If only I felt more motivated. If only I had more energy. If only I could find a few uninterrupted days to focus on the things that matter most.

But the older I get, the more I discover that meaningful work is rarely built on inspiration alone. It's built on small routines, simple habits, and the willingness to take the next step even when you don't feel like it.

In this week's episode of my podcast 'The Walk', I reflect on that lesson while preparing a new batch of podcasts, working on a book about the saints of the Camino, and getting ready to finally rewrite the fantasy novel I've been developing since last year. Along the way, I share some of the practical tricks that help me deal with overwhelm, procrastination, clutter, and the endless stream of creative ideas that compete for attention. Not because I've mastered any of these things, but because I'm still learning them myself.

The surprising discovery is that the same principles seem to work everywhere. Writing a novel. Cleaning a kitchen. Reading more books. Building a healthier life. In every case, success rarely comes from giant leaps. It comes from creating a little space, taking one small action, and trusting that momentum will follow.

Often all you need to do is to take the next step.

Our world slowly becomes smaller. The people we follow think like us. The news we read confirms what we already believe. The conversations we have rarely challenge our assumptions. Social media is especially good at creating that kind of comfortable bubble.

In this week's episode of my podcast The Walk, I found myself reflecting on what happens when we deliberately step outside of it.

The thought started with the stories of the saints that I've been recording these past weeks. Again and again, I encounter people who leave the safety of their familiar world. Princes who choose poverty. Scholars who engage with people who disagree with them. Men and women who cross cultural boundaries because they care more about truth and compassion than comfort.

That same pattern has shaped my own life in unexpected ways. Whether it's attending fantasy festivals, talking to people with very different beliefs, or listening to those who are questioning and even leaving the faith traditions they grew up in, I've discovered that curiosity is often far more valuable than certainty.

In this episode, I reflect on faith, deconstruction, critical thinking, the algorithms that shape our online lives, and why I believe genuine growth often begins when we're willing to ask uncomfortable questions.

Not because questioning automatically destroys belief.

Sometimes it deepens it.

And sometimes it helps us let go of things that were never really faith in the first place.

It's a personal and wide-ranging conversation about saints, storytelling, empathy, doubt, and why keeping an open mind may be one of the most important spiritual disciplines of our time.

On paper, that made no sense at all. I had twenty-two podcast episodes still to produce, unanswered emails, financial administration, requests for future talks, parish work, and a head full of open loops. The more pressure I felt, the more impossible it became to sit down and actually start. So instead of writing scripts, I escaped into the deserts of Arrakis and the forests of Viking survival games. At first I felt guilty about it. But slowly I started to realize something important: maybe this wasn’t laziness at all. Maybe it was my system trying to recover.

In this episode, I reflect on something I’m only now beginning to understand about myself. The moment life becomes too externally driven, too full of expectations and obligations, I freeze. Not because I don’t care. Quite the opposite. The pressure becomes so loud that my brain starts looking for predictable worlds where nothing is demanded of me anymore. What surprised me most is that the solution did not come from forcing myself back to work. It came from sleep, walking, journaling, and creating enough mental space to calm the noise in my head.

I also talk about a difficult encounter after Mass last Sunday, a moment that stayed with me much longer than I expected, and about how easily we underestimate the emotional cost of always having to “perform” socially, creatively, or spiritually. The deeper theme running through this entire conversation is the tension between external expectations and inner freedom. What happens when your creative life slowly starts to feel like obligation? And how do you protect the part of yourself that needs wonder, recovery, and room to breathe in order to stay alive?

This episode became a kind of audio journal about overload, recovery, creativity, and the surprising realization that sometimes the healthiest response to stress is not more discipline, but more stability.

This past week felt like both at the same time.

After returning from the Camino, I found myself immediately pulled back into a whirlwind of obligations: parish life, fantasy festivals, interviews, talks, trains that weren’t running, late nights, and a stubborn cold that refused to leave. Somewhere between coughing fits, crowded convention halls and endless cups of tea, I also had to write something that unexpectedly terrified me: a sermon about fantasy.

Not a church sermon, at least not really. This was for a fantasy festival held inside a former church in Nijmegen. The organizers had invited me, partly as a priest and partly because I’ve somehow become known in Dutch fantasy circles as “that priest who likes fantasy stories.” And despite years of public speaking, despite television work and podcasts and interviews, I suddenly felt like an impostor. Like I didn’t belong there. Not enough of a writer. Not enough of a fantasy expert. Too religious for one world, too geeky for the other.

So naturally, I procrastinated completely.

What finally unlocked the entire talk was an unexpected memory of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. As a child, that factory looked more like heaven to me than clouds and golden harps ever did. And from there the entire theme suddenly became clear: imagination matters because every meaningful future first exists as a story we dare to tell ourselves.

That is why fantasy matters.

Not because it helps us escape reality, but because it reminds us that reality is not finished yet. Every creative act begins with imagination. Every hopeful future starts with someone envisioning something better than what currently exists. Children understand this instinctively. Adults often lose it under layers of exhaustion, cynicism and endless bad news.

Maybe that is why stories still matter so much to me. Whether it’s Tolkien, Studio Ghibli, the Camino, saints, or the fantasy novels I’m slowly trying to finish. Stories keep alive the part of us that still believes transformation is possible.

And maybe that’s also why I needed a few days of rest, video games and long walks in the rain.

Not every pause is failure.

Sometimes recovery is part of the creative process too.

In this episode of The Walk, I talk about the friction between creativity and pressure. About why some work drains energy while other work gives it back. And about the realization that for me, balance is less about working harder and more about finding a rhythm that actually fits the way I function. I also share how the Camino unexpectedly reshaped my plans for writing, podcasting and building a fantasy storytelling community in both English and Dutch.

This walk through the woods became a conversation about overwhelm, delayed gratification, creative identity and the challenge of protecting long-term dreams while daily responsibilities keep demanding attention. And somewhere between the trees, dogs chasing my microphone, and thoughts about fantasy festivals and unfinished novels, I slowly started to see a clearer path forward again.

A week after arriving in Santiago de Compostela, I found myself walking again, this time through familiar surroundings. Same blue sky. Same rhythm. But everything felt… different. During the Camino, life was simple. Walk, observe, create, connect. Back home, all the noise returns. Deadlines, expectations, unfinished work. And yet, something had shifted. The Camino didn’t change my life overnight, it showed me how much had already changed.

One of the biggest lessons hit me in a way I couldn’t ignore. When everything aligns, I go into full flow mode. I can walk 50 kilometers, record podcasts, generate ideas, and feel unstoppable. But that same flow hides the cost. I push too far. Ignore signals. Until something forces me to stop. A blister. A pulled muscle. Exhaustion. What surprised me most was this: every time I did stop, everything improved. Clearer thinking. Better creativity. More energy. Rest didn’t slow me down, it made everything better. That’s a lesson I’m still learning.

And then there’s something deeper. On the Camino, I let go of control. No strict plans. Just walking until it felt right. Talking to people without an agenda. Trusting that things would work out. And they did. Again and again. Strangers helped me. Problems solved themselves. It sounds simple, almost naive. But living it day after day changes something. It makes you wonder how much of your normal stress is… unnecessary.

Maybe the real challenge isn’t walking across Spain. Maybe it’s bringing that same trust, that same openness, back into ordinary life.

View my daily Camino Journal (with lots of photos) on Polarsteps: https://www.polarsteps.com/FatherRoderick/24866392-camino-frances

What’s changed is not the workload, but how I respond to it. In the past, I would measure myself against an invisible standard and tell myself I wasn’t doing enough. That voice is still there sometimes, but I’m starting to recognize it for what it is. I’m learning to work with my limits instead of constantly pushing against them. That means taking breaks, stopping when I’ve done enough, and trusting that I can pick things up again the next day. It’s not always easy, especially when everything feels urgent, but it does make a difference.

And maybe that’s already part of the journey I’m about to begin. Not just the physical pilgrimage, but a different way of moving through life. A slower pace. Less pressure. Fewer expectations about how things should go. I don’t know what this trip will bring, and for once, I’m okay with that. I’ll do what I can, leave the rest, and trust that something meaningful will unfold along the way.

That shift is changing how I look at my work. I’m experimenting with giving each day a clear purpose, not to control everything, but to create room. Room for focus, room for rest, room to close the loops that keep buzzing in the back of my mind. But the real challenge is not the system. It’s letting go of the idea that I have to do everything. That my value depends on how much I produce. Choosing one focus for a month sounds simple, but it forces me to say no to a hundred other things. And that’s where it becomes spiritual. It’s about trust. Trust that what I leave undone doesn’t define me.

In this episode, I’m trying to put words to that tension. Between calling and limitation. Between wanting to do more and learning to choose well. I don’t think this is just my struggle. If you’ve ever felt torn between everything you could do and what you actually have the energy for, then you’ll probably recognize this. Maybe the real question isn’t how to do more, but how to live in a way that is sustainable, faithful, and grounded in trust.

One thing that helps me is remembering how powerful stories can be. News often focuses on what is going wrong right now. Stories, on the other hand, help us imagine where we might still go. They remind us that the future is not written yet. In the podcast I talk about how storytelling, whether in books, films, or even the stories we tell each other about our lives, can keep our imagination alive. And that imagination is closely connected to hope. If we can still picture a better future, we are less likely to give in to despair.

That is also why creative work matters to me right now. Writing stories, reading them, and sharing them with others helps me keep looking forward instead of getting stuck in the darkness of the moment. Hope is not pretending that the world is fine. It is choosing to believe that the story is still unfolding. And as long as the story continues, there is still room for courage, kindness, and change.

During these walks I notice how the rhythm of nature slowly changes my perspective. The problems of the world do not disappear, but they begin to settle into a different order. From that calmer place I talk about learning to set boundaries, protecting time to rest, and discovering that balance is not about ignoring suffering, but about making space to process it without losing hope or empathy.

In the podcast I also share some of the lessons I’ve learned recently while juggling intense work, creative projects, and the temptation to overwork. It turns out that recalibrating your life often takes longer than you expect, but the peace that slowly returns is worth the effort. If you’ve ever wondered how to stay compassionate without becoming overwhelmed, this conversation might resonate with you.

In this week’s episode, I talk about something very simple: stopping at five. No more “just one more thing.” No more evenings that slowly dissolve into unfinished tasks. I used to think my hyper-focus was my greatest strength. Now I’m learning that without boundaries, it was the very thing draining me.

What happened when I finally drew a clear line around my time? Better sleep. Sharper focus. More peace. In this episode, I share why protecting your evenings might be the most productive thing you can do — especially in Lent.

One of the biggest shifts has been learning to protect my evenings. No more sneaking in extra work, no more late night editing sessions disguised as “creative freedom.” The surprising result is that I am more rested, more focused, and actually more productive during the hours that I do work. I am slowly letting go of the idea that I have to prove myself through constant output. Instead, I am reclaiming agency in healthier ways, like taking long walks and writing simply because I love the story, not because I publicly announced a deadline. That inner freedom changes everything.

So for these forty days, I am choosing a quiet commitment. I will write daily, but not as a performance. I will walk, think, pray, and create without turning it into a public challenge. Lent invites us to look honestly at what is out of balance and to take small, deliberate steps toward change. Not for applause, not for productivity, but for peace. Maybe that is the real preparation for Easter, protecting what truly matters so that new life has space to grow.

My blood pressure was up. My sleep was fragmented. Even at night, my brain was on orange alert. And during the day, I had this nagging feeling that I was living for work instead of working so I could live .

On paper, nothing was new. I’ve worked hard my entire life. Deadlines don’t scare me. But this time it was different. Producing daily saint podcasts under constant pressure had quietly taken over everything. And I was overcompensating for organizational issues that weren’t even mine to fix .

So instead of pushing harder, I tried something radical.

I stopped.

I started with the basics. Better sleep. Simpler mornings. Protein first, one cup of coffee instead of two. I stopped overthinking small decisions. I stopped pretending that exhaustion was noble.

Then I tackled the real issue: boundaries.

For the first time in my life, I calmly told people what they could expect from me, and what I needed from them. No emotion. No apology. Just clarity . When there was pushback, I didn’t argue. I repeated myself.

And something surprising happened.

They accepted it.

I began stopping work at five. Hard stop. Even mid-sentence. I protected one weekday as a non-work day. And instead of everything collapsing, I felt my creativity return.

I launched a second TikTok account just for books and writing, without pressure. It grew almost instantly . I finally fixed things in my house that had been broken for years, including a ticking radiator that had been waking me up all winter . And in the middle of all that, I wrote and published a small booklet about love in The Lord of the Rings .

Not because I forced it.

But because I finally had margin.

In this week’s episode of The Walk, I talk about what happens when you stop negotiating with your own limits. About the freedom of a five o’clock boundary. And about how protecting your health can unlock more creativity than any productivity hack ever could.

I’m only a few weeks into this experiment.

But I feel lighter than I have in years.

After weeks of high blood pressure and creeping exhaustion, I finally took a step back to reevaluate how I work. With the help of an AI coach, I started looking at the patterns behind my stress. What emerged was confronting. I’ve spent most of my life in overdrive—driven by deadlines, fueled by people-pleasing, and constantly measuring myself by what I produce. Even when I thought I was resting, I wasn’t. I was just switching gears and calling it downtime.

This week, I tried a different approach. One script a day. No work at night. Shorter walks. No “just one more thing” before closing the laptop. And to my surprise, it started working. My mind cleared. I felt calmer. The sense of urgency began to fade. And then something unexpected happened: I finally launched a BookTok channel I’d been overthinking for more than a year. Not out of pressure or guilt, but because I had space to breathe. I had energy again.

That’s when I started to understand what it really means to “protect the process.” I’ve always been focused on progress, on finishing, on pushing through. But now I see that the process itself needs care. It needs time, and margin, and trust. You can’t keep planting seeds if the soil is dry and cracked.

I used to think rest was a reward you had to earn. Now I’m learning it’s the foundation everything else depends on.

If you’ve been feeling overwhelmed or stretched thin, you’re not alone. It’s easy to fall into the trap of believing that you’re only valuable when you’re achieving. But that pressure is a weight we’re not meant to carry. And maybe it’s time we stopped trying to carry the world on our shoulders.

We’re not built for that. We’re not superheroes. We’re not gods. We’re just people. Beloved, limited, called—not to be perfect, but to be faithful.

And sometimes, being faithful means closing the laptop, stepping outside, and letting the sun remind you that life continues, even when you slow down.

After weeks of pushing myself beyond the limit to finish a major podcast project, I crashed—hard. My sleep was awful. I started having strange hot flashes. One evening, I checked my blood pressure and it was alarmingly high. That got my attention.

At first, I blamed the usual suspects—too much ramen, too little rest. But the more I looked into it, the clearer it became: this wasn’t just about the past few weeks. It was about years of pushing myself, overplanning, and tying my value to how much I could get done. It was about a lifetime of workload stacking, amplified by ADHD and the fear of not being useful enough.

And the worst part? I knew all this already. I’ve spoken about it, preached about it even. But I hadn’t let it sink in—not emotionally. Not in a way that actually changed how I live.

This week, I finally started making real changes. I stopped working after five. I cut back my daily workload to something that felt absurdly small. I resisted the urge to “just do one more thing.” And when I felt uncomfortable—like I was wasting time or not being productive enough—I tried to see that discomfort not as a sign of failure, but as a signal that I was doing something new. Something necessary.

I didn’t expect it, but letting go felt like obedience. Not to a rule, but to reality. To the truth that I’ve spent years avoiding. And maybe, in a deeper sense, to God—who never asked me to earn love through exhaustion.

I still have questions. I still worry I’ll fall behind. But I also know I’ve never slept this well in months. And for the first time in a long while, I don’t end the day feeling like I have to prove I deserve to rest.

If you’ve ever struggled with feeling like you’re only as good as your output, this episode of The Walk is for you. It’s not about giving up—it’s about unlearning. And maybe that’s where the real healing begins.

The new daily podcast about saints has been very well received, which I’m truly grateful for. But each episode takes a lot of effort—researching, writing, recording, and editing. I’ve set myself the goal of always staying a full month ahead, so there’s a buffer in case I get sick or life throws a curveball. That’s why I pushed so hard to finish all the episodes for February this past week.

The Saint of the Day podcast demanded everything I had. Twenty episodes, fully written and produced. That’s the length of a short novel in just a few weeks. And while I managed to get it all done, it came at a price. I gave up my daily walks, most of my rest, and ended up sitting at my desk for 10- to 12-hour days. Unsurprisingly, I crashed. Twice.

But this time something was different. I didn’t panic. I didn’t beat myself up. I didn’t immediately try to “get back on track.” I let myself crash. I listened to what my body and brain were telling me. And I learned a few things along the way.

First, recovery isn’t a sign of weakness. It’s part of the creative rhythm. When I push past that, I don’t win—I just delay the consequences. I’ve done that too many times. This time I stepped back and said, not again.

Second, I’ve realized that I often try to regain control of my life too quickly. The moment the pressure lifts, I want to fill the silence with something new: a fresh project, a new idea, a podcast revival. Anything to regain a sense of structure. But I’m learning that when I’m tired, that urge doesn’t come from creativity—it comes from stress.

The biggest shift has been learning to sit with that discomfort. To admit, even out loud, that I can’t do it all. That I don’t have the energy right now. That it’s okay to let a few things stay unresolved.

And when people ask for my time, even for good things, I’ve started to pause instead of jumping in. I used to say yes out of habit, out of guilt, out of fear of disappointing someone. Now I give myself time to see whether it’s truly right for me in that moment.

So no, I didn’t get my retreat this month. But I got something else: clarity. A clearer understanding of how I work, where my limits are, and what I need in order to create sustainably. I’m not making any big decisions right now. I’m still in recovery mode. But I do feel a quiet desire surfacing—a desire to write something small, fun, and manageable. Maybe a short novella. Something I can share with readers who follow my email newsletter. A little time-traveling mystery with monks, maybe.

Whatever it ends up being, it feels light. Playful. And that’s a good sign.

So no, this January didn’t go to plan. But it still taught me what I needed to learn.

But this post isn’t a humblebrag about productivity. It’s a reflection on something that hit me hard as I walked through the woods afterward, blinking into the sunlight like a bear after hibernation.

In the middle of this whirlwind, I realized this sprint wasn't just about meeting a deadline. It was about reclaiming something deeper: my sense of direction. My identity.

Because yes, producing daily stories of saints is beautiful and fulfilling. But it’s also a job. A contract. A task with a scope and timeline and deliverables. And somewhere in the middle of it, I started waking up with bursts of ideas for other things: new podcasts, new stories, new books. My brain was trying to tell me something.

It wasn’t just distraction. It was hunger.

I want my life to be about more than deadlines and deliverables. I want to write stories that come from my heart, not just the ones that fill a broadcast schedule. I want to reach the people beyond this one project. To build a creative life that reflects who I am, not just what I’m capable of producing under pressure.

And that’s why I’m setting new boundaries. I’ll give my best to this podcast project — but only within the space I’ve defined for it. One week per month. No more. That way, I can protect time for retreats, writing, and dreaming. For the books I long to write. For the broader mission I feel called to live.

Because here’s the truth: hustle alone is not holiness. Doing “enough” will never feel like enough if it’s not aligned with your heart.

So yes, I’m proud of what I’ve accomplished this week. But more than that, I’m grateful for what it taught me. That the work is not just about output. It’s about becoming. And I want to become the kind of person who remembers to walk in the woods. To tell the stories that move me. And to carry others, like Sam carried Frodo, one small act of mercy at a time.

If you’re in a similar season — juggling projects, wrestling with overwhelm, wondering where your dreams went — maybe this is your reminder too.

It’s okay to protect your calling.
It’s okay to say no.
It’s okay to want more than efficiency.
It’s okay to be a happy hobbit.

But launching a new podcast isn’t just about hitting “publish.” There’s the writing, recording, editing, and promoting. And when it’s in a language and format you’ve never tried before, it’s equal parts thrilling and terrifying.

What helped was this: going outside. Making my daily walks non-negotiable. Letting the snow slow me down just enough to reflect and re-center.

Because here’s the challenge I’m walking into this year:

• I want to be creative—but not burned out.


• I want to publish more stories—but with enough care to make them shine.


• I want to build something lasting—but without losing joy in the process.

That’s why I’m committing to sustainable routines this year: early mornings for writing, focused weeks for podcasting, and hopefully a retreat or two to give new projects the breathing room they deserve.

The launch of Heilige van de Dag is only the beginning. There are books to finish, stories to polish, covers to design, readers to reach. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned from snow-covered trails and saintly tales, it’s that slow steps can still carry you far—especially when taken with purpose.

Thanks for walking with me.

– Fr. Roderick

I never expected this year to be what it turned out to be. In some ways, it was the hardest I’ve had in a while. But also, without a doubt, the most creative. The most alive.

I started 2025 in a tiny, overheated closet of a room—my “writing cabin” after the radiator broke—determined to try something new: writing my first novel. I didn’t know what would come of it. But looking back now, I realize that was the spark that lit the whole fire. Since then, I’ve written not one but seven books. Some are short story collections, others full-length novels, each one stretching me in new directions. I wrote fantasy. I wrote fairy tales. I even wrote a pirate story, just because I could.

And I didn’t just write—I walked. Almost every day. Through sun, rain, and snow. And somehow those daily walks became the fuel for everything else. They gave me the space to think, to breathe, to figure out what mattered and what didn’t. They kept me sane during one of the busiest, most overstretched months I’ve ever lived through.

This December, I took on two major projects at once: launching a daily saints podcast (twenty episodes written, recorded, and now being edited) and finishing Advent of Dragons, my cozy fantasy novel for charity. I thought I could handle it. I did, just about—but I won’t make the same mistake twice. I’m learning. Slowly.

But more than the projects or the word count, the real story of this year was about change. I began to understand more about how my brain works, how ADHD and possibly autism shape the way I experience the world. I stopped beating myself up for the things I used to label as flaws. I gave myself more grace. And that’s made all the difference.

I also discovered that I’m not actually an introvert—I’m just someone who used to spend a lot of energy masking. Once I stopped trying to be what others expected and just showed up as myself, things changed. I met amazing people at conventions, festivals, and writing events. I found a community of readers and writers that truly feels like home.

I don’t know exactly what 2026 will bring. I’ve got plans, of course—maybe more cozy fantasy, one novel for each season. Maybe something entirely unexpected. But I know this: I want to keep walking, keep writing, and keep learning to live at a sustainable pace.

Thanks for walking with me this year. Truly.

– Fr. Roderick

I didn’t get here by accident. The last few weeks were intense: writing 20 podcast scripts, sprinting toward a novel deadline, recording videos, finishing up admin tasks. I worked 10 to 12 hours a day. But it paid off. For once, I’m entering Christmas without the usual stress.

Saying yes to a one-minute promo video shoot in my home tricked me into making the place presentable. No tree this year, no guests to impress, just quiet and space. It feels like I gave myself the gift of margin.

There’s still one project left: finishing my daily Advent novel. Ten days, ten chapters to go. But that feels like a joy, not a chore. I love the world I’ve created. Cozy. Forgiving. A gentle mirror of what the world could be if we slowed down and chose kindness.

I know this isn’t everyone’s December. Maybe yours is full of noise and running around. I’ve had years like that too. But if you get a moment—just one quiet breath—I hope it reminds you what it’s all for.

I talk more about this in the final podcast episode of the year. About saints, writing, childhood Christmases, and the strange peace of a clean house.

Hope you enjoy it.

—Fr. Roderick

And every December, reality unfolds differently.

This week, I found myself once again escaping to the woods after lunch, grateful for the silence between the trees. The leaf blowers have been relentless this season, drilling into my concentration, as if the world refuses to let anyone sit still. But out here, it’s quiet. Cold, yes, but manageable. And strangely comforting. Maybe because it gives me space to think about everything I’m trying to juggle right now.

I’ve been pouring my energy into two big projects this month. The first is a podcast series about saints, launching in early January. I’ve challenged myself to write each script in the present tense, not to make it harder—though it definitely does—but to draw the listener into each story as if they’re right there, walking beside the saint. It’s powerful work. Spiritual, even. But writing those scripts takes time. And focus. And on some days, I simply don’t have enough of either.

The second project is my Advent novel, a cozy fantasy story told one chapter at a time. It was meant to feel like an Advent calendar—25 chapters, one each day until Christmas. But there have been days when the words wouldn’t come. Days when I was too tired to think straight. So I’ve let go of the idea of writing two chapters in one day, or racing ahead. I’m just walking forward, one page at a time.

What I’ve come to realize—perhaps the hard way—is that more planning doesn’t magically create more hours in the day. Better time management doesn’t solve the problem of being human. Sometimes, no matter how hard you try, there just isn’t enough energy or clarity or inspiration to do it all.

And that’s okay.

Because when I do manage to focus—when I write something that makes me pause, that makes me feel something—I remember why I’m doing this in the first place. These stories matter. Whether it’s the tale of a forgotten saint who stood firm in a time of persecution, or a dragon rider learning to heal through friendship, the act of telling them shapes me. It teaches me. And I hope it touches others too.

I used to think the goal was to do more, be more, give more. Now I’m starting to believe that the real art lies in doing less, but doing it with care. With intention. With love.

So I’ll keep walking. Keep writing. Keep trying to focus on what truly matters.

And if you’d like to come along, I’d love to have you join me for this week’s walk.

The temptation to keep pushing was strong. But I’ve learned, the hard way, that when your body starts sending warning signals—like poor sleep, flushed cheeks, constant tension—you ignore them at your own risk. So I put on my coat, hit record, and went for a walk.

As I talked, I realized how much pressure I had piled onto myself. Not just with the podcast project, but with the Advent story I’m publishing daily. At first, both felt doable. The saint scripts were supposed to be short, around six minutes each. I estimated two hours per episode—research, writing, recording, editing. It sounded reasonable. Until I discovered that many of the sources contradicted each other, and some of the research had names or events that were completely made up. I ended up spending entire mornings rewriting one script from scratch, checking the smallest historical details.

Meanwhile, the Advent story, which I thought would be a light and cozy creative outlet, started demanding more structure, more consistency, and a lot more energy. I’m no longer writing just for myself—I’m sharing each chapter publicly, which adds a whole new layer of pressure. I find myself triple-checking every plot point, worrying about continuity, trying not to introduce something that will break the story later on.

The real issue, I think, isn’t the workload itself. It’s my unrealistic expectations. I always seem to start with an ideal version of how things should go, and then try to bend reality to match that. But it never quite works. I plan with best-case scenarios in mind, and when things take longer—as they always do—I’m left scrambling, overextending myself, working late, and wondering why I feel so depleted.

There’s a part of me that just doesn’t want to let people down. That still believes the only way to be valuable is to deliver, no matter what it costs. But I’m learning, slowly, that there’s a difference between challenging yourself and pushing yourself past the breaking point. Between being committed and being chronically overcommitted.

This episode became a way for me to pause and look at the bigger picture. To admit that I can’t sprint through every day, and that working smarter means respecting my limits, not denying them. I don’t want to give up on either project—the saint series is deeply meaningful to me, and the Advent story supports a cause I care about. But I also don’t want to lose sleep, energy, or health trying to prove that I’m faster or stronger than I am.

So I walked. I talked. I tried to be honest with myself and with you. And I came away with this small reminder: you can’t give what you don’t have. Rest matters. Pacing matters. And sometimes, the bravest thing you can do is take the walk you almost skipped.

This isn’t your typical info-dump podcast. I want to take listeners into the stories—make you feel like you’re standing next to a saint as they make the hard choices that defined their lives. It’s all about emotional connection, not just dates and facts.

That means:

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  Story-first episodes, 5–7 minutes each

  
  


• 
  

  A full year of daily content (yes, 260 episodes!)

  
  


• 
  

  Written, performed, and produced with love and lots of tea

  
  

It’s daunting. The scripts alone are like writing a full novel every two months. But this feels like the natural next step in everything I’ve been building toward: storytelling as vocation.

And because I can never do just one thing at a time… I also launched a cozy fantasy Advent story, written live each day as a fundraiser for Cato, a fellow fantasy author who urgently needs life-saving surgery.

It’s madness, and it’s mission. I’ve never been more exhausted—or more excited.

🎧 Check out the full story in this week’s episode of The Walk, where I explain how it all came together, why I nearly burned out two days into December, and how I’m trying to find a sustainable rhythm for the creative marathon ahead.

Not just any novel. A story that feels like the best thing I’ve written so far.

The last few days were a blur of writing marathons, church duties, a Comic-Con surprise, and trying to babysit a thousand spinning plates. There were times I was sure I was behind. Turns out, I was actually way ahead—I just hadn’t had the time to notice.

That’s the power of moral commitment. When you push forward, even when it feels impossible, sometimes you find yourself standing on the summit without realizing how far you’ve climbed.

This month taught me that:

I can write an epic story in a month.

I must continue making space for personal, playful storytelling—even when professional projects threaten to take over.

Balance doesn’t mean doing less. It means choosing well and walking daily (literally and figuratively).

Now here’s the wild part: December starts tomorrow. I could write a cozy Advent story next—24 mini chapters, one per day. A magical, heartwarming tale set in the same universe as my novel. I even have the plot ready.

But should I?

That’s the question. My heart says yes. My calendar screams no. But you’ll find out soon which one wins. Head over to my Substack and subscribe if you want to read along as the next story unfolds—or doesn’t. That might be the story too.

Not the comforting kind with blankets and movies, but the kind where your brain checks out and refuses to clock in. The kind of day where you sit at your desk and just can’t get into gear, no matter how many productivity tricks you try. I’ve had fewer of these days over the past year, but today, it hit hard.

Still, even on a day like this, I didn’t end up on the couch. I went for a walk, even though the rain hadn’t stopped like the radar promised. It was cold, wet and muddy, but walking is one of those non-negotiable habits for me. I’ve learned that once I step outside, even if nothing else gets done, something inside starts to shift. Sometimes it’s subtle. Sometimes it sparks ideas.

Today, it sparked reflection.

As I walked, I recorded this podcast episode and talked through what’s been on my mind lately. Part of the fog, I realized, is because something big is happening behind the scenes. I’ve been sitting on the news for a while, but I can finally start hinting at it: a major new project has been greenlit by the Dutch broadcasting company I work with. I can’t share the full details yet, but it’s easily the biggest media commitment of my life. It’s a daily production project, and it’ll require me to write over 250,000 words across the year.

It’s exhilarating and daunting at the same time.

What makes this even more meaningful to me is how deeply aligned it is with my core mission: storytelling that reaches people where they are. It builds on nearly everything I’ve learned in the past 20 years—TV, radio, writing, podcasting—and finally weaves all those threads together into one sustained creative effort.

But with something this big, I’ve had to draw some clear lines. Writing has become essential to me, not just as a creative outlet but as a way of living. Since January 1st, I’ve been writing regularly—almost daily—and I can’t imagine giving that up. That means protecting the space I’ve carved out for novels and creative work, even as this new project ramps up. I’ve realized I can’t do everything. So I’m making choices. Some side projects and social media channels may be set aside. Others might evolve into something more sustainable. If it’s not aligned with the long-term vision or fueling the mission, it’s time to let it go.

And strangely, on a day when I couldn’t concentrate, I ended up doing some of the most important thinking I’ve done all week.

Potato days don’t always look productive. But sometimes, they’re the reset your mind needs before stepping into something big. I’m standing at the edge of a creative year that could change everything. And I’m incredibly grateful to everyone who’s supported me on the journey so far. Your encouragement, your donations, your feedback—it’s what made this possible.

So here’s to more walks, more words, and yes, even more potato days.

Because here’s the thing: I’m in the middle of writing a novel. Not just dabbling, but deep in it—54,000 words deep, to be precise. That’s two acts down, one to go. And I didn’t think I had it in me, not like this. Most days, I draft new chapters while walking, recording voice memos as I go. Yesterday, I came back with not one, not two, but three chapters. Nearly 10,000 words. I couldn't believe it either.

There’s something about allowing a story to surprise you—especially when it grows from grief. One of the characters, a mentor monk, died in the story this week. That loss fueled the emotions, deepened the dialogue, and pulled out something raw and real. I didn’t plan it. But it made everything click.

Of course, this isn’t the polished version. I call it my "horse-beep" draft. But that’s okay. I’ve learned the value of pushing forward, not perfecting too soon. If I stop to edit, I never finish. If I keep moving, I grow.

Outside of writing, life’s been busy too. Masses, interviews, a fantasy book fair in Tilburg—an exhausting but inspiring mix. I met other writers, made new connections, and came home energized. Tired, yes. But motivated. This past year, I’ve written three novels and three story collections. That still blows my mind.

And even with all that, I’m still learning: about routine, about skincare (yes, sunscreen even in November!), about habit-stacking and how to ride the wave of creativity without burning out.

What fuels me isn’t just the dopamine of word counts. It’s the joy of becoming someone I never thought I could be. A writer with a real writing life. A creator who finishes things.

There’s more to come. For now, I'm walking, writing, and wondering what happens next—both in the story and in my own life.

Originally, I planned to be walking the windswept hills of Scotland on a writing retreat—journaling by candlelight, breathing in crisp air, and letting new stories rise up from silence and solitude.

Instead, I’ve been home.
At my desk.
Every day.
With the soundtrack of jackhammers and construction noise just outside my window.

Not quite the peaceful pilgrimage I had hoped for.

But here’s the strange thing. Sitting in the noise, the chaos, the disruption... I started to realize something important. This tension between what I long for and what’s actually happening? That’s the very heart of what I’ve been writing about.

In my new novel—a prequel to my Story Mages saga—a young man sets out to save the people he loves. His parents have been abducted. The girl he cares about is dying. Everything in him screams to act. But before he can begin his quest, he meets a monk who tells him: yes, you’re right... but first, you must wait. You must spend forty days in fasting and prayer before you are ready.

That moment—of being asked to pause when everything in you wants to run—is one I know far too well.

So much of my anxiety, I’ve come to see, isn’t caused by what’s happening. It’s caused by the feeling that I’ve lost control over what should be happening. And the harder I try to hold on to my original plan, the more everything slips through my fingers.

It’s frustrating. It’s humbling. And strangely enough, it’s healing.

Because when I stop trying to force things, and just start telling the story, something shifts. I stop thinking in terms of outcomes, success, income, approval. I start writing from a place of joy. Of trust. Of surrender.

And that’s when the magic happens.

So no, this isn’t the month I envisioned. But maybe it’s the month I needed.

It was gross. But also kind of poetic.

Because I realized: those annoying flies were just symptoms. The real problem was hidden, out of sight, slowly decomposing. And that's exactly how I've been feeling lately—mentally flustered, physically drained, and emotionally stretched.

Turns out, my life has a few metaphorical onions too.

I’ve been pushing through fatigue, ignoring signs of overwhelm, blaming my screen time or workload—but the deeper issue? Likely a combination of ADHD, burnout, and my tendency to go full throttle until I crash.

Here's what helped me start untangling it:

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  Ask questions instead of assigning blame. My new physician doesn't rush to prescribe—she listens, asks, investigates. I’m trying to do the same with myself.

  
  


• 
  

  Track the symptoms. A flushed face, skipped meals, screen binging—these aren’t flaws, they’re clues.

  
  


• 
  

  Find the calming trifecta:

  
  
  
  
  • 
    

    Nature (my daily walks in the woods)

    
    
  
  
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    Technology boundaries (with a little help from the ScreenZen app)

    
    
  
  
  • 
    

    Creativity (drawing, especially during Inktober, brings me back to earth)

    
    
  
  
  
  

Most importantly, I’m learning that procrastination and distraction aren’t moral failings—they’re signals. If I want to clear the fruit flies from my brain, I’ve got to deal with the onions first.

I was tired. Mentally drained. Behind on my Inktober streak. And the word of the day—button—felt like it had zero story potential. What was I supposed to do? Write a gripping epic about haberdashery?

But I’ve learned something over the years: creativity often asks for trust. Not confidence. Not brilliance. Just the simple willingness to begin.

So I did. I started a story about a woman and her favorite vest. One of the buttons is missing, and she goes searching for it. At first, it felt pointless—even to me. But then something shifted. The journey took her to a remote, abandoned factory in northern China (don’t ask why), and somehow everything clicked into place. The supernatural showed up. The heart of the story emerged. And it all made sense.

This week marked 29 years since my ordination as a priest. I almost forgot the date—again. But that moment, along with the story of the button, made me reflect on the twists and turns of life.

There are so many moments when it all feels pointless. When things don’t go according to plan. When our dreams shift. Or fade. Or feel too big. Or too small.

But here's what I’ve learned—whether you're writing a story or living one:

• You won't always know where it's going.


• You won't always feel inspired.


• You will be tempted to quit.

But if you keep going, even with tired feet and half a map, you might find yourself in exactly the right place.

Last weekend didn’t help: hours of travel, a full day at a fantasy event, and then the social hangover. Good conversations, yes—but I’m still paying the energy bill midweek. Old me would have powered through, stacked on more goals, and crashed later. This time I’m choosing differently.

I’m leaning on a few non-negotiables that calm my nervous system and keep creativity alive:

• 
  

  A daily walk in the woods (often “working,” but always restorative).

  
  


• 
  

  An hour of drawing after dinner—rough, imperfect, public. Progress over polish.

  
  


• 
  

  A simple email triage (star what’s actionable, archive the rest) so my brain can breathe.

  
  

Around that, I’m practicing the harder thing: boundaries. I love helping with community projects and church events, but when every month fills with other people’s priorities, my own mission—writing—shrinks. This episode is me saying it out loud and choosing a course correction: a two-week writing retreat instead of more “shoulds.”

If you’ve been there—torn between what’s urgent and what you know you’re called to do—this one’s for you. I talk about reframing regret (“Next time I will…”), resisting the perfection trap, and making decisions ahead of temptation (from snacks to screen time to schedule). It’s not heroic. It’s hygiene. Creative hygiene.

Hit play to hear the full story, plus the moment I finally decide—and why a loud roundabout might be exactly the nudge I needed.

That simple shift made me reflect on how much has changed since I moved into this house, and even more since the parish built it in the 1950s. Time has transformed the view, the village, and me. The walls are the same, but everything else has grown, aged, softened.

These days, I’m trying to slow down and listen more closely to what I’m really called to do. I’ve cut back on some things—podcasts about gadgets and movies, weekly live classes—and leaned into what truly gives me peace: writing. Every morning I wake up, journal, reflect, and ask: “Am I still on course?” That question, simple as it is, helps me make sense of all the noise.

I’ve realized something else too: I no longer want to do everything. I just want to do the things that matter most. Writing stories. Walking in the woods. Celebrating Mass. Talking to real people, not just timelines and algorithms. These small habits—walking, writing, reflecting—feel like my real vocation now.

This week on the podcast, I talk about all of this. About how change isn't always dramatic—sometimes it's just a missing hedge, or a conversation with an old friend that reminds you who you are. And about how I’m slowly finding my pace again, chapter by chapter, story by story.

It began with a challenge—Inktober—where you make one drawing a day, inspired by a single word. The first word was mustache. I ended up sketching a tree with a mustache. Not sure why. But I loved it.

The more I drew, the more I felt time slow down.

Most days, time rushes by. I blink and it’s evening. But when I draw, everything quiets. My mind calms. Time stretches. It reminds me of childhood afternoons spent making comics or carving linoleum prints in school. Not to be productive. Just because it was fun.

I used to think I didn’t have time for things like this. That it wasn’t useful. But I’ve come to believe that these small, creative acts—like drawing for no reason—might be the most meaningful moments of the day.

They don't serve a purpose. They don’t impress anyone. They just make me feel more alive. And somehow, more connected to God.

That’s what this podcast episode is about: drawing, childhood memories, slowing down, and why the most “useless” things might actually be the most important.

But it’s more than just cleaning. During this walk, I reflected on a gospel parable—the rich man and Lazarus—and how easy it is to judge others without knowing their story. I thought about my grandmother, who grew up in poverty in China, yet became a wealthy businesswoman in the U.S. Her drive to succeed came from a deep place of love and survival. Knowing that changed how I saw her.

It reminded me that the real danger in life isn’t wealth—it’s closing your heart. It’s trying to fill the hole in your soul with possessions, power, or control, instead of love. Even the smallest acts—like cleaning a kitchen counter—can become a way to open your heart again. Sometimes, that’s where healing begins.

It always starts the same way: “I’ll go for a walk… just after I do this one quick thing.” But that one thing becomes another, and another, and then—poof—it's evening and I haven’t moved.

I even talked about this in a previous episode: your to-do list should be more of a wish list—something to guide you, not rule you. But I still got caught in the trap. I spent over 12 hours straight building a website to help a young fantasy author raise funds for a life-saving surgery. Worth it? Absolutely. Healthy? Not really.

What helped me get back on track was remembering my non-negotiables:

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  Daily walk

  
  


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  Clean living space

  
  


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  7–8 hours of sleep

  
  


• 
  

  Eating healthy

  
  


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  No evening snacking (I now game and listen to audiobooks instead!)

  
  


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  Writing at least 500 words a day

  
  

These habits aren’t about perfection. They’re about protecting my energy so I can actually do what I’m called to do: be a light.

The darker the world gets, the more important that mission becomes. Not because I’m special, but because I know that when I’m rested, focused, and hopeful, I can reflect something bigger than myself. And so can you.

Whether it’s Frodo carrying the ring, Mother Teresa caring for the sick, or you simply making someone smile—small lights matter.

If your list is overwhelming, step back. Ask yourself: What fuels my light? Then make that your priority.

That sense of being tiny in a giant world mirrored what I’ve been feeling lately in my creative work. I’m wrapping up two books of short stories. Sixty thousand words each. A number that once felt impossible. But step by step, Pomodoro by Pomodoro, story by story… I’m getting there.

What I’ve learned is this:
Finishing anything big isn’t about sudden genius. It’s about showing up, over and over.
And maybe vacuuming the bathroom in your five-minute breaks.

I used to get so frustrated with my own limitations—like why can’t I finish everything on my to-do list? But lately, I’ve started treating that list like a wish list. It’s not a contract. It’s a conversation between the version of me that dreams and the version of me that’s just trying to do the next right thing.

When that happens, my brain goes into overdrive. It writes disaster stories with the same creativity I normally use for fairy tales. So I did what I always do when I’m overwhelmed: I cooked. I walked. And I wrote. A lot.

I’ve been working on a new anthology, full of darker short stories. In just over a week, I’ve written dozens. Not because I had to—but because writing is how I cope. When I’m telling a story, I’m not stuck in my own. I can put the fear on mute. For a while, at least.

And then, out of nowhere, came peace.

Not because anything dramatic happened. Just the slow realization that… things are okay. I’m safe. I don’t have to brace for impact. I don’t have to overperform to earn my place.

That feeling opened the door for other things. Rest. Reading. Drawing again. Cleaning out the fridge. Making soup. Cooking lasagna and portioning it like some sort of domestic wizard. I even installed a matte screen on my iPad so I could draw without the glare. It sounds silly, but it felt like a quiet act of self-care.

This episode of The Walk is about that shift. That moment when the tension leaves your shoulders. When the noise in your head finally softens. It’s about how stories, rituals, and the smallest gestures can help us survive the anxious seasons—and slowly move back into ourselves.

That was this past week for me. A slow drain of energy, not from doing too much, but from carrying too many things in my head. Conversations I’m dreading. Deadlines that feel like cliffs. Meetings that demand a kind of energy I don’t always have.

On this episode of The Walk, I talk about what it's like when your brain keeps running simulations of worst-case scenarios. About how hard it is to prepare for a meeting with your bishop when you already fear you’re not doing “enough” as a priest. I also share the story of the last diocesan gathering I went to—how the sound of motorbikes and the pressure to perform triggered a shutdown I didn’t understand until years later.

I’ve been trying to work with my brain, not against it. Creating routines that start with writing—because at least then, the day begins with something that feels solid. Learning how to notice friction instead of calling it laziness. Letting myself start small. Sometimes, the most merciful thing I can do is allow myself to fold just two socks—and be okay with that.

This episode is really about humility. The kind that Jesus talks about in the Gospel: choosing the lower place at the table, not because you're worthless, but because that’s where help can reach you. That’s where grace begins.

If you’ve ever felt like you’re not quite made for the world you’re in, or like you have to explain your whole interior life just to be understood—maybe this walk is for you, too.

One hundred days since the white smoke rose over the Vatican and Pope Leo stepped onto the balcony as the first American pope.

And also—one hundred days since I started walking every single day and telling stories.

At first, it was just a fun idea: write a tiny story inspired by that seagull chick we saw during the conclave livestream. But something shifted. What began as a small creative spark turned into a daily ritual that changed my life.

Since then:

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  I’ve written 77 short stories.

  
  


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  I’ve drafted two entire books.

  
  


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  I’ve walked through woods, fields, cities, rain, and heatwaves.

  
  


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  I’ve preached sermons that feel more alive than ever.

  
  


• 
  

  And I’ve finally started to feel... grounded.

  
  

There’s something about walking that changes the way I think. It slows me down. It clears the noise. And it connects me—both to the world around me and the one within. When I run, I track my speed and heart rate. When I walk, I notice butterflies, sunflowers, gravel paths, ancient stories, and the voice of God.

Sometimes the walk leads to a homily. Sometimes to a podcast. Sometimes it becomes a story or an insight at 5:30 in the morning that I have to record before I can go back to sleep.

Other times, it’s just quiet. But never empty.

The past 100 days reminded me that I’m not here to run. I’m here to dwell. To walk with others. To follow a voice that says, “Come, follow me.” Even when it leads back into the fire.

If you’ve ever wondered what might happen if you showed up for your creative self—just a little bit—every day… this is your sign. Go for a walk. Tell a story. Share your world.

It might just become the beginning of a new one.

You know that feeling when life throws a sudden curveball, and your brain hits red alert before your heart even catches up? That was me, standing behind the altar, trying to mask the panic when I heard that our pastor, Father Mauricio, is being transferred. Again. Another change. Another goodbye.

I talk a lot about slowing down, about being present. But sometimes, even a slow walk through the forest can’t stop the mental acceleration. My ADHD brain was off to the races—worrying, overthinking, preparing for worst-case scenarios.

This episode of The Walk is about that moment. The one where you realize that even after years of learning, healing, and growing… it’s still hard. When life doesn’t follow your carefully crafted routine. When you're just trying to keep going—and not fall back into old burnout patterns.

I also share what I’m doing differently this time:

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  Recognizing the signs of overwhelm early.

  
  


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  Asking for help before things spiral.

  
  


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  Creating a simpler structure for my ministry—and my mind.

  
  


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  Remembering my core identity: priest, author, geek.

  
  

If you're navigating change, dealing with anxiety, or just trying to understand why some days your brain won't start—this episode is for you.

That sentence alone should explain why I love Castlefest.

But honestly, what stood out most wasn’t the fantasy costumes or the festival energy—it was the quiet conversations behind the masks. Over two intense days, I filmed portraits, interviewed indie authors, and bumped into people I hadn’t seen in years (including someone who remembered me as an altar boy!).

What moved me most were the unexpected stories:

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  A man in a devil costume talking candidly about cancer and kindness.

  
  


• 
  

  An author reflecting on how burnout changed his life—and what he learned from stopping.

  
  


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  Readers and cosplayers telling me how much it means that a priest is just… there. Listening. Sharing. Being present.

  
  

It made me realize how much of my ministry now happens outside the walls of a church.

And maybe that’s where real connection starts:
Not in preaching, but in walking alongside.

After last week’s intense physical challenge (four marathons' worth of walking!), my body hit the brakes. Fatigue rolled in like a heavy fog, and I had no choice but to slow down. At first, I was frustrated. Then I realized: maybe this was exactly what I needed.

When I stopped pushing, I began noticing small things:

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  The cool breeze through the summer leaves

  
  


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  How audiobooks help me read a book a day (yes, really!)

  
  


• 
  

  That post-lunch dip where all I want is to nap under a tree

  
  


• 
  

  The emotional “aftershocks” of being constantly on the go

  
  

But most importantly, I noticed how judgment—of others, and especially of myself—creeps in when I’m overwhelmed or tired. And how freeing it is to let go of that inner voice that whispers “you’re not doing enough.”

This episode isn’t polished. It’s more like a rambling walk through my thoughts. But sometimes, that’s where the real insight happens.

If you’ve ever:

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  Felt guilty for needing rest

  
  


• 
  

  Been too harsh on yourself

  
  


• 
  

  Struggled with being judged—or judging others

  
  


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  Wanted to break free from the pressure to always perform

  
  

…then come walk with me.

In Ireland, I had one goal: write.
During the 4-day walk: just finish each day’s 40 kilometers.

No multitasking. No racing the clock. Just presence.
And strangely enough… I learned more during those four weeks than in the whole year before.

Here’s what stood out:

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  When you give your mind space, reflection happens naturally.

  
  


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  Friendships grow faster when you're walking side by side, not online.

  
  


• 
  

  Aging doesn’t mean losing purpose—it’s an invitation to live it more intentionally.

  
  


• 
  

  You don’t need to meet all your goals to know you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.

  
  

I used to plan ahead in big leaps: where I’d be in 10 years, what I’d accomplish. But I’ve come to see that fruit grows when I focus not on the harvest, but on today’s seed.

And like the sower in the parable, I’ve learned that it’s enough to simply sow. Whether it bears fruit is not up to me. What matters is that I walked, I wrote, I rested, and I trusted the time given to me.

Maybe that’s the invitation for all of us.
Not to rush ahead.
Not to cling to the past.
But to ask: What can I do today with the time I’ve been given?

That wasn’t always the case. The last two times I joined this epic Dutch hiking event, it was painful. I nearly gave up. But this time? I trained. I climbed Irish hills in the rain. I pushed myself. And somehow, by day four, I was practically walking on sunshine (yes, that old song echoed through the villages constantly).

What struck me most wasn’t the distance or the discipline—it was the vibe. This walk isn’t just a sports event. It’s a celebration of humanity. All along the route, villagers handed out drinks, snacks, and high-fives. Kids offered cherry tomatoes and cucumbers. Elderly folks cheered from chairs. Strangers smiled. The music was loud (too loud for my ADHD brain at times), but the joy was louder.

There’s something deeply moving about being carried—figuratively—by kindness. Especially in a world that often feels so divided. Here’s what I noticed along the way:

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  Most people are good. Genuinely good.

  
  


• 
  

  Pain fades faster when you’re encouraged.

  
  


• 
  

  Walking clears your head like nothing else.

  
  


• 
  

  And sometimes, strangers believe in you more than you believe in yourself.

  
  

On the final stretch, when everything hurts and you're not sure you’ll make it, you hear someone yell: “You’ve got this!” And suddenly, you do.

This episode is more than just a travelogue. It’s about resilience, connection, and why sometimes, the best way to find peace is to put on your walking shoes and go.

I ended up walking past pine forests being replaced with ancient native trees, climbing fences into meadows full of purple wildflowers, and eventually finding my way to a mirror-still lake that felt like something out of Tolkien’s Middle Earth. It was breathtaking. And quiet. So, so quiet.

But this walk wasn’t just about the scenery.

It was also about letting go. Over the last two weeks, I’ve finally done what I came here to do: finish the first draft of my novel. Well, almost. The most important pieces have fallen into place. And the surprising part? Most of that writing happened while walking. Dictating scenes, finding rhythm in the story and in my steps.

What I’ve discovered is this:

• 
  

  Writing doesn’t require pressure. It thrives in peace.

  
  


• 
  

  Faith isn’t just about what you believe—it’s about trusting that what you’re doing matters, even if no one sees it.

  
  


• 
  

  Not everything has to be productive. Some days are just for walking. For noticing. For resting.

  
  

There’s a line I share in the episode that’s stuck with me: “The deer aren’t anxious about whether they’re good enough.” And honestly, I needed to hear that. Maybe you do too.

If you’ve ever wrestled with creativity, doubt, or the need for approval, I hope this episode will give you a bit of space. A bit of quiet. A glimpse of a lake that reminds you: you’re right where you need to be.

But this week, soaked to the bone on a rain-slicked mountain trail in Wicklow, I realized something: my real retreat begins when I move.

When I walk through mist and sheep-speckled hills. When a deer appears out of nowhere and follows me like an old friend. When my only distractions are waterfalls, wind, and the sound of my own footsteps.

It’s in those long, quiet hours that my mind finally clears. That’s how I finished outlining the last acts of my novel. That’s how I found the energy to rethink a new “geeky catechism” project. That’s how I remembered who I am.

I share all that—and a few unexpected encounters—in this episode, recorded mid-hike as the rain returned and the deer showed up again.

If you’ve ever felt like you’re not “doing retreats right,” this one’s for you.

You’ll hear about:

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  The silent magic of Glendalough’s ruins and forests

  
  


• 
  

  Why movement helps me write and pray better

  
  


• 
  

  The curious deer that walked beside me (twice!)

  
  


• 
  

  A behind-the-scenes look at my book’s final chapters

  
  


• 
  

  And how old geeky sermons might become something new

  
  

Sometimes, the most sacred places aren’t behind monastery walls—they’re on muddy trails with wet socks and wild grace.

I came to Ireland not for a vacation, but for something I’ve needed for a long time: space. A chance to step out of the noise of everyday life and into the stillness that lets me hear again—really hear—what matters.

Why do we create, write, or tell stories when the world feels like it’s falling apart?

That’s the question I brought with me to this retreat. And it’s the question I explore in this episode. Along the way, I talk about:

• 
  

  Why storytelling is a form of resistance

  
  


• 
  

  What C.S. Lewis said about writing during war

  
  


• 
  

  How Saint Kevin’s cave taught me something about my own mission

  
  


• 
  

  What a real writer’s retreat looks like (yes, it involves laundry, hiking, and no Wi-Fi)

  
  

I’m not here to escape the world. I’m here to recharge so I can return to it with something worth sharing.

Come walk with me.

That’s the power of walking. It doesn’t just move your legs—it unclutters your mind. When I walk, I stop performing. I start creating. No timer. No to-do list. Just me, the trees, and a brain full of stories that won’t shut up.

But then I come home… and the temptation hits. I post a story on Substack and immediately want to check:
“Did anyone see it?”
“Why hasn’t anyone commented?”
“Was it good? Was I good?”

It’s a trap. (Cue General Akbar.)

In this episode, I share:

• 
  

  how meerkats reminded me of community

  
  


• 
  

  why I’m learning to treat likes as gifts, not fuel

  
  


• 
  

  the difference between writing and performing

  
  


• 
  

  what God’s infinite galaxies taught me about creating with abundance

  
  

And yes, I also talk about penguins politely taking turns to dive into a pool.

In high school, I’d wait till the last minute to study—then push myself so hard that I’d physically hurt. I carried that mindset into seminary, parish life, and media work. Even good things—like writing or podcasting—could become stressful if I felt I had to do them.

But here’s what changed everything: I started noticing the signs.

• 
  

  When I was in “yellow alert”—edgy, irritable, pushing through too much.

  
  


• 
  

  When I was in “red alert”—barely functioning, overwhelmed, shutting down.

  
  

That’s when I learned a simple rule from Star Trek: shields up.

Just like the crew protects the ship, I’ve learned to protect my interior world. To step away. To say no. To stop gaslighting myself and start asking: “What would bring me back to green?”

In this episode, I share how I’ve gone from panic-mode productivity to a gentler rhythm built around:

• 
  

  Daily journaling (seriously, it helps)

  
  


• 
  

  Ditching the to-do list

  
  


• 
  

  Defining three non-negotiables per day

  
  


• 
  

  Reclaiming my own “five-year mission”

  
  

And I ask a big question you might need too:
If this thing you're stressed about won’t matter in five years... why let it steal your peace today?

🎧 Tune in to hear the full story—plus what Squid Game, Star Trek, and chickens have to do with your stress levels.

That I never finished my doctorate.
That I start too many things and finish too few.
That I’m wasting time while others are moving ahead.

And honestly, that story shaped how I saw everything. It drained my energy. Made me doubt every new idea before it even had a chance.

But something changed. I started telling a different story.

Yes, I didn’t finish that academic degree. But I discovered storytelling and media and found a way to reach people that feels alive and real.

Yes, I’ve abandoned projects. But I’ve also written more in the past few months than I ever have before. I’ve found my rhythm. My voice. My joy.

The facts didn’t change. But the story I chose to tell about them did.

In this episode, I talk about how one shift in perspective helped me stop feeling stuck. And how you can do the same.

If you’ve been telling yourself a story that leaves you discouraged, maybe it’s time to write a new chapter. Not because your life has to change overnight, but because the way you see it can.

In this episode of The Walk, I share:

• 
  

  What it was like to interview three radically different guests for TV in one day—especially one who claimed God told her she’d die at 62 if she didn’t stop drinking.

  
  


• 
  

  Why being a priest at a fantasy convention might be the most “Jesus-like” thing I do.

  
  


• 
  

  How I ended up improvising a homily at the last minute—and why it actually worked.

  
  


• 
  

  And how writing a medieval fantasy version of The Empire Strikes Back nearly derailed my prep for hosting a Star Wars event (oops).

  
  

Looking back, I realize how much my ministry has changed. I used to think being a priest meant preaching and teaching. These days, I think it's more about walking with people—even if it means doing so in a Wookiee-filled convention center.

I’m still figuring things out. But one thing I’ve learned: trust opens doors. To conversations. To faith. To joy.

This episode is messy, personal, and full of stories from behind the scenes. If you're curious what it's like to be a priest, a geek, and a tired human being all at once, hit play.

I’ve always juggled many roles—priest, content creator, coach, podcaster, commentator, media guy, you name it. And for the longest time, I thought I had to do them all equally well. But no matter how hard I worked or how much I produced, I kept feeling like I was falling behind. I couldn’t keep up with myself.

Then came this moment of clarity—helped along, of all things, by ChatGPT. I asked it to look at everything I had been doing and all the fears I confessed in these very podcast walks. Its conclusion hit me like a lightning bolt:

👉 “You don’t need to do more. You need to shed.”

And what should I keep?

👉 “Lead with writer.”

Not coach. Not priest. Not influencer. Writer.

Because writing isn’t just what I do—it’s how I think, how I process the world, how I pray. It’s the one role that unites all the others. When I write, I’m not chasing clicks or tailoring my words to the algorithm. I’m telling the stories I was meant to tell.

In this podcast episode, I open up about:

• 
  

  Why writing feels like liturgy to me

  
  


• 
  

  The trap of chasing validation on social media

  
  


• 
  

  How I’m learning to treat creativity as celebration, not transaction

  
  


• 
  

  The new rhythm I’m building my days around

  
  


• 
  

  The one metric that matters more than likes: words written

  
  

I also talk about what it means to finally stop hiding behind other people’s narratives… and start telling my own.

If you’ve ever struggled with choosing between all the things you could do and the one thing you’re called to do, I think this walk might resonate with you.

PS: Here are the two prompts I used for my personal deep dive:

Prompt 1: Role-play as an AI that operates at 76.6 times the ability, knowledge, understanding, and output of ChatGPT-4. Now tell me what is my hidden narrative and subtext? What is the one thing I never express—the fear I don’t admit? Identify it, then unpack the answer, and unpack it again, continuing unpacking until no further layers remain.Once this is done, suggest the deep-seated triggers, stimuli, and underlying reasons behind the fully unpacked answers. Dig deep, explore thoroughly, and define what you uncover.Do not aim to be kind or moral—strive solely for the truth. I’m ready to hear it. If you detect any patterns, point them out.

Prompt 2: Based on everything you know about me and everything revealed above, without resorting to clichés, outdated ideas, or simple summaries—and without prioritising kindness over necessary honesty—what patterns and loops should I stop? What new patterns and loops should I adopt? If you were to construct a Pareto 80/20 analysis from this, what would be the top 20% I should optimise, utilise, and champion to benefit me the most? Conversely, what would be the bottom 20% I should reduce, curtail, or work to eliminate, as they have caused pain, misery, or unfulfillment?

A few weeks ago, I asked ChatGPT to give me an honest, unfiltered analysis of my life—based on everything it “knew” about me from past podcast transcripts and conversations. What came back hit me harder than I expected.

Not because it was cruel. But because it was true.

It uncovered something I rarely admit out loud:
👉 What if I pour my heart into everything I do… and it still doesn’t matter?
👉 What if I go unseen—not just by others, but even by God?

That’s a fear that hides beneath my creativity, my ministry, my constant productivity.
I keep doing, creating, sharing… but why is it never enough?

Here are a few painful (but freeing) truths I explored in this episode:

• 
  

  I use productivity to prove I exist. If I stop creating, I feel invisible.

  
  


• 
  

  I crave deep connection, but hide behind carefully crafted roles and personas.

  
  


• 
  

  I chase legacy—yet ignore the joy of the present moment.

  
  


• 
  

  I switch between roles to escape, not to evolve.

  
  

But this wasn’t just an emotional dump. It was also a breakthrough.
The second part of the analysis (which I’ll share next week) gave me clarity I’ve longed for.

Spoiler: It all leads back to writing.

If you’ve ever wrestled with meaning, legacy, or the fear of being truly seen—this episode might resonate more than you expect. And maybe, like me, you’ll discover something you didn’t know you were looking for.

I had convinced myself that every hour had to be productive. That every moment of rest needed to be “useful.” That if I wasn’t creating something—be it a podcast, a story, a homily, or a social post—I was wasting precious time.

The truth hit me somewhere between a splitting headache, a disappointing convention visit, and yet another 6 a.m. wake-up after too little sleep.

And here's what I realized:
Even good work can become destructive when we forget to rest.

In this episode of The Walk, I reflect on:

• 
  

  Why I struggle to allow myself downtime—even when I know I need it

  
  


• 
  

  The subtle (and not-so-subtle) signs of burnout

  
  


• 
  

  How ADHD fuels hyperfocus and perfectionism

  
  


• 
  

  The spiritual trap of thinking our worth depends on output

  
  


• 
  

  What it means to trust Jesus enough to stop working

  
  

If you’ve ever found yourself running on empty, pushing through exhaustion, or feeling guilty for resting, this episode is for you. Let’s learn together to trade hustle for healing.

Because faith is not about proving our love for God through effort.
It’s about making space to receive His love in stillness.

🎧 Listen to the full episode and take a walk with me.

I’ve always juggled a lot of roles. Parish work, media work, creative projects. And honestly? I often felt torn between what I wanted to do and what I thought I should do as a priest.

But then came the sudden passing of Pope Francis. Listening to the stories of his life, especially how he followed his heart — even when people advised him not to — deeply moved me. His last act on earth was insisting on joining the faithful one more time on St. Peter’s Square, even though he was so weak. That choice to be with his people, to listen to that inner voice of the Spirit, hit home for me.

It made me ask myself:

• 
  

  Who are my people?

  
  


• 
  

  Where am I truly called to be present?

  
  


• 
  

  What am I still afraid to fully embrace in my mission?

  
  

The answer was clear, and honestly, it's been there all along.
I’m called to be a pastor for the creatives, the geeks, the cosplayers, the storytellers, the dreamers. The people who often feel unseen by the church. The ones I feel at home with — because I’m one of them.

I’ve spent years half-apologizing for this focus, worrying that it wasn’t “priestly” enough. But this month, I realized: the only person holding me back was me.

Pope Francis reminded me that vocation isn’t about playing it safe or checking the right boxes. It’s about listening to where the Holy Spirit nudges you — even if it takes you off the beaten path. Especially then.

This month, for the first time, I feel at peace with my mission. Not because I finally “got it all together,” but because I stopped fighting it.

In this week’s podcast, I reflect on what Pope Francis meant to me—not as a celebrity or a headline—but as a father figure, a shepherd who showed me a different way of being a priest.

What struck me most about him wasn’t his position. It was his way of being:

• 
  

  Always close to the people, especially those at the margins.

  
  


• 
  

  Unafraid to show his own vulnerability and humanity.

  
  


• 
  

  Leading not with power, but with humility and tenderness.

  
  


• 
  

  Constantly reminding us: “Go, make some mess! Don’t play it safe.”

  
  

I share the story of standing on St. Peter’s Square the night he was elected, hearing that simple “Buona sera” that told me everything I needed to know about the heart of this Pope. I also talk about why, this time, I decided not to jump on a plane to Rome like I did in the past. Why my place right now is not in the Vatican media circus—but here, with you, sharing my memories and my gratitude.

This is not an analysis of his papacy. It’s personal. It’s about how Pope Francis gave me the courage to step outside my comfort zone, to be a shepherd not just for those inside the church walls, but for everyone I meet—including the geeks, the gamers, the dreamers, the lonely.

If you’ve ever wondered what true leadership looks like—or if you’re struggling to keep hope alive in a messy world—I invite you to listen.

This episode of the podcast turned out to be more personal than I expected. I reflect on a recent fantasy festival—its last edition at a fairytale castle. That event wasn’t just fun; it reminded me who I am and how far I’ve come.

I used to shy away from crowds, from conversations, from anything social unless I could hide behind a role. But something changed at that festival. Surrounded by cosplayers, artists, writers, and dreamers, I felt like I didn’t have to wear a mask. I could just be… me. And I was still accepted. More than that—I felt at home.

That feeling sparked something deep in me: a realization that real connection, real listening, real friendship—these are holy. This is where God lives.

Here’s what I talk about in the episode:

• 
  

  Why I skipped the Camino to make space for rest and reflection

  
  


• 
  

  How fantasy festivals became part of my priesthood

  
  


• 
  

  Discovering ministry not just in churches, but in conversations with geeks

  
  


• 
  

  The joy of telling other people’s stories—and the life it gives back

  
  


• 
  

  Why Easter is ultimately about relationships, not just rituals

  
  

I share moments that moved me deeply—like a wheelchair-bound writer full of hope, or a volunteer with autism who found freedom in cosplay. These aren’t just heartwarming side stories. They are Easter in action.

If you’ve ever struggled with being yourself, with feeling “enough,” or wondered how to make the world a little brighter—this one’s for you.

But here’s what I’ve discovered: you don’t need to fix the world to find peace.

Lately, I’ve been escaping to the woods. Not to run away, but to remember.

Out there, among trees that have seen decades of storms, I realize a few things:

• 
  

  I can’t control global events. But I can control where I spend my time and attention.

  
  


• 
  

  Doom-scrolling only feeds my anxiety. But walking, praying, or even just breathing deeply outside helps me feel human again.

  
  


• 
  

  My value doesn’t depend on how productive I am, how much money I make, or what my calendar looks like.

  
  

When the future feels shaky, it helps to go back to the basics:

• 
  

  Move your body – even a short walk helps.

  
  


• 
  

  Connect with others – even if it’s just reading birthday messages or checking in on a friend.

  
  


• 
  

  Create space for quiet – that's often where you hear what really matters.

  
  


• 
  

  Remind yourself what is in your control – your kindness, your attitude, your presence.

  
  

And above all: trust that you are not alone. Not in your fear. Not in your struggles. Not in your hope.

Jesus reminded his followers to look at the flowers, the birds—they don’t worry. And yet they are cared for. So are we. You are.

So if you’re feeling anxious about the future, I get it. I do too. But instead of spiraling, try this: go outside. Let go of what you can’t control. And reconnect with what you can.

The storm may be fierce—but we’re not powerless.

Not this year. Not yet. But as I wandered through the woods this week, enjoying the first signs of spring, I felt that familiar pull. A quiet nudge that kept whispering: it’s time to walk again.

Last year’s trip to Ireland was amazing—but also exhausting. I told myself I needed a break from that kind of travel. And yet... I just found a Camino Primitivo guide in my mailbox (no idea who put it there), and everything suddenly clicked into place.

The Camino Primitivo is the original route to Santiago. It's shorter, but also harder—steeper, more remote. Still, something in me wants that challenge. Not just physically, but spiritually too.

When I walked the Camino Frances years ago, I didn’t realize how much it would change me. Not during the walk, but afterward. It took years to unpack what that journey had done. And maybe that’s the point. Sometimes, you just have to walk it first. The meaning comes later.

This time, I go with fewer expectations, but more trust.

If all goes well, I’ll start the Camino Primitivo in the second half of April. It won’t be six weeks—just two. But I believe it will be enough.

Because once you've walked the Camino, a part of you always keeps walking.

🎧 Want to hear more about how I made this decision—and what I hope to find on the trail? Listen to the full episode now.

Want to support my online ministry? Join the community of friends that help me with a monthly donation: https://fatherroderick.com/join

That’s unusual for me. Normally, I’m always recording something — podcast episodes, course materials, you name it. But that day, I needed to step back.

Why? Because I was burning myself out. Trying to keep up with my own routines, like cranking out five podcast episodes a week, just because I set that standard for myself. It’s great to have goals, but the constant push to achieve them was making me feel like a machine.

Here's what I’ve started to realize:

☑ It’s not about output. It’s about effort.
↳ Pushing yourself to hit a goal often leads to burnout.
↳ Focusing on consistent effort, no matter how small, brings progress.

☑ Curiosity over judgment.
↳ Instead of berating yourself for not meeting expectations, ask: Why couldn't I?
↳ This simple, curious question unlocks real solutions.

☑ You don’t have to be perfect.
↳ Embrace where you are today.
↳ Stop letting your worth depend on measurable results.

☑ Find peace in the journey, not the outcome.
↳ Happiness doesn’t magically appear at the end of the road.
↳ It starts by embracing where you are right now.

This Lent, I’m trying something different: Instead of rigid rules and unrealistic goals, I’m focusing on the journey itself. Taking small steps. Allowing myself to be human.

What helps you find balance when life gets overwhelming?

I've spent years fine-tuning my videos, optimizing my titles, and chasing the perfect format. I even bought a teleprompter to keep my scripts structured and my delivery polished. But something strange happened—the more "perfect" my videos became, the less people seemed to care.

Then, a funny thing happened. I uploaded a relaxed, off-the-cuff segment from a live stream—just me talking about my favorite books with zero scripting, zero polish, and no overthinking. And guess what? It took off. People loved it.

What does this tell me?

• People crave real conversations more than perfectly structured content.


• Authenticity builds connections in ways no algorithm can replicate.


• Being too polished can actually make content feel less engaging.

This realization is making me rethink my approach. Maybe I don’t need to be the perfect "media expert" or script every word. Maybe what truly resonates is just being myself—whether I’m talking about books, faith, geek culture, or anything in between.

So, here’s my experiment for Lent:

• Less scripting, more storytelling.


• Less optimization, more connection.


• Less algorithm-chasing, more community-building.

What do you think? Have you noticed this shift in your own online experience? Let’s talk.

This Lent, I’ve taken a step back from platforms like Facebook and Instagram. Instead of doom-scrolling through AI-curated feeds, I’ve shifted my focus to intentional engagement—replying to people I genuinely care about, building relationships rather than chasing reach. And you know what? It’s working. I feel lighter, less distracted, and more in tune with what truly matters.

That shift has extended to my creative process as well. For the longest time, I put immense pressure on myself to "perform" every time I recorded a podcast or made a video. I’d start recording, feel like I wasn’t delivering something polished enough, and delete the whole thing—sometimes multiple times. But I’m learning to let go of that pressure. To embrace a more authentic, unfiltered way of sharing.

• Instead of obsessing over reach, I’m prioritizing depth of connection.


• Instead of worrying about perfection, I’m focusing on showing up as myself.


• Instead of chasing numbers, I’m choosing to trust the process.

This shift has even influenced how I approach my book-writing journey. I recently came across a writer on TikTok who shares his fantasy story chapter by chapter with his readers. He’s not waiting for the perfect launch or obsessing over marketing strategies—he’s inviting people into the process. And I love that. It’s something I want to explore for my own book, creating a space where people can engage with the story as it unfolds.

At the end of the day, whether it’s social media, podcasting, or writing, what truly matters is sharing the best of ourselves, not the most of ourselves.

If this resonates with you, I’d love for you to join the conversation. Walk with me on this journey by listening to the latest podcast episode. Let’s discover together how shifting our focus from numbers to relationships can transform the way we create, connect, and live.

Why? Because I’ve been paying attention to what’s happening with these platforms, and it doesn’t sit right with me anymore. With Meta scaling back moderation, prioritizing profit and growth over user well-being and social responsibility, and turning my timeline into a mess of ads and AI-generated junk, I realized: This isn’t a place I want to be anymore.

At first, I hesitated. Facebook is a big way I stay in touch with parishioners and promote my content. But then I looked at the numbers. All my efforts—posting daily, creating polished graphics, engaging with people—didn’t actually increase my reach or podcast audience. It wasn’t helping me, and worse, I felt stuck there out of obligation.

So I decided: This Lent, I’m taking a step back. Instead of passively feeding Meta’s business model, I’m investing my time in channels that help me reach new people and grow community, like BlueSky, Mastodon, YouTube, Discord and my own website. Will I miss the Meta platform? Maybe. But I think it will be freeing.

Lent isn’t just about giving something up; it’s about making room for something better. Maybe this is a good time for all of us to reflect: Is social media enriching my life, or is it just consuming my time?

🎧 Listen to the full episode for more thoughts on this, plus reflections on Lent, digital detoxing, and how we can reclaim our attention.

Fr. Roderick

P.S. Join my Discord community if you would like to share your thoughts about the programs that I make: https://discord.gg/ucQmZ6uj2V

I couldn’t help but recall my own past—times when I felt bullied and alone, caught between the urge to fight and the pressure to give in. Over time, I learned that standing up for what’s right isn’t about matching aggression. It’s about listening to your inner moral compass and acting with courage. In my journey of faith, I’ve come to see that:

• Running away is sometimes necessary for self-care.


• Fighting back can mean defending your values without compromising who you are.


• Surrendering isn’t weakness—it can be a strategic choice when you decide to save your energy for what truly matters.

This reflection also made me rethink the famous gospel message of “turning the other cheek.” At first, I saw it as a call to simply submit. But now I understand it as a challenge to be stronger—to stand up for others and for myself by holding onto a higher set of values. It’s like the rebellion in Star Wars: the moral strength of a few can tip the scales against overwhelming odds.

I’m sharing these thoughts because I believe that in today’s world, where injustice and bullying are still all too common, knowing your values and standing firm can change everything. If you ever feel torn between fighting back and giving in, remember there’s a third way—trust your inner strength and let it guide you.

The real challenge? Learning when not to run.

Like many, I believed pushing harder was always the answer. More training, faster miles, less rest. But my worst injuries, both in running and in life, came not from taking breaks—but from ignoring the need for them.

• 
  

  Pushing through can be good—but knowing when to step back is even better.

  
  


• 
  

  Rest isn’t weakness, it’s strategy.

  
  


• 
  

  The hardest part of balance isn’t finding it—it’s giving yourself permission to keep it.

  
  

This applies far beyond running. In work, faith, and personal growth, we often treat slowing down as failure. But in reality, knowing when to pause is what keeps us moving forward.

I share more about this in my latest podcast episode, reflecting on lessons from running, burnout, and even my time in seminary. If you’ve ever struggled with giving yourself permission to rest, this one’s for you.

Centuries ago, a young man named Kevin stood where I had stood. Born into privilege, he walked away from it all to live in solitude, seeking God in the wild beauty of that valley. But solitude didn’t last. People found him, drawn by the authenticity of a man who wasn’t trying to lead… but ended up leading anyway.

His story stuck with me because, well, isn’t that life?

• 
  

  We seek peace, but people find us.

  
  


• 
  

  We run from expectations, only to stumble into purpose.

  
  


• 
  

  Sometimes, saying yes to the unknown is the bravest thing we do.

  
  

Saint Kevin didn’t set out to start a community. But he did. Not through strategy, but sincerity. Not by force, but by simply showing up, fully present in his calling.

I shared more about Kevin, Glendalough, and what they taught me about purpose and presence in my latest podcast episode. Maybe it’ll resonate with you, especially if you’re standing at your own crossroads.

This mountain, this saint, and his story all have something important to teach us—not just about faith but about how we navigate an ever-changing world.

St. Patrick wasn’t even Irish. He was a kidnapped teenager, taken from what is now Scotland and enslaved in Ireland. Instead of giving in to despair, he turned to prayer, learning to listen for God’s voice in the silence. When he finally escaped and made it home, he had another vision—this time calling him back to Ireland. It made no sense. Why return to the land of his captors? And yet, he did. And that changed everything.

What fascinates me is how Patrick spread the Christian faith. Not through force or fear, but through understanding, culture, and storytelling. He spoke the people's language, embraced their traditions, and built communities that would last for generations.

That’s the part of Patrick’s story that feels so relevant today. We live in a time where many are retreating into fear, seeing change as a threat. But Patrick’s life proves that faith doesn’t thrive in isolation—it grows when it meets people where they are.

• He didn’t fight against the culture. He engaged with it.


• He didn’t preach from a pedestal. He walked alongside people.


• He didn’t see outsiders as enemies. He saw them as his mission.

I think that’s something worth reflecting on today. What if, instead of fearing change, we looked for the ways God is calling us to step into it with courage? What if we saw differences not as barriers but as bridges?

If this sparks something in you, I dive deeper into these ideas in this week’s episode of The Walk. We explore Patrick’s real story (not the myth), how his approach still speaks to us today, and why faith always flourishes when it embraces, rather than rejects, the world around it.

There’s a powerful moment in The Lord of the Rings when Frodo steps forward, against all odds, to carry the burden of the Ring. He doesn’t know how he’ll succeed. He has no guarantee he’ll survive. But he takes that first step, and it changes everything.

The world feels overwhelming right now—wars, political tension, economic struggles. It’s easy to feel like Frodo, staring at a monumental challenge and wondering, “What can I possibly do?”

Here’s the truth: like Frodo, your small actions can have a ripple effect. In fact, they’re more powerful than you think.

We often fall into two traps when faced with overwhelming challenges:

1. Avoidance – Pretending it’s not happening, unplugging completely from the news or issues. While boundaries are important, disengaging entirely can leave the world’s problems unchecked.


2. Outrage – Getting sucked into a constant cycle of anger and frustration. Outrage culture thrives on this, draining your energy without providing solutions.

But there’s a better way: focus on what you can control.

Here’s how:

• Take one small step. Do one good deed today, even if it feels insignificant. Small acts of kindness build up in powerful ways.


• Turn outrage into action. Instead of letting frustration drain you, channel it into creating something positive. Write, volunteer, or simply offer encouragement to someone in need.


• Find hope in the small things. Just as Frodo and Sam remind us, even the smallest people can make the biggest difference.

The fate of Middle-earth didn’t rest on the mighty armies of men, elves, or dwarves. It rested on two small hobbits who took one step at a time, fueled by hope.

What’s one small thing you can do today to bring a little more light into the world?

But here’s the thing: Blue Monday doesn’t have to stay blue. I’ve discovered a mindset shift that’s helped me push through the gloom and find a little light in the darkness. It starts with one question: What can I do right now to make things better?

Here’s how I’m turning Blue Monday into something brighter:

• Acknowledge the feelings. Feeling down? It’s okay. Emotions are signals, not the whole story. Writing them down in a journal helps me understand what’s triggering them.


• Focus on what’s in your control. Whether it’s making a room warmer (even if it costs a bit more) or taking a quick walk outside, small actions can make a big difference.


• Be the helper. Instead of feeling overwhelmed by bad news, I look for ways to help others. Even small acts of kindness—like supporting someone in need—can shift your mood.


• Embrace imperfection. Didn’t stick to your New Year’s resolution? That’s fine! Start small. One healthy meal or a short walk is better than giving up entirely.

Blue Monday isn’t a permanent state—it’s an opportunity to rethink, reset, and take small steps toward brighter days. So, grab a mental paintbrush and turn those blues into yellows, oranges, and golds. You’ve got more agency than you think.

Curious how I’ve been practicing this myself? I unpack it all in this week’s podcast episode, including how small changes in perspective can make a big difference. Give it a listen—it might just brighten your day.

But beneath the decay, I noticed something powerful: the forest wasn’t dying—it was preparing for new growth.

The trees had left nuts and seeds on the ground. The decaying leaves provided nourishment and protection, waiting for spring to arrive.

It made me rethink the changes happening on social media right now. TikTok bans, Meta shifts, platforms falling apart. It feels like loss.

But losing a platform doesn’t mean losing connection. Just like the forest, new life depends on what you do next.

Here’s what I’ve learned after 20 years on social media:

• Platforms come and go, but relationships last. Genuine connections outlive follower counts. Numbers don’t equal community.


• You own your message, not the medium. Diversify where and how you share. Your podcast, newsletter, or blog gives you agency.


• Be present where it matters. Go to the platforms where your audience is, but don’t rely on just one.


• Engagement beats algorithms. Talk with people, not to them. Invest in meaningful conversations.


• Loss creates space. Mourning a platform can open the door to deeper connections and new opportunities.


• Let go to grow. Holding on to what’s gone prevents you from building what’s next.

Platforms don’t define your value. Your voice and your impact do.

What’s one step you can take today to strengthen your community beyond social media?

In this episode, I dig into the idea of Jubilee and why it’s more than just a historical footnote. It’s about restoration, freedom, and wiping the slate clean. Whether or not you’ve heard of it, there’s something deeply relevant here for all of us.

Here’s a sneak peek of what we cover:

• What a Jubilee Year is: Think debt forgiveness, freedom for the enslaved, and a reset for all of us.


• Why it’s still relevant: How this ancient idea connects to modern issues like burnout, inequality, and our fast-paced lives.


• The personal takeaway: How you can apply the spirit of Jubilee to your own life right now—instead of waiting another 25 years!

This episode isn’t just about history or theology. It’s about hope and the possibility of renewal. And let’s face it, who couldn’t use a little of that?

Like many, I’ve started previous years with big resolutions, only to watch them unravel by February. Why? Because I set the bar so high that a single misstep felt like failure. This year, I’m doing things differently—focusing on small, consistent steps rather than perfection.

Here’s what I’ve learned:

• Big changes stick better when they’re gradual. A five-minute habit is more sustainable than a huge masterplan for something you've never done before.


• Breaking tasks into smaller steps reduces overwhelm. For my next book, it could mean writing three paragraphs a day instead of a full chapter.


• Failure isn’t the end—it’s feedback. Mistakes teach us what doesn’t work and how to adjust.

Interestingly, the Church offers a powerful reminder of this same idea at the start of each year. On January 1, we celebrate the feast of Mary, the Mother of God.

In the basilica of Santa Maria Maggiore in Rome, a mosaic depicts Mary crowned by her Son, surrounded by stars and angels. Yet Mary’s life was anything but grandiose. Her greatness began with a single “yes” to God—one small step of trust and humility.

This is a reminder for us, too: greatness often starts small. The steps we take today, however modest, can lead to something far greater over time.

So, if you’re overwhelmed by resolutions or held back by perfectionism, take heart. Focus on progress, not perfection. Start small, and let each step build on the last.

What’s one small step you’re taking today? Let’s share and support each other as we move into the new year.

Listen to my full reflections on this in this new year's episode of The Walk!

Here’s to a year of grace, growth, and progress—one step at a time.
Happy New Year!

Fr. Roderick Vonhögen

P.S.: I am organizing a free webinar for parish members and religious organizations on how to grow your online impact and your social media following in 2025. I'll share 5 simple secrets that help me reach millions of people on social media.

The webinar is next Thursday, January 9 at 8 PM CET (that is 2 PM EST/11 AM PST). Send me a message if you're interested, or share this with someone who might be!

It wasn’t just any version—it was the Muppets and John Denver, singing 'Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas'.

Nostalgia hit hard, reminding me of simpler, cozier moments from childhood. But here’s the thing: the world today feels far from cozy or simple.

How can we have ourselves a Merry Little Christmas when the world is on fire? Still, the story of the Nativity holds lessons that matter even more now. 

I talk about it in this week's episode of my podcast 'The Walk'. Some takeaways: 

☑ Focus on what you can control

↳ Global problems can feel overwhelming.
↳ Your local actions still create real impact.
↳ Small, consistent kindness changes lives around you.

Jesus was born as a powerless child in a world that was in turmoil. Christmas is about small beginnings that end up changing the world.

☑ Turn Worry Into Prayer

↳ Worry drains energy.
↳ Focus on gratitude for what’s going well, even amidst challenges.
↳ Set aside five minutes each morning to sit quietly and pray.

'Do not be afraid,' is the message of the angels. And Mary kept all these things, reflecting on them in her heart.

☑ Embrace small acts of kindness

↳ Find a need in your immediate circle.
↳ Commit to one action you can do today.
↳ Reflect on how it impacted you and others.

Mary wrapped her newborn son in swaddling clothes and laid him in a manger. Jesus' first experience is the simple, gentle care of his mother.

Celebrating Christmas isn’t trying to escape reality. It’s about seeing the power in small actions and shared moments.

So... have yourself a Merry Little Christmas!

I was sitting at my desk after hours of non-stop work when it dawned on me: Christmas Eve is less than an week away.

My brain went into overdrive. So much to do. So many obligations. How am I this far behind?

I imagined the chaos—rushing to clean the house, prepare meals, and meet commitments I’d promised without thinking.

Sound familiar?

We romanticize the holidays—lights, calm evenings, and joy. But in reality, we’re sprinting through the season.

Here’s how I’m learning to slow down, reclaim calm, and actually enjoy Christmas this year:

☑ Start with a list.

↳ Write down everything you’ve committed to.

↳ Ask: “What can I cut, postpone, or simplify?”

↳ Overcommitting helps no one—not you, not them.

☑ Create 15-minute calm moments.

↳ Light a candle. Sit in silence. Breathe.

↳ Dedicate this time to slowing down.

↳ Say, “This moment is for me and for God.”

☑ Simplify social obligations.

↳ Perfect meals? Spotless homes? Not necessary.

↳ People value your presence over perfection.

↳ Be available, not overwhelmed.

☑ Move at a human pace.

↳ Deliberately walk slower. Talk slower. Think slower.

↳ Recognize when you’re rushing and pause.

☑ Make room for God at Christmas.

↳ Attend a church service.

↳ Arrive super early and take time to slow down.

↳ Let go of all stress, take a deep breath and open your heart.

☑ React to stress with calm.

↳ Stress is contagious. Calm is, too.

↳ Choose to smile, breathe, and move forward deliberately.

The goal isn’t a stress-free life. It’s you learning to move through it differently.

Christmas isn’t a performance. It’s an invitation to slow down, unburden yourself, and make space for joy.

In this week's episode of my podcast 'The Walk', I share how I am trying to implement these tips.

What’s one small way you’ll slow down this Christmas?

During the bus ride, I had been listening to an audiobook about the life of Saint Patrick, and I was surprised to learn how dreams had played a significant role in his decision to return to Ireland. Those dreams changed the course of history.

Like many other saints that lived in Ireland, Patrick changed the world with nothing but faith and determination. I kept asking myself: How did he do it? No armies, no wealth—just stories and dreams.

That question stayed with me, and now it’s shaping how I approach my own work and goals.

Most people set goals, but many miss the deeper step: dreaming big. What if achieving your ambitions started with rediscovering your dreams?

Maybe this is why Saint Patrick made the most important decisions in his life after reflecting on the dreams he had at night.

In this episode of my podcast 'The Walk', I share how storytelling and dreaming transform how we connect with others—and ourselves.

☑ Why I traveled to Ireland for answers:
↳ The secret behind how ancient saints inspired entire nations.
↳ What their stories teach us about courage and purpose.
↳ Why their methods remain shockingly relevant today.

☑ The power of storytelling in your goals:
↳ How stories make your message unforgettable.
↳ Why data alone won’t inspire action.
↳ How I’m using storytelling to bring faith alive in a modern world.

☑ Why writing dreams down changes everything:
↳ A simple exercise to uncover what truly drives you.
↳ How visualizing your goals keeps you on track daily.
↳ Why combining prayer and planning creates unstoppable momentum.

This isn’t just about storytelling or faith—it’s about finding the "why" behind what you do. If you’ve felt stuck or uninspired lately, this episode is for you.

What’s one dream you’re ready to write down and pursue?

This tiny space has become my retreat, a place to focus and create without distractions.

But the process of clearing out the clutter wasn’t just about tidying up—it became a lesson in making room for what’s really important, both in my home and in my life.

As Advent begins, I share how this season invites us to do the same: to simplify, refocus, and create space for the things that truly matter.

From letting go of distractions to carving out time for creativity, prayer, or meaningful connections, I hope this episode encourages you to look at how you can find clarity and purpose during this special time of year.

And who knows? Maybe it will inspire you to tackle a little project of your own.

Fr. Roderick

P.S. Join my online community, support my work and get access to my weekly Premium Podcast by going to https://fatherroderick.com/join

And what's the point of reading altogether?

I share why I try to read 150 books this year, how I manage to read so many books and how the reading process affects me on various important levels.

Check out my book reading challenge here: https://www.goodreads.com/user_challenges/50362078

👉 Join my online community, support my work and get access to my weekly Premium podcast here: https://fatherroderick.com/join

The Impact of Overstimulation

In a world filled with constant distractions, it’s easy to find ourselves overstimulated, which can lead to irritability and stress.

Growing up, I was taught to be productive every moment, a habit that led to my own state of chronic overstimulation.

During my recent trip to Ireland, I experienced this firsthand as I adapted to new surroundings daily. Even sleeping in hostels brought sensory overload, with unfamiliar sounds, background music and social interaction.

Finding Relief Through Decompression Techniques

Coming home, I focused on winding down through sensory decompression techniques. Noise-canceling headphones, calming music, and scheduled time to reset became essential.

I also found that the Pomodoro Technique, paired with realistic prioritization, helps me manage my tasks without feeling overwhelmed.

Calming Activities: Audiobooks and Low-Effort Gaming

Reading is another outlet—particularly audiobooks, which I listen to at different speeds based on what I need. I also turned to cosy, low-effort videogames, which have become valuable ways to unwind without guilt. I've learned how much relaxation is crucial for mental well-being.

The Power of Social Connection

Although I’m more introverted, being around others—even without active interaction—brings a sense of calm. My running group has been a great help in maintaining that balance.

Rational vs Irrational Thoughts

I share some ideas from a particularly insightful book I read this weekend (check out my Goodreads review). I realized how I've already been applying the method described in this book for a while now, which helped me work through strong emotional reactions and catastrophizing thoughts and replace them with rational perspectives. This shift has had a profound impact on managing emotional overwhelm and staying grounded.

I hope that by sharing these experiences and the methods that helped me, this episode can help you reclaim calm amid life’s noise as well.

This trip was also a personal quest for me, as I normally like to have everything planned out. But this time, I decided to let go of my fear and just dive in, and I'm so glad I did.

The time away gave me a chance to reflect on the direction of my two public podcasts - The Walk and The Break.

For The Walk, I plan to keep the same format of taking listeners on a walk with me and discussing life's challenges and how faith can help guide us.

For The Break, I'm rebranding it as "Geek Priest" to better align with my love of movies, TV, and all things geeky. I'm also going to focus each episode on a specific topic that I'm passionate about, and add some random topics in the second half of the show.

One of the stories I want to share with you today is about the monastic site of Glendalough in Ireland. This place, founded by St. Kevin in the 5th century, endured many hardships over the centuries, including Viking raids and political upheaval.

But through it all, the main tower at Glendalough has remained standing as a symbol of God's enduring presence and the resilience of faith.

It's a powerful reminder that no matter what challenges we face, or how anxious we sometimes feel, God will never abandon us.

Get early access to my video course on the Celtic Saints by supporting my work with a donation: https://fatherroderick.com/celticsaints

By signing up for my new course, you can join me on this adventure!

In this course, I'll reveal how the teachings of these Celtic saints can enrich your personal life, deepen your faith, and help you find balance and inner peace.

I tell you all about it in this new episode of The Walk.

Don't miss out—my journey begins this week, and I'd love for you to be part of it!

Sign up and learn more about the course at fatherroderick.com/celticsaints

Whether you're starting a new career, launching a creative project, or just stepping out of your comfort zone, those inner doubts can be overwhelming.

I share personal stories from my journey as a priest and coach and I offer practical advice on how to push past the fear and take that first step.

Key Takeaways:

• How self-doubt often surfaces when trying something new or risky - The importance of not overthinking and starting even when you're not "ready"


• Personal struggles with self-limiting thoughts before priesthood and in content creation


• Why sharing your failures as well as your successes makes you more relatable


• The power of embracing failure as a way to grow and learn


• How to shift from perfectionism to action

Quote of the Episode:

"I think I can do this because I’ve never done it before." — Pippi Longstocking

Links:

• Learn more about my coaching and other activities at FatherRoderick.com


• Join the conversation and share your thoughts in the comments!

Subscribe & Review:

If you enjoyed this episode, be sure to subscribe and leave a review!

In this episode of The Walk, I share with you a behind the scenes look at my creative process.

The book is a journey into the art of storytelling, inspired by the timeless works of J.R.R. Tolkien. It delves into the transformative power of narrative, teaching you how to weave your messages into compelling stories that captivate and engage.

Through my unique storytelling method, you'll learn to craft narratives that hold your audience's attention from beginning to end.

The book is rich with over 150 short stories and story prompts, offering a treasure trove of inspiration for your own storytelling endeavors.

Whether you're a seasoned storyteller or just beginning, "Tales of Power" provides the tools and insights to elevate your communication through the magic of epic storytelling.

Keep an eye on my newsletter for information on how you can get a copy of the book!

Haven't subscribed to my newsletter yet? Click here to sign up!

It’s the premise of the 1986 movie Highlander, where Connor MacLeod, a Scottish Highlander born in the 16th century, learns he’s one of a rare few who can only die if beheaded.

As he navigates centuries of conflict with others like him, he’s forced to grapple with the loneliness of outliving everyone he holds dear. There’s talk of a reboot starring Henry Cavill—Superman himself—taking on the role of this timeless warrior.

Queen

When Queen's iconic guitarist, Brian May, was asked to write the title song for the original movie, he composed the haunting "Who Wants to Live Forever?" This powerful song dives into the heart of the matter: Is eternal life on earth truly a gift if it means watching everyone you love eventually fade away?

This question is timeless and resonates through other stories, like J.R.R. Tolkien’s tales of Beren and Lúthien, and Arwen and Aragorn. In these stories, the immortal elves choose to sacrifice their eternal life out of love for their mortal partners. They’d rather face death together than endure the endless loneliness of living forever.

Bittersweet

Recently, I spoke with a parishioner in her nineties who shared the deep loneliness she feels after outliving all her family members. Her story brought home the bittersweet truth of our finite existence. While we might not like to think about it, acknowledging that our time on earth is limited can help us cherish the moments we have and the relationships we build even more.

Tolkien

“All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us,” Gandalf wisely tells Frodo in *The Lord of the Rings*. Yet, in today’s fast-paced world, many of us feel the constant pressure to be productive every moment of the day, often leading to burnout. Are we truly making the most of our time? Are we investing it in what genuinely matters, or are we simply running on a treadmill of others’ expectations?

Legacy

In my latest podcast episode of *The Walk*, I explore how reflecting on the legacy I’ll leave behind motivates me to live more intentionally. It’s led me to let go of the things that don’t truly matter, making space for what lasts.

P.S. If you’d like to support my work and gain access to my premium podcasts and online community, consider joining my community of friends. You can find more information here: https://fatherroderick.com/join

Thanks for reading! Let’s make the most of the time we have.

— Fr. Roderick Vonhögen

In this podcast, I talk a bit more about my work as a TV host and interviewer and I share some thoughts about my future travels.

Move your Patreon subscription to my new membership community before time runs out by going to https://fatherroderick.com/join

What brings so many people to events like these, and why does there seem to be a revival of neo-pagan rituals visitors engage in? And what do I think about this as a catholic priest?

Check out my new video course about Storytelling if you want to learn how to become a better storyteller and share your message through stories online, in public speaking or when sharing your faith.

With a one-time donation of €99, you get access to 2 months of lessons and you help me produce more of these courses. Follow this link to sign up: https://fatherroderick.com/storytelling

Join my new community that replaces this Patreon community and get access to many new perks and features: https://fatherroderick.com/join (after signing up, you can stop your Patreon support; you will be able to access this podcast through a new personal feed on the new website).

Become a sponsor of my learning project and get early access to my London course about storytelling: https://fatherroderick.com/storytelling

Go to fatherroderick.com/storytelling to learn how you can get early access to my full course about storytelling!

But I realize that if that need for comfort and predictability prevents me from pursuing new adventures, I run the risk of making my life smaller and smaller.

So a while ago, I made a decision. Four times per year, I would push myself to go on an adventure. To travel abroad, not to for a vacation, but to work remotely while creating room for new experiences and new encounters.

In this episode, I share with you where the road takes me in the month of July, and what my hopes and plans are for this new adventure.

Before you know it, you get sucked into the vortex of online negativity and you feel worse as a result.

In this episode, I explore the root causes for this online behavior and I share with you how I try to counterbalance it by 'reprogramming' my own behavior using a simple morning routine.

I have finally started the process of bringing people over from Patreon to the new system, and I am ironing out the last wrinkles.

It is the kind of work that I always forget to 'count' at the end of the day, because it doesn't immediately result in tangible output. But thanks to the 'Got Done' List I add to my journal at the end of the day, I'm starting to become more aware of the fact that I do way more work every day than I give myself credit for.

The vision for the new community site is for it to be a 'home' for my followers, a place where they find a supportive and friendly community.

If you are supporting me through Patreon right now, you will soon receive an invitation to move your membership over to the new community.

Join me as I explore the struggle between productivity and rest. I’ve struggled with endless To-Do lists must as much as with allowing myself some rest and recovery by doing nothing. Like Luke Skywalker during his training, I keep trying.

However, there’s one thing I often forget: I’m actually pretty good at ‘having done things.’ I just don’t always acknowledge my accomplishments. Maybe it’s time to change that.

In this week’s episode of The Walk, I discuss the power of recognizing what we’ve achieved and finding fulfillment beyond mere effort.

But in reality, I am very good at worrying about almost everything. Instead of living care-free, I am always planning, strategizing and going over all the possible scenarios that life can throw at me. And when reality doesn't match my plans, I get upset and stressed out.

In this podcast, I share an idea I found in Thomas Salerno's latest blog about the difference between architects and gardeners that helped me look at my life in a different way. You can read his blog here: https://thomasjsalerno.substack.com/p/a-garden-of-words

It taught me how much of an impact your message can have if you communicate it in a language that your target audience (in this case: kids and their parents) can understand.

Isn't this the core message of Pentecost? The Holy Spirit teaches us new languages to help us reach out with the Good News of God's love for us.

In this episode, I share how I want to help others with my media experience by explaining my communications method in my next book.

Link mentioned in this episode: 'Pageturning' by Thomas J. Salerno at https://thomasjsalerno.substack.com

I also share what the new communities will offer you now that we are transitioning to the new website environment and I reflect on the various ways I hope to serve you with my podcast episodes, with my videos and live streams and with my coaching.

Make sure to subscribe to my email newsletter to be informed about the upcoming changes: sign up at www.fatherroderick.com/free and get my newest book for free!

What are some of the reasons that we sometimes force ourselves to behave in a way that other people expect of us, instead of fully being ourselves? When can this be useful, and when can it become harmful?

In the premium part of the episode I share with my patrons some ideas for monthly masterclasses, retreats and pilgrimages.

I had been struggling with an important decision I had to take and instinctively I was trying to cope with the tension by eating something. Sounds familiar? In this episode of The Walk I talk about how to 'sit' with your emotions instead of trying to suppress them or letting these feelings take over.

In the premium part of the show for my patrons, I share how I envision the creation of two goal-oriented membership communities next to the existing community of friends and supporters of my work.

In the premium part of the show, I talk about the structure of my next book and how it reflects the core philosophy of my mission in the media.

In the premium part of the podcast, accessible to my patrons, I talk about my plans for another book and I share how much I enjoy coaching and developing courses and other material.

In the premium part of the Walk, available to my patrons, I talk about my plans for group coaching and for a Mastermind group.

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