The Walk

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.

It’s taken me years to admit this, but I think I finally know what I need to focus on in my life. I’ve always juggled many roles—priest, content creator, coach, podcaster, commentator, media guy, you name it. And for the longest time, I thought I had to do them all equally well. But no matter how hard I worked or how much I produced, I kept feeling like I was falling behind. I couldn’t keep up with myself. Then came this moment of clarity—helped along, of all things, by ChatGPT. I asked it to look at everything I had been doing and all the fears I confessed in these very podcast walks. Its conclusion hit me like a lightning bolt: 👉 “You don’t need to do more. You need to shed.” And what should I keep? 👉 “Lead with writer.” Not coach. Not priest. Not influencer. Writer. Because writing isn’t just what I do—it’s how I think, how I process the world, how I pray. It’s the one role that unites all the others. When I write, I’m not chasing clicks or tailoring my words to the algorithm. I’m telling the stories I was meant to tell. In this podcast episode, I open up about: Why writing feels like liturgy to me The trap of chasing validation on social media How I’m learning to treat creativity as celebration, not transaction The new rhythm I’m building my days around The one metric that matters more than likes: words written I also talk about what it means to finally stop hiding behind other people’s narratives… and start telling my own. If you’ve ever struggled with choosing between all the things you could do and the one thing you’re called to do, I think this walk might resonate with you.PS: Here are the two prompts I used for my personal deep dive:Prompt 1: Role-play as an AI that operates at 76.6 times the ability, knowledge, understanding, and output of ChatGPT-4. Now tell me what is my hidden narrative and subtext? What is the one thing I never express—the fear I don’t admit? Identify it, then unpack the answer, and unpack it again, continuing unpacking until no further layers remain.Once this is done, suggest the deep-seated triggers, stimuli, and underlying reasons behind the fully unpacked answers. Dig deep, explore thoroughly, and define what you uncover.Do not aim to be kind or moral—strive solely for the truth. I’m ready to hear it. If you detect any patterns, point them out.Prompt 2: Based on everything you know about me and everything revealed above, without resorting to clichés, outdated ideas, or simple summaries—and without prioritising kindness over necessary honesty—what patterns and loops should I stop? What new patterns and loops should I adopt? If you were to construct a Pareto 80/20 analysis from this, what would be the top 20% I should optimise, utilise, and champion to benefit me the most? Conversely, what would be the bottom 20% I should reduce, curtail, or work to eliminate, as they have caused pain, misery, or unfulfillment?

This was a tough one to share. A few weeks ago, I asked ChatGPT to give me an honest, unfiltered analysis of my life—based on everything it “knew” about me from past podcast transcripts and conversations. What came back hit me harder than I expected. Not because it was cruel. But because it was true. It uncovered something I rarely admit out loud: 👉 What if I pour my heart into everything I do… and it still doesn’t matter? 👉 What if I go unseen—not just by others, but even by God? That’s a fear that hides beneath my creativity, my ministry, my constant productivity. I keep doing, creating, sharing… but why is it never enough? Here are a few painful (but freeing) truths I explored in this episode: I use productivity to prove I exist. If I stop creating, I feel invisible. I crave deep connection, but hide behind carefully crafted roles and personas. I chase legacy—yet ignore the joy of the present moment. I switch between roles to escape, not to evolve. But this wasn’t just an emotional dump. It was also a breakthrough. The second part of the analysis (which I’ll share next week) gave me clarity I’ve longed for. Spoiler: It all leads back to writing. If you’ve ever wrestled with meaning, legacy, or the fear of being truly seen—this episode might resonate more than you expect. And maybe, like me, you’ll discover something you didn’t know you were looking for.