The Walk

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.