Rebelling in a Rocking Chair

This morning, I declared war on burnout. Not the kind with torches and pitchforks, mind you. No, this was a quieter sort of rebellion—the kind that starts with a second cup of coffee, sipped real slow while watching a lizard do push-ups on the porch railing.

See, the world wants you moving fast. Faster than your legs—or your brain—were ever built to go. I swear, if I don’t answer a text in five minutes, people start sending search parties.

But this morning, I left the phone inside and made friends with the breeze instead. That breeze knew something I didn’t. It whispered it through the wind chimes: You don’t have to outrun the day.

It’s not that I’m lazy. I’ve hauled hay, dug fence posts, and raised a kid who once tried to microwave a CD to see what would happen. It sparked, and so did my temper. I’ve done my share of hustling, but the truth is not everything meaningful comes from motion.

Some of the most important moments I’ve ever lived were the quiet ones. Like the time my son and I sat in the bed of the truck eating gas station burritos after his baseball team got walloped 18-2. He didn’t want to talk, so we just listened to the cicadas and watched the sun quit for the day.

Eventually, he said, “I’m not mad we lost. I’m just glad we’re here.”

That right there—that’s presence. You don’t get those moments if you’re racing through life with your tail on fire.

So today, I chose slowness.

I waved at my neighbor. He waved back. Neither of us looked like we were going anywhere important, which made it feel all the more sacred.

I even pulled out the old rocking chair that lives in the back room and gave it a good creak or two. That chair doesn’t care about deadlines. It just rocks. Forward and back. Like it’s praying.

And in that stillness, I started to remember that life doesn’t have to be a race. It can be a song. It can be a slow dance in bare feet on warm boards. It can be laughter in the kitchen while the toast burns.

Burnout wants you fried to a crisp, marching to the drumbeat of somebody else’s panic. But you can say no. You can choose a different pace.

I did today.

And I’m better for it.

So, if you need permission to slow down, let me give it to you. Be still. Watch the sky change colors and call that progress. Burnout won’t know what to do with you.

But your soul? Your soul will thank you with a smile that shows up around the eyes and doesn’t need a single emoji to be understood.