There is a specific kind of exhaustion that settles into your bones when you have spent weeks trying to solve a problem you can’t quite put your finger on. We all have those seasons; the long, blurred stretches where work becomes an intellectual puzzle that keeps you awake at night, even when you aren’t physically at your desk.
For the past few weeks, I’ve been living in the thick of a professional gap; a disconnect in vision between my CEO and myself that felt like navigating through thick fog. I spent hours in intense discussions, searching for missing pieces of a puzzle that kept shifting under my feet. There were moments of genuine heartache as I struggled to translate that vision to my team, often pushing too hard, and realizing that if I wanted them to understand the path forward, I couldn’t just manage from a distance. I had to roll up my sleeves and do the work alongside them, showing rather than just telling.
By the time I finally closed that gap during a late-night call that stretched well into the evening, I felt a deep, profound sense of accomplishment. But my internal battery was completely drained. I felt hollowed out by the sheer weight of the responsibility.
Where the real turning point happened
The true turning point didn’t happen in the boardroom or on a video call. It happened in the quiet corners of my home, in the moments where I had to physically distance myself from my office just to catch my breath.
I found myself retreating to a downstairs guest room, trying to escape the view of my workstation, when my four-year-old son, Adi, wandered in. He hugged me tight and whispered, “Mommy, I have a secret for you.” He proceeded to describe a sanctuary he had built for me in Minecraft; a house equipped with every comfort, including a prayer room with a speaker for my worship songs.
It was a staggering realization. My child had been watching me closely enough to see my need for stillness, my routine, even my quietest moments of faith.
Shortly after, my seven-year-old niece, Snowy, sat beside me and asked if I was living the life I dreamed of as a child. In that moment, the complexity of my work day collided with the simple, crystalline perspective of childhood.
The gap we don’t talk about
“Two are better than one, because they have a good return for their labor. If either of them falls down, one can help the other up.” — Ecclesiastes 4:9-10
What I learned in that brief window of decompression is that we often treat our work life and our home life as separate entities. But they are deeply intertwined through the people who witness our struggle.
The exhaustion I felt wasn’t just physical. It was the result of trying to carry the load alone. When I finally allowed myself to be vulnerable enough to be seen by my children, I realized I wasn’t just a worker bee, but a person whose spirit is noticed and nurtured by those I love.
The professional gap I was struggling to close was solved by persistence and collaboration. But the emotional gap, the loneliness of leadership, was bridged by the simple grace of a hug and a child’s imaginary prayer room.
What I’m carrying forward
This experience taught me that we are never truly alone in our journeys, even when the work feels overwhelming and isolated. Sometimes the answers we seek aren’t found by working longer hours or pushing harder. They are found by stepping back and allowing ourselves to be held by the people who remind us of who we are outside of our titles.
If you are currently feeling like you’re running on fumes, please know that it is okay to be tired. You are allowed to set the work down, even for an hour, to find your center again. Don’t be afraid to let your guard down with the people who love you. Even in the most grueling seasons, there is a grace that sustains us.
You are doing the hard work. You are learning. You are doing enough. Keep going, but remember to leave room for the sanctuary; both the ones you build for yourself, and the ones your loved ones build for you.
What does your sanctuary look like right now, and who’s building it with you? 🌿
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