What happens when we finally give ourselves permission to put down what we’ve been carrying.

There is a moment that sometimes happens when we finally slow down.

Our shoulders drop. Our breathing deepens. The noise gets a little quieter. And suddenly, we realize just how tired we have been. Ever felt that way? 

I think this happens to women more often than we realize. We become so accustomed to carrying what needs to be carried that we stop noticing the weight. We manage schedules and relationships. We anticipate needs. We remember the appointments, answer the emails, make the decisions, care for the people we love, show up for our work, and keep track of all the little things that make life run.

And somewhere along the way, I’ve got it becomes our automatic response.

Sometimes we don’t realize how long we’ve been holding our breath until we finally find ourselves in a place where we don’t have to.

That’s one of the beautiful things about intentionally stepping away.

I personally love it when I don’t have to think about where my next meal is coming from. I love sitting around a table and laughing until my stomach hurts, taking purposeless walks, having conversations for the joy of it. Taking the time to just breathe.

A retreat doesn’t magically change the circumstances waiting for us at home. The responsibilities will still be there. The relationships will still require our attention. The calendar will eventually begin filling up again.

But the quiet of intentionally taking space away from the daily grind allows us to notice what busyness helped us overlook.

I’ve been carrying a lot.

I haven’t really been okay.

I miss myself.

I don’t remember the last time I did something simply because I enjoyed it.

There is something tender about that realization. Because underneath all the roles we carry—wife, mother, daughter, friend, caregiver, professional, volunteer—there is still a woman.

A woman with needs of her own. A woman who gets tired. A woman who needs friendship and laughter and beauty. A woman who needs moments when she isn’t responsible for making everything work. A woman who is worthy of being cared for, too.

And perhaps that’s part of what happens when we finally exhale.

We begin remembering that rest doesn’t have to be earned. We don’t have to finish everything before we’re allowed to stop. We don’t have to make sure everyone else is okay before we’re allowed to notice ourselves. We don’t have to prove our usefulness before we’re allowed to receive.

And in the quiet, perhaps we begin to hear something even deeper.

God never asked us to earn our belovedness. Perhaps the exhale is sacred because it creates enough quiet for us to remember what has always been true—we are loved before we accomplish anything.

We can become so accustomed to measuring ourselves by what we accomplish, carry, fix, and provide that we unintentionally bring that same striving into our relationship with Him.

But belovedness isn’t something we achieve. It is something we receive.

Sometimes God meets us in profound moments of prayer or worship. And sometimes He meets us much more quietly—in morning light through a window, in laughter around a table, in a conversation with another woman, on a walk outside, or in the simple realization:

I don’t have to perform here.

I think that maybe, that’s where restoration begins. It’s not necessarily a dramatic transformation. It is not returning home as a completely different woman who suddenly has all the answers.

Rather, it is an exhale.

It is becoming a little more aware of what we’ve been carrying and a little more willing to put some of it down.

It is remembering what brings us joy, recognizing our limits, allowing ourselves to receive, and with remembering who we are underneath everything we do.

Eventually, we return.

The laundry still needs to be done. The emails are waiting. Someone will need something. Life will become noisy again.

But perhaps we return differently.

Not because everything around us has changed, but because something within us has become quieter. We remember that a full life doesn’t require us to disappear inside of it. We remember that rest is part of restoration. We remember that we are more than what we produce and provide.

And maybe that’s what an exhale really is:

A moment when we stop trying to hold everything together long enough to discover that we are still held.

Consider joining us this fall as we gather to rest, and rediscover who we were made to be.

💜