The Walk

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.