Dad woke up at 4:30 every morning so he could be on the job site by 6:00.
Mom’s administrative job started at 7:00, which meant my brother, sister, and I got ourselves ready for school. If Dad was working nights, we practically zippered our lips shut during the day so he could sleep. If one of us had a school event, we didn’t even think to ask if our parents could attend.
There were years when money felt precarious. I don’t remember the details as much as I remember the feeling. It always seemed like we were one unexpected expense away from the bottom falling out.
My parents’ jobs were the first priority. Then the second. Then the third.
Looking back, I think that’s where I learned that rest was something you earned after all the important things were done. The problem, of course, is that the important things are never done.
For most of my life, I carried those “not enough” beliefs with me. Even as my circumstances changed. Even as I built a career I loved. Even as I became a coach who regularly encourages others to slow down and pay attention to what matters.
It’s funny how often we teach the lessons we’re still learning ourselves.
Over the past few years, I’ve been experimenting with taking the month of July off from client work and group programs. I’ve discovered that stepping away creates space for something I overlook when I’m uber-focused, moving from one project, client, or goal to the next.
Integration.
Processing my experiences and insights into who I am becoming.
This year, I’m taking July and August off. Because I’m standing in the middle of a significant transition. After nearly thirty years, my husband and I are selling the home where we raised our two daughters.
For years, this house organized our lives. Now we’re entering a season where the girls need us differently, and perhaps where we need ourselves differently too.
I’m excited about what’s ahead. I’m also aware that excitement and loss often join hands and become travel companions.
But I’m ready for this move. It feels aligned. It feels like the right next chapter. We’re choosing a different way of living. Less space. Less maintenance. Less chasing. More sufficiency. More intention. More room for what matters most.
And yet even when change is something we choose, it still asks something of us.
Part of me still struggles with all of this.
I grew up believing that rest was a luxury for people who could afford it.
I remember one family vacation to visit two great uncles in Maine. We drove straight through from Chicago. To save money, the kids shared a room in the rickety old house (which was fabulously charming), and my parents slept in the back of our pick-up truck. Years later, when my dad got the idea to drive to the Florida Keys for a winter vacation, my mom refused to go because there was no way she was sleeping in the back of the pickup truck again.
I realize my parents worked incredibly hard to give us a better life than the one they inherited. They did a remarkable job.
But somewhere along the way I absorbed the idea that productivity was safety and rest was optional. Even now, there are moments when taking a half day to pick up my youngest from high school feels irresponsible.
That’s how deeply some stories root themselves inside us.
One of the things I’ve learned through my work around career grief is that significant change changes us. And it requires updating our understanding of who we are. This is the heart of mourning.
When something we’ve grown attached to is no longer available to us, it leaves a gap between the world we expected and the world we’re now living in.
The house isn’t just a house. It’s where my eldest daughter Mitzi drew her first self-portrait on a discarded cardboard box. It’s where our youngest Aurora learned to swim and seriously would not get out of the pool. It’s where we hosted dozens (hundreds?) of pizza-making parties. Where we adopted our dogs Rocco and Roo, the guinea pigs, the bunny, the fish… rest in peace to our beloved animals.
You don’t simply move out of a place like that. You adapt to who you are without it. That takes time.
Integration gives us time to absorb what happened. To make meaning of it. To update our internal map. Without that process, we can find ourselves fighting reality instead of living in it.
I’ve come to believe that this is one of the purposes of rest. Not recovery. Integration. Most of us think of rest as doing nothing. I don’t think that’s quite right.
I thought I was resting while watching television and answering emails at the same time. Or listening to a podcast while organizing my calendar. Or eating lunch while checking my phone.
That’s not rest. That’s multitasking. Or maybe a kinder description is half-tasking.
Rest is doing one thing for no purpose other than the experience of doing it. No optimizing. No squeezing in one more task. No turning every moment into an opportunity for self-improvement.
Which is why I suspect I’ll find plenty of rest over the next two months. Not because I’ll be sitting around doing nothing. But because I’ll be doing things that don’t need to justify themselves. Packing boxes. Sorting through thirty years of memories. Organizing a new space. Creating systems that make life feel more spacious and seamless.
Perhaps a trip to New York to see the opening of a friend’s musical. Perhaps a grief training I’ve been eyeing for years. Perhaps things I haven’t imagined yet.
Whatever unfolds, I’m hoping to meet it fully.
I may pop in from time to time with a surprise post if inspiration strikes. But for the most part, I’ll be away until September.
In the meantime, if you’re a paid member, Solid Ground will be waiting for you with new content while I’m out - we just won’t be doing the live career conversations for the next two months. The lessons, worksheets, and coaching recordings are available whenever you need them. And if you’ve been thinking about joining, this might be a good time to check out what we’ve done.
Thank you for being part of this community. And thank you for giving me the space to practice what I so often encourage others to do:
Make room for change.
JOURNAL PROMPTS
Here are 5 journal prompts for paid Moonshot Mentor members. If you’re navigating a transition of your own, these questions can help you explore what may need your attention, not just your action.
