When Life Demands Your Full Attention

“You can do anything, but not everything. Especially not all at once.”

— Unknown

The last few weeks have been heavy. Not in a dramatic or cinematic way. Not like a storm crashing through the windows of my life. More like a slow, steady weight being placed on my chest. Quiet, invisible, but relentless.

And eventually, that weight made something clear: I needed to step back.

Not forever. Not because I don’t care about the things I love—writing, creating, dreaming up what’s next—but because I simply didn’t have the emotional bandwidth to keep pouring into everything while life kept demanding more and more of me.

In the span of just a few weeks, I went through a breakup.

One that was hard for reasons I’m still unpacking. Breakups aren’t always about someone doing something wrong. Sometimes they’re about timing, growth, or realizing that the version of love you’re both able to offer isn’t what the other person needs. Letting go doesn’t mean you didn’t care—it just means you cared enough to be honest. Still, it hurt. It drained me. Emotionally, spiritually, mentally.

Around the same time, I had to say goodbye to my cat.

He was more than just an animal to me. He was a presence. A quiet, steady source of comfort in a world that often feels loud and overwhelming. I had him through some of my hardest years. He saw versions of me no one else did—curled up crying on the floor, laughing to myself while writing late at night, tiptoeing out of bed so I didn’t wake him. And then suddenly… he was gone. I held his paw in the vet’s office and had to make the impossible decision to let him go. That kind of grief is its own kind of silence. A new emptiness you carry into every room.

On top of that, my lease is ending.

Which means the exhausting, uncertain process of finding a new place to live began—right in the middle of everything else. The clock ticking louder each day, knowing I need to uproot and resettle again, figure out finances, logistics, timing, and what stability will look like next.

It was also a holiday season.

Which, while joyful in some ways, only added more pressure. More expectations. More emotional weight. People expect presence, participation, a certain mood. But sometimes the best you can offer is just showing up. And even that felt like a stretch.

And through all of this—I’m still a mother.

My son still needs me. My attention, my care, my structure. No matter how overwhelmed or emotionally drained I feel, I don’t get to step away from that role. And I don’t want to. But it’s also incredibly hard to navigate grief, stress, and personal transition while still having to be emotionally available for someone else. He’s my whole world, and yet I often find myself stretching to be both present and human at the same time. It’s not always graceful, but I’m doing my best.

So yeah—my hobbies, my writing, my creativity… they’ve had to wait.

And for someone like me, that’s not easy to admit. I attach a lot of my identity to what I create. What I contribute. What I make time for. But in this season, survival took the front seat. Processing everything that’s happened took priority. And I had to remind myself—stepping away doesn’t mean I’ve failed. It means I’ve honored my humanity.

We all have seasons where the goal isn’t to thrive. It’s to continue. To just keep going. To keep waking up and doing what needs to be done, even when everything feels heavy or unfamiliar or numb. That’s not weakness. That’s strength. Quiet strength. The kind that doesn’t get praised on social media but keeps families afloat and hearts beating.

So if you’re also in a chapter where life feels too loud, too much, too fast—please know this: it’s okay to pause. It’s okay if your passions are sitting on the shelf for now. They’ll still be there when you return to them. And when you do, you’ll bring a deeper, wiser version of yourself back to the work you love.

Until then, breathe. Grieve. Recenter. Tend to what needs tending.

There is no shame in doing what you have to do to get through a hard season with your heart still intact.

“Some seasons are for blooming. Others are for rooting.”

— Unknown