Writing is as much a discipline as it is a creative mystery. Sure, sometimes I have intense and magical moments of pure inspiration, but most of the time, my writing practice is just me sitting down at my computer with a prayer in my heart, hope in my chest, and a Here goes nothing on my lips. 

I used to think I was having a good day if I didn’t have to rely upon Jesus. If I could offer a quick prayer and give him a drive-by shoutout, like, “Hey, I’m good! I’ll be sure to check in when I really need you!” But these past few years, my mindset has dramatically shifted.

For too long, my ambition and my anxiety have been linked, wrapped around each other like twisting, sprawling vines. Over the years, they wound themselves so tightly around me that it became hard to tell the difference between the two. All I knew was that something was squeezing me too hard. 

It’s dark down here. 

So dark I can’t tell where I am, only that I’m alone. But there are whispers in here, countless and growing louder. Their voices reverberate off the walls of the darkness, a muffled multiplying until the noise drowns out everything else, and I cannot hear myself think. 

We’ve all heard it said before: Life is a marathon, not a sprint. In fact, it’s not a race at all—we’re all just walking each other home. Why is that such a hard thing to remember? 

The good news is that we’re not enough, but we were never supposed to be.

Maybe your heart is aching for someone you love who has lost their way. Or maybe you feel as if you’re the one who’s strayed too far from the path to ever make it back home.

This morning, I climbed a mountain. The sun was already high in the bright blue sky, the heat radiating off the rocks as I ran.

There is so much power in the words “I don’t know.” And it’s a power I don’t access nearly enough.

I know what you’re thinking—“That’s easier said than done, Nicole.” And believe me, I couldn’t agree more. But we have to ask ourselves an important question: What is actually harder? Holding on to fear or letting it go? 

“I’ll miss you too much, Mama.” 

Oof. Those six little words pack quite a punch. 

This week I gave myself permission not to move forward but to stay perfectly still and painstakingly present. Breathing in the moment before it’s gone.

Ever since I started writing my new book, I’ve been writing out of order. 

Each of us has the sacred opportunity to find the magic in the mundane. And each of us gets to decide whether we want to savor the manna that’s dropped down from heaven every single day or throw it out and wish for something we think is better. 

I’m going to swing imperfectly between doubt and faith, anxious and not anxious, every day of my life. We all are. Those days can exist side by side just as those psalms reside on the same page.

Our Savior wants us to live a life made of hope, not one of obligation and fear. He wants to banish that thief known as comparison. He wants us to hand over our shoulds and shouldn’ts; He wants to transform our never-ending lists of self-improvement into something better.

I think that’s one of the reasons I love writing so much—it’s an incredible act of faith. And it reminds me that no matter how hard I try, I can’t know the end from the beginning. But I believe in a God who does. I believe in the Author and Finisher of my faith. 

When our commitments feel shaky, we need to remember our whys—the beautiful reasons that brought us here and the reassuring reasons that make us want to stay.

In many ways, I love our summer schedule. I love the freedom and the extra playtime, the pool days and the movie nights. But summertime also signals the end of something I place a high value on. A commodity all mothers speak of in hushed, reverent tones: alone time.

Being a parent is such a strange thing, isn’t it? We have front-row seats to our kids growing up, watching as our babies are slowly whittled away, their bodies stretching and growing at an alarming rate that none of us remember agreeing to.