slow down and enjoy every moment. However, over the years I have experienced both seasons where it all went by in a blur and seasons where I remember the smell of a place and the feeling of a song. Everyone would choose the “smell and feel” option if it was offered free of consequence. The tricky part is learning how to choose it when it will "slow you down", prevent you from doing all of the things, or require you to learn to be alone. 

It has taken a few years, but I now know how to have time alone. How to sit still with my thoughts and feelings and actually walk through them instead of simply trying to tamp them down. When I compare my life to the coffee-making process it’s like I was pouring water over the beans quickly and hoping for the best. Honestly, I was expecting the best because I had taken time out of my important day to do anything at all. But all you get is slightly brown dry bean water and it does not hit the spot.

The people that I have encountered in life that have had the greatest amount of contentment have been those who honor what they are walking through. Not those who try to hide it or who place their bets on avoiding it all together. So what does it take to lean into a life and get your kids to all the events, but also to count yourself into the family equation? I think before we can ask others to see us or appreciate us or hear us we actually have to do that for ourselves.

If I could gift you anything today it would be a moment to sit and take a state of the union of your heart and to let it be what it is. Do not try to improve it, problem solve, fix it, or edit your reality. Sit with yourself and ask good questions. Is this feeling I hate simply a logical effect of the life I have chosen? Is it safe to dream? Do I state my needs to the people around me instead of assuming they will inherently know? What gets me to a more content tomorrow?

There are eight billion different ways to live and I do not have any pompous assumption that I know the way that is right for you. But what if, in seasons of want and in seasons of plenty, we learned how to be a friend to ourselves? How to decipher the best path to making healthy decisions that both enable us to be most ourselves and release the need to have others approve of that version?

The people you risk losing may actually be the very ones that you have to labor to impress. And trying to make sure they think well of you keeps you in the vicious cycle of trying to prove yourself worthy. What if, instead, you knew that you are worth celebrating and you showed up for yourself? Maybe then the frantic cycle could break and our people would naturally be drawn to us as we shine the light that is ours.