I was made for these times...

but I could really use a nap first!

Audio Version:

I’ve written before. Put things out there, tasted the edges of what people call “voice” and “brand,” only to pull back when I felt caged by the very idea of it. I’m done with dipping my toes in it—I am diving in. I’m called to freedom, in a world that’s shifting so fast it’s barely recognizable.

The need for finely measured steps, hiding behind polish and persona, has burned up in the blazing fires of these past years. Here’s what I know now: there’s no time left for holding back, for overthinking, or editing myself into oblivion. I have a gift of seeing and telling, and life has spoken to me in no uncertain terms—now is the time to remove anything standing in my way, especially myself.

But here’s the truth: I’m exhausted. Burned out in ways I didn’t know were possible. I’ve built a life around holding space for others—so much space that I forgot how to hold my own. Burnout has stolen my energy and my presence. Some days, I feel like a ghost, watching the people and things I love slip away because I’m too tired to reach for them. And yet, the ache of that distance is what keeps me trying, keeps me searching for ways to come back to myself—and to them.

Burnout isn’t just exhaustion, it’s a process of alienation and annihilation. It’s been a slow cutting away of my aliveness, piece by piece. It’s the weight of pretending, and of showing up for people and systems that never cared for me in return. Every time I gave more than I had, I lost a bit of myself. And now, there’s nothing left to give. Rest is supposed to fix it, right? But I’ve learned it’s not that simple. Rest isn’t just stopping; it’s about reclaiming and re-membering what’s been lost or taken.

When I first came across The Nap Ministry in 2017, it felt like a highly evocative but distant blip on my radar. Slowly, I’ve begun to grasp the concept of radical rest, though it’s been like trying to stop a fully loaded train going at high speed. Now, because I have no choice, I’m taking it more seriously.

So my recovery can’t just be about rest—it must also be about reconnecting to the tiny, authentic joys buried beneath the exhaustion. Writing this Substack, reaching out in this space, is part of that process for me. Every word is an offering and a rebellion—a place to breathe, be without pretense, and connect with others who are also breaking down and rebuilding. This is where I begin to reclaim what’s mine and invite others to do the same.

After decades of healing work, I finally know a few things about myself. I am nonbinary in body, mind and spirit. I am pulled to live in the in-between spaces—the places where two different things intersect, connect, and fuse to create something new. It’s why I’ve always been drawn to the chaos of liminal spaces, where transformation happens, even when it’s painful and dreadfully messy.

I am also neurodivergent. For as long as I can remember, when someone shares a story or describes a scene, I can both see it, vividly, and feel it—viscerally. I am there, immersively, with the storyteller. This gift (or curse) is probably why I spent much of my life trying to numb my body. And it’s not just the trauma I’ve experienced, though there’s plenty of that. I know the territory of trauma intimately—from being lost in it and from traversing the peaks and valleys of recovery.

These experiences have honed a deep hyper-vigilance in me, making me acutely attuned to the overt and subtle patterns of individual people and human ecosystems. Now, I find myself drawn beyond these human patterns into a deeper listening—to the spirits of the land, the ancestors, the elements, the planets, and the unseen forces that vibrate beneath and within everything.

With this acute internal and external, even extra-sensory perception, I will always talk about connections. When I speak of something on the inside, I draw the connections I see on the outside. For me, there is little separation between the two. Because of the sheer volume of information I process (due to my beautiful abundance of synapses) I usually need a lot of time to find my words. Even then, words sometimes fail me and I rely on images and metaphor to hold my experience.

Love is my main organizing principle. I will speak about it here, as well as recovery and healing, from the personal to the collective. I’ll challenge the lies we’re fed and tell others and ourselves, calling us both to our deepest truths with compassion and clarity. Many people are uncomfortable with these parts of me. I’ve been told, “Don’t think so hard,” “Don’t be so intense,” “You’re too deep for most people,” my whole life. But kinfolk, I know you’re out there. I feel it in my exhausted bones.

What I offer here is for those of you who hear it too—that sound of breaking, and breaking through. Back in the early days of my activism, I made a sign that said, “IT’S TIME TO EVOLVE”. I laugh now at my younger self, but I admire the kid who dared to make such a bold statement. So yeah, let’s do that. Evolve. Except now, I’m so tired. We’re all tired. And yet we’re ready. Ready to move forward, to speak in the raw, immediate language that times like these demand.

I have so much to say and a storm of thoughts and feelings to share. I’ll need your help—I need to feel you here with me. I have often been a voice for others. So tell me: What’s needing to be said? What’s longing for reflection in your world—or our world from where you sit?

Welcome to The Deep End. The water is deeper, the currents slower, and the space more expansive. There’s room for sinking in or spinning out—and sometimes the inspiration for a tea party.