The Walk

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.

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.