The Little Victories Everyone’s Racing Past Are What Will Save You from Burning Out

 
“I'll be awful sometimes
Weakened to my knees
But I'll learn to get by
On little victories.”
–Matt Nathanson, Little Victories

I’ve been quiet in my writing spaces for a while—this is not to say I haven’t been thinking, feeling, and processing.

I’ve been doing a lot of that.

But when you sit with the most beautiful and heartbreaking pieces of humanity, it will leave you grasping for words.

And the words you do form—when people ask, “how was your trip?”—will feel grossly inadequate. So you go into hiding. You avoid people and direct sunlight; you feel unsettled and abnormal.

When you finally draft a tiny glimpse of your experience for close friends and family, you feel overly protective of what you share. You want to keep it safe from indifference, apathy, judgment, and criticism.

It is an uncomfortable place for a writer to be.

That is where I’ve been—a writer with a thousand lines in my head, but they are too tangled and too sacred to be released.

In the midst of my writing paralysis, I reached out to a dear friend I’ve known almost all my whole life. Kerry is a psychotherapist and a brilliant writer who is familiar with the complexities and pressures of writing in public spaces. I gave her a brutally honest assessment of how I was feeling and what a mess I was.

“I don’t know if I can come back,” I admitted.

Kerry’s response astounded me. “You touched something real, and then you came back to so much that is superficial. It’s a transition. Let it be, my friend. Choose to hold it close until it grows into something or it doesn’t … not everything has to be shared. If you need to write, write. But you owe nothing to no one. You get to drop out of the writing race whenever you want. And for now, don’t push yourself. Just be.”

Kerry’s words felt so right, so assuring that tears filled my eyes. But one line in particular felt like a lifeline, pulling me up for air.

You get to drop out of the writing race whenever you want.

In the eight years since I began my writing career, I’d never heard that one—nor had I’d ever spoken it or considered it.

From the moment I started, I was always pushing… producing… accelerating.

It felt oddly comforting to acknowledge that dropping out was an option.

For a month, I considered not being part of the writing race.

And in doing so, I could breathe easier and think more clearly.

Hard-to-find words about momentous experiences in Rwanda began to fill notebooks. The lessons I learned from new friends there began to awaken parts of me that had fallen asleep.

I was inspired to grasp sacred moments happening in my life that would never happen again.

Things I noticed about my new middle schooler, my new high schooler, and my twenty-one-year marriage filled notebook after notebook. Ideas on setting boundaries with technology and social media began to immerge, and I put them into practice. Quietly … slowly … privately, I was making sense of complex and important life concepts through writing.

On the night of August 1st, I stepped out into a public space with my dear friend Holly. We’d been looking forward to the Matt Nathanson concert for months. That day, I’d sent one daughter off for her first-ever day of high school and the other off to her first-ever day of middle school. Both came home smiling and excited to share their experience. As if knowing I was celebrating a momentous day, Matt Nathanson sang a song I’d never heard before. It was called Little Victories.

That song and those words would end up bringing me to write and publish what you are reading right now.

The morning after the concert, I woke up feeling intense pressure to make sense of the many insights that were immerging—to get them organized and arranged in eloquent sentences and complete paragraphs. In addition, contracts, requests, permissions, and demands filled my inbox, begging for a response.

“It can wait,” said a still, small voice within.

I turned my attention to the kitchen pantry—the one whose disarray bothered me all summer. After pushing ‘play’ on the new Matt Nathanson music, I started pulling everything off the shelves. With no hesitation, I began to discard, simplify, stack, and organize the chaos.

Each newly reformed shelf lifted my spirit a bit more.  Seeing visible progress in a short time produced unexpected feelings of optimism about life in general.

At one point, I stepped back to admire my progress. That’s when the song Little Victories began to play. I stood completely still and listened to the lyrics as if my life depended on it.

“This time, I'll be sailing
No more bailing boats for me
I'll be out there on the sea
Just my confidence and me

And I'll be awful sometimes
Weakened to my knees
But I'll learn to get by
On little victories.”

I grabbed a piece of paper, a purple Sharpie, and sat down right in front of that pantry. I scribbled the following revelation before the words escaped me. Later, I realized it might be for someone else too, the one feeling stuck… defeated… overwhelmed by the race of life.

I thought I did,
But I don’t want to drop out of the race.
I want to stop focusing on the finish line.
I want to feel my feet on the pavement,
And the hand of the stranger running next to me.

I thought I did,
But I don’t want to drop out of the race.
I want to rest on this curb and catch my breath.
I want to sit in the sun and cheer on the others.
I want to give my blisters time to heal.

I thought I did,
But I don’t want to drop out of the race.
I want to look for undiscovered paths.
I want to remember this isn’t about big numbers or shiny trophies;
It's about feeling the magnitude of life’s little victories—
Those indescribable moments that lift and carry us through.

Life’s little victories
They never make the headlines,
But they are far more important than the race.
I want to stop for them. 

Ironically, my writing career began exactly eight years ago with a breakdown on hot tarmac while out for a run. In that moment of complete surrender, I prayed specifically for one small step. It came a few hours later in the form of a beckoning. A still, small voice summoned me to the couch where my then four-year-old daughter Avery sat watching The Lion King. In a moment of clarity, I’d pushed aside the distractions, the demands, and the world’s expectations to sit beside her in stillness.

That’s when she picked up my hand and kissed my palm.

My heart stopped beating and the world stood still.

The feeling was indescribable.

Life’s little victory

It fueled me to keep taking small steps to let go of the meaning-less to grasp the meaning-full.

I’m grateful I didn’t throw in the towel when I broke down on the hot tarmac eight years ago. There was so much yet to be written.

Today I’m grateful I got my second wind on the kitchen floor when music sang hope into my soul. I believe there is more to be written.

I’m not throwing in the towel today; maybe you don’t want to either. But how? Perhaps no one has ever mentioned this option:

Stop running.
Walk if you need to,
Crawl if you must.
Sit on the curb and just breathe,
But don’t drop out…
Who you are becoming is far more important than where you are going.
Give yourself permission to turn your attention away from the race,
And grasp one little victory today…

If that is returning an overdue library book,
If that is picking up the phone and saying, “I need help,”
If that is cleaning out your closet,
If that is taking a nap,
If that is asking for forgiveness,
If that is accepting the interview,
If that is deciding you’re not ready,
If that is waving until your child walks all the way through the school door,
If that is crying in the car,
If that is getting yourself to the doctor,
If that is thinking of one thing you are grateful for,
If that is pulling weeds,
If that is buying yourself flowers,
Let us celebrate.

Let us celebrate life’s tiny triumphs that fuel us forward and carry us through.

Come, sit with me on the curb and catch your breath, my friend.

Yes, the race is still going strong. Information, opinions, requests, and demands are everywhere I look; the pace is fast; the expectations are high, but I’m limiting the time I spend with the pack. I’m taking more detours and scenic routes than I’ve ever taken before. I suspect it’s because I am not the same participant I was when I left this writing space on July 3rd.

I know the exact moment that I fell to my knees and saw clearly that I’d gotten off course. It was on a hillside in Gasogi, Rwanda where I’d gather every afternoon with my daughter Natalie and our new friends to write and draw with paper and markers I'd stuffed in my suitcase at the last minute.

Each time I’d pronounce something correctly in Kinyarwanda, our friends would cheer.

Each time someone would hold up a beautiful drawing, our friends would clap.

Each time our arms touched or our hands joined, our friends would smile.

Each time we spoke each other's names, our friends would celebrate.

I watched my new friends carefully and prayed I could learn their ways.

My beautiful companions are no strangers to little victories. Their lives are one little victory after another, enabling them to overcome unsurmountable obstacles to thrive.

There was this unforgettable moment when the magnitude of what was happening took my breath away. We were sitting there together, coming to know and love each other like family beneath that vast African sky. My heart stopped beating and the world stood still.

The feeling was indescribable.

Perhaps someday I’ll find the words to tell you about it.

But for now, let’s sit on the curb and catch our breath while the world barrels past.

It will be our first little victory of many.

Who we are becoming is far more important than where we’re going.

We won't burn out today; we will shine… we will live… we will love.

Let us celebrate.

***********************************

Thanks to all who have reached out asking if I am okay. Thanks to all who missed my words. Thank you for waiting for me. For some reason, it’s been easier to resume sharing bits of my life and my thoughts on my Hands Free Revolution Instagram account. If you got this far in the post, I think you would enjoy what I share there. Come sit with me. I love you dearly, RMS.

*Today's reflection was made possible through African Road in partnership with the Togetherness Cooperative in Gasogi, Rwanda founded by Steven Turikunkiko, a gentle-voiced hero with a gift for creating community and a heart for helping people. I learned so much from my friend Steven's remarkable story during my stay. You can too in his profoundly moving book THE PAIN OF CHALLENGES.