As April unfolds around me, I find myself in a familiar dance—preparing for a two-week sacred pause while simultaneously wrestling with the weight of what that preparation demands.
Lists multiply on my desk, The calendar fills with appointments to complete before I go. My phone buzzes with questions about who will be where while I’m away. I coordinate schedules, pack essentials, and leave detailed instructions for those stepping in during my absence to care for our precious pup.
And yet, beneath the logistical whirlwind lies a truth I’ve learned to honor: without this pause, I will inevitably run on empty.
I remember the first time I truly understood this. Our youngest was finally sleeping through the night, but I wasn’t. My mind raced with responsibilities, and my body moved through each day on partial presence. I was giving from a well that was near dry.
Taking time away felt impossible then—selfish even. Who was I to step away when so many people needed me? What kind of mother leaves? What kind of partner?
The kind who understands that depletion serves no one.
The kind who recognizes that an empty vessel has nothing to pour.
The kind who has learned, through trial and heartache, that her wholeness matters.
Perhaps you feel it too—that persistent tug between knowing you need rest and feeling you don’t deserve it. Between craving solitude and fearing what others might think. Between yearning for renewal and wondering if the preparation is worth the pause.
It is.
This pause isn’t luxury—it’s necessity. It isn’t selfishness—it’s sustainability. It isn’t abandonment—it’s the most profound act of love I can offer those who depend on me.
Because when I return, I bring back more than souvenirs. I bring back clarity. Patience. Perspective. I bring back the version of myself that remembers how to breathe deeply, listen fully, and love abundantly. I bring back a mother and partner who can see beyond the immediate chaos to what truly matters.
So as I check off my pre-departure tasks and navigate the complexity of temporary absence, I remind myself: the preparation is part of the journey. The resistance I feel is natural. And the regeneration that awaits is essential.
If you too find yourself hesitating at the threshold of your own sacred pause—whether it’s two weeks, two days, or even two hours—know this: your wholeness isn’t optional. Your renewal isn’t negotiable. Your courage to pause is perhaps the greatest gift you can give to those you love.
Because a mother who knows how to fill her own cup ultimately has so much more to share.
With love and conviction,
Angel💗
