by Emily Ley
When Less Becomes More
© 2019 Emily Ley
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ISBN 978-1-4002-1128-9
ISBN (signed edition) 978-1-4002-1929-2
ISBN 978-1-4002-1129-6 (eBook)
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EBOOK INSTRUCTIONS
In this ebook edition, please use your device’s note-taking function to record your thoughts wherever you see the bracketed instructions [Your Notes] or [Your Response Here]. Use your device’s highlighting function to record your response whenever you are asked to checkmark, circle, underline, or otherwise indicate your answer(s).
To my girl. I love you, sweet Caroline.
CONTENTS
Ebook Instructions
Dear Caroline
1. RUSH
Less Rush, More Rhythm
2. TECHNOLOGY
Less Liking, More Loving
3. NOISE
Less Noise, More Calm
4. SOCIAL MEDIA
Less Distraction, More Connection
5. REST
Less Frenzy, More Soul Rest
6. WELLNESS
Less Fake, More Real
7. FAITH
Less Fear, More Community
8. PARENTING
Less Great, More Good
9. CHASING
Less Chasing, More Cherishing
10. HOME
Less Stuff, More Treasures
Dear Caroline
Continuing the Journey
Acknowledgments
DEAR CAROLINE
Dear Caroline,
One day, when you’re feeling stuck, I hope you pick up this book.
I want to begin by telling you a little about who you are right now. You’re four years old. You have the sparkliest blue eyes, the rosiest cheeks, and a strong body made for jumping, flipping, splashing, and dancing. You are loud. I’m not even sure you know how to speak at a normal volume. You say everything with boundless energy, enthusiasm, and expression.
You are delighted by tiny yellow flowers in the yard (weeds), being mommy’s clothes helper (doing the laundry), and picnics (eating anything while sitting on the floor). When you tell someone you love them, you almost always do it with both hands on either side of their face, gently squeezing while you speak about one inch from their nose—your entire face squished into the happiest, most surprised “I love you so” face you can muster. You tell people you love them as if your heart may burst if you don’t squeak the words out in this very special way.
You are everything good and happy in the world. I use those words on purpose. Not great or magnificent, because those words sound grand and maybe a little exhausting. You are pure goodness and light balled up tight into the shape of a little girl.
My prayer is that you stay this way forever.
But I am thirty-six. My mom tells me I was that same little girl as a child—unabashedly joyful. Now I have three children and a husband and a job. I love each of them dearly, but they keep me busy. I have laundry and a mortgage and a task list. And I wonder, When did I begin to change? I sometimes miss the girl I used to be.
You do not have to live life feeling stressed and burned out, Caroline. And if you’re feeling that way now, as a grown-up girl, get ready to dig in. An unbecoming is ahead: an undoing, a nourishing, a filling up. I will walk you through my own journey from stretched-too-thin to unhurried and joyful in hopes that when you encounter this challenge in your own life, you will know wholeheartedly that you are not alone and that you were made for more.
Love,
A SLOWER PACE
I pushed my double stroller down the sidewalk, following the same path as yesterday and the day before. Completely out of sync with the world around me (and with inconsolable angry cries coming from inside said stroller), I breathed deep and put one foot in front of the other. Have you ever felt like you need to yawn but you can’t quite get enough air to do it? The subtle panic of that feeling mixed with stresses of work, family, and motherhood swirled around me.
Why is this so hard? I thought. Immediately the sour pang of guilt slapped that thought away. Be grateful, Emily. You almost weren’t a mother. Shoving my feelings down, I pushed my chin up and kept walking. Hot tears stung my eyes, but I willed them not to fall for fear of what my neighbors might think.
My twins and their big brother filled my soul to its very brim, yet the day-to-day of working and mothering three children under four was difficult. The chaos, the busyness, and my own inability to “control” or organize this particular season of life into some kind of structure had sucked me absolutely dry. I was depleted and overwhelmed at the same time.
As I pushed these wonderful pieces of my heart down our street, I wondered if this is how it would always be. I was so in love with this precious life of mine, with so much to be grateful for, but so overwhelmed by what was required of me to do it all. I felt like a distant version of myself and wondered if I might be able to one day feel whole, creative, inspired, and joyful again. I trudged along like this, forcibly taking afternoon walks at the insistence of my best friend, who was convinced that moving our bodies was actually good for us. Apparently she was right.
What began with those afternoon walks was, in short, a slow journey from overwhelmed and empty to a new kind of full. I don’t know if it was the sunlight, the endorphins, or the sense of being totally fed up
, but walking outside, with my little ones, sparked something new in me. My frustration turned to determination as I gained strength of heart and body. One afternoon, I vowed that this would be the last day I’d feel this way. I was ready for a new beginning for our family. I was ready to find a better way. What followed was an upending of our frenzied existence and, eventually, a dedication to a life of less—fewer commitments, fewer distractions, and fewer self-imposed pressures to do it all. This slower pace and new margin in our lives eventually made space for the good stuff: simple meals together, slow afternoon walks, and sweet, unhurried conversations.
I slowly learned that less actually is more and that margin is magical. There is freedom from the frantic life the world tells us is normal. And there is so much goodness to be found on the other side of overwhelm.
1
RUSH
Less Rush, More Rhythm
Have you ever wondered when life began to be different? When did we change from happy little girls to frenzied women—perhaps even becoming frenzied moms of happy little girls? Where was that crossover? That time marked by stepping with one foot from the age of happiness and ease into the age of stress. Was it a specific birthday? Is there a mark on our time lines when we changed from carefree little girls into frazzled grown-up girls? Or was it a gradual shift in life and perspective that occured over the span of years, life events, and change?
Somewhere along the way, we went from thriving to surviving, from being full of joy to being full of stress. I believe this change starts to take place as we add commitments and responsibilities to our plates, never stopping to reevaluate or subtract as our plate begins to feel full. And as we rush to keep up with our overfull lives, we paradoxically begin to feel empty.
This empty feeling has a lot of names: overwhelmed, stressed, frazzled, frenzied, and frantic. While many treacherous and tragic things can cause us to feel this way, I want to dig into the idea of everyday empty: a state of being that happens when the enormity and momentum of everyday life begins to take over, taking up any space that could be left over for fun or joy.
Somewhere along the way, we went from thriving to surviving, from being full of joy to being full of stress.
Many times, we allow our lives to continue at this pace because we are afraid to acknowledge the way we’re feeling. We feel guilty for feeling anything but happy or grateful.
“Who am I to feel overwhelmed and empty when my basic needs are met—and then some?”
“Who am I to feel stressed and frazzled when I have healthy children or am cancer-free or am not dealing with XYZ like my neighbor or friend is?”
I’ve often shoved this empty feeling down into the corners of my heart because of the guilt that comes with acknowledging it. It feels as if, by acknowledging the overwhelm, I am devoid of gratitude for the blessings, privileges, and treasures in my life. So instead of identifying the problem and finding a solution, I have turned the other way and ignored the feelings, allowing them to fester and grow. This inevitably leads to a crash-and-burn scenario.
This large-scale burnout I feel so personally and see all around me is a tragedy and, quite honestly, a uniquely female epidemic. Our world is so much different than it was even five or ten years ago. My own mom marvels at what’s been heaped onto the plates of young women today, including alarmingly busy schedules, social media, and constant connection through smartphones. The internet wasn’t even around when my mom was in her thirties. The world is dramatically different, and I fear that we haven’t done enough to prepare women to adapt along the way.
Were we created to be pulled in this many directions, to be this “on” all the time? I certainly don’t feel like I have the capacity for it all. And I know for sure that when I’m living life stretched this thin, I’m missing so much goodness along the way. That is the truest tragedy of this epidemic: the little ones rushed from activity to activity, the comforting routines of home life constantly interrupted by frenzied attitudes or rigorous schedules, and missing out on the true treasures of life found in ordinary moments—slow bedtime conversations with a toddler’s head on the pillow next to yours, the way the sun sends golden rays through a big oak tree just before sunset, or the taste of crunchy buttered bread dipped into slow-cooked soup, made with love by hands that cared for your very first bite. Oh, what we miss when we rush through life.
THE PARADOX OF EVERYDAY EMPTY
Imagine that your life is a bright yellow balloon. As young girls, our balloons are adequately full of responsibilities, allowing space for joy. But as we get older, the balloons begin to change. It’s not a slow leak that steals our joy. Instead, little by little, we add seemingly good things into it—one after the other. One more puff of air, followed by another and another. Job. Jobs. Marriage. A child. Children. Church. Volunteer projects. Social events. Social media. Phone calls. Text messages. Household chores. Mortgages. Soccer practice. Play practice. Tutoring. Meal planning.
A little puff. Followed by another little puff. Followed by just one more puff. Eventually, what happens?
At some point, the balloon either outright pops or it just barely holds, stretched taut, to its absolute maximum capacity. That “balloon” has become unfathomably fragile, susceptible to everything around it, ready to burst at a moment’s notice. This is the paradox of everyday empty: a life filled to capacity with commitments, possessions, communications, and connections that is deceivingly full but soulfully and spiritually empty.
There is life beyond this. I challenge you to set aside everything you know or believe about pouring out and filling up, about overwhelm and emptiness. Set aside the lies that self-care ends at a manicure and that the perfect organizer will instantly bring order to your overwhelm (yes, I just said that—and I make planners for a living). Becoming the girls God made us to be requires the tedious, difficult work of undoing, unbecoming, and unlearning until we are at our absolute basic self, then rebuilding, replenishing, and refueling our minds, bodies, and souls.
Oh, what the world could be if we all became those joyful, energized girls we once were.
BEAUTY IN STILLNESS
One December, in the middle of a very busy season of parenting and work, I took a business trip to Ohio. I knew it would be cold, but to my dismay, the weather forecast didn’t call for any snow while we were visiting. I was bummed. At thirty-five, I had never witnessed an actual snowfall. I’d seen some light snow flurries and even a few snowflakes on a trip to North Carolina one time, but I desperately wanted to see white-blanket, winter wonderland–style snow. My travel companions had either lived in parts of the country that get snow or traveled previously to snowy destinations, so they weren’t exactly on board with my snow-filled dreams.
Our first day was dreadfully cold and full of nonstop meetings, but we eventually turned in for the night at our hotel—exhausted and ready for rest. The next morning, much to my surprise, I pulled back the heavy blackout curtain to reveal the most beautiful Holiday Inn Express parking lot I had ever seen. It might as well have been Santa’s workshop at the North Pole. It was glorious. Every car two floors below was covered in a thick layer of fresh, white snow. Out past the parking lot, the townhomes nearby were glazed with untouched powder as well. I squealed and immediately FaceTimed my kids to show them the beautiful scene.
I marveled at my first steps in the snow that morning as we all tromped to the car, surprised by how dry and fluffy the snow felt squeaking and crunching beneath my boots. When my coworkers and I got in the car, they remarked at how funny it was to watch me experience snow for the first time. They said I was like a little girl! And honestly, I felt that way. I can only describe my first snowfall as absolutely mesmerizing. For just a few minutes, the busyness and rush of our trip and all that comes along with leaving children at home faded away.
We drove through rural Ohio to the offices where we had meetings for the day. The snow was unexpected, so the entire town was quiet. As we twisted and turned through neighborhood after neighborhoo
d, I couldn’t help but marvel at the stillness of the morning. There were nearly no cars on the roads, and everything felt strangely silent in some inexplicably beautiful, all-encompassing way I’d never experienced before. Every tree along the way—big, small, old, new, thick, thin, bearing thousands of leaves or none at all—was perfectly still and had been softly and purposefully kissed by the snow. The beautiful white flakes lay thick and still on every tiny and enormous branch, making the entire scene absolutely magical.
I deeply, desperately, and quietly wanted God to replenish me.
God didn’t forget about a single tree that morning. It was as if He quieted the rush of the whole world to show us how much beauty can be found in stillness. He identified each and every tree, calling each one by name, and gave each majestic branch and miniscule twig its brief moment of glory as pure white snow was carefully and meticulously placed on it. I’d been feeling especially frenzied (after a cross-state move and busy days at work) and fought back tears at the thought that God hadn’t forgotten me either. I didn’t have a specific prayer I’d been hoping God would answer (other than for Him to bring snow, of course), but I deeply, desperately, and quietly wanted God to replenish me.
And so, God sent the snow. It was a reminder that God sees me, He knows my heart, and He knows exactly what I need. He knew that the quiet, magical snowfall—the brief escape from the rush—would be a balm to my tired heart and would remind me of how much joy can be found in stillness. In His own surprising, wonderful, snowy way, He reminded me of who I am (and Whose I am) and that the rush isn’t worth it.
ENOUGH IS ENOUGH
Alabama has this song that always strikes a chord with me when I hear it. One particular lyric—about rushing to the point of life no longer being fun—is especially accurate. In my experience, that’s exactly where rushing (to keep up with everything on my plate) takes me—to a not-so-happy place. Typically, this is a cyclical occurrence, the rush building up both quickly and slowly after intentional periods of calm, eventually pushing me to a breaking point.
