Friday, 16th October 2026

You know, sometimes the thing I think sabotages us most in our attempt to live deliberately is this: we just don't leave ourselves any room.

I've been running myself ragged. It started with … actually, that's going to be inaccurate—any estimation I provide would need to be backed up further and further until we arrive at the beginning of my adult life, so let's just start ten days ago.

I had a call with a friend of mine for a couple of hours, our regular monthly ritual, followed by an echocardiogram that afternoon. Two days later I had another doctor's appointment.

My sister and nephew arrived the next day, so between appointments my husband and I were cleaning, shopping, and doing all the things that need to be done before company comes. He'd also redone the floors and repainted the walls in my office the first few days of October and had just given me the greenlight to start moving back in.

My nephew ran a marathon that Sunday, he and my sister left Monday, and then my husband and I began doing all the things that need to be done after company leaves.

That was all rounded out by another doctor's appointment Wednesday.

By the ninth or tenth day of this, I was over it.

I found myself getting snippy with my husband and two regularly-annoying dogs (much more so when I'm over it).

But I hated being over it.

We'd had visitors twice over the previous two weeks, and I loved knowing people were interested in coming to see and spend time with us. I had various calls with family, friends, and mentees over that time and loved knowing they all wanted to talk with me. It was fall, my favorite time of year, and I loved that we were getting out and enjoying the weather and festivities.

So why the heck was I snippy and short-tempered?

Because too much of anything is too much.

Even if we went to our own version of Disneyland, after so many hours, we'd need to rest and recoup and recharge. We'd be physically and mentally exhausted and way overstimulated.

The same would be true if we were given a buffet of all our favorite foods. Eat too much, and you make yourself sick.

But how much of our time anymore is spent at max capacity? How often are we bombarded with communications and information from the time we open our eyes in the morning until we close them at night?

Every hour, every minute, is filled to the brim, and while not all of it is noise, there comes a point when your brain is so fried that you can no longer decipher. It makes no difference by that point—you've overindulged, and then, like toddlers at an amusement park after several hours, we're having meltdowns over minutia.

What do they need to get back agreeable? A nap. Simple as that.

But we don't give ourselves the same understanding—or limits. Five ice cream cones for a toddler is a bad idea, so why can't we see that for ourselves?

Spaciousness is not a word in our vocabulary nowadays, only more—but more stuff, not more room.

We put too much on ourselves and then wonder why our minds, bodies, and souls can't function.

Thankfully (better late than never), I observed my own limitations and course-corrected. It was time to make room, so this morning, my first order of business was taking an impromptu Abbey Hour.

Sitting in my nice, new office with the fall breeze coming through the windows and the leaves rustling outside, I was able to look around at the order created (albeit, through chaos) and appreciate the space and relative silence.

While I have gotten better at it over the years, I still worry that I didn't leave myself enough room to enjoy the last ten days, but again, I’m getting better. The house is as clean as it's going to be. The appointments are either over or in the future, nothing I can do for them now. This is where I am right at this moment, breakfast, the marathon, visiting. Tomorrow is tomorrow, and I'll handle it then.

Where I wobble is with the agitation at moments between and around these things, while I'm cleaning, while I'm getting ready, while I'm finishing—or attempting to finish—work and run out of time. I allow too little buffer, too little space for myself not to feel frazzled, too little room to (paraphrasing Thich Nhat Hanh) "drink my tea slowly and reverently."

More space. More slowness. More depth. That’s what I need. Not just shallowly skating across the actual experiences of my life and wondering how I missed them.

— A.
Founder & groundskeeper
The Paper Abbey

Reference notes:
Let's call this letter "Leaving yourself room" in the letter archive, and I'll file it under attention, simplicity, and meaningful living.