On Needing Space (and Finally Saying So)

A few years ago, a friend asked me for space.

She was going through something hard, and she named it. What's funny is that this time — unlike every other season in our friendship when I would have just let the silence happen, fallen back, given her room the way it came naturally to me — I leaned in.

I made an assumption. Somewhere between the check on your friends posts and the show up even when it's hard content cycling through my feed, I had absorbed this idea that falling back was the wrong move. That silence was abandonment. That the loving thing was to press in closer, to be more present, to not let her disappear.

So I showed up more. And it was the wrong read entirely. She let me know. Gracefully. And we took space — many months of it.

At the time, I didn't think about it much. But as with everything in life, I had to experience it within a friendship. 

Here's why: I have always taken space. My whole life. I go quiet, I retreat into my own world, I regulate from the inside out. I am an introvert who somehow ended up in deeply external roles — mom, educator, program director, women's ministry, Delta Sigma Theta, children's church. I love every single one of them. And they cost me something.

By the time I've shown up fully for my kids, my students, my families, the people in my programs — there is not much social battery left. The people I talk to most consistently are my mom and my sister — once a week. And my mom, who is also my bestie, at most twice a week. That's genuinely it. And it's enough. It's full.

So when I found in 2025 that whatever social battery I had left was being spent on the loudest demands — whether from the calendar or the people who would be hurt if I didn't call back — I realized something needed to change. Not the people. Not the love. The structure around it.

By the end of the year, between hosting Thanksgiving and two family trips, my life had become one long to-do list. My mind always on the next thing. Calling people out of obligation. Showing up in spaces I wasn't even needed, simply because they were on the calendar. The fullness I usually feel in that season felt more like weight. And I knew — something had to give.

I didn't want to go into 2026 that way so I didn't.

No Plans 2026 is not about being unavailable or pulling away from people I love. It's about protecting the calendar so that when I show up, I'm actually there. It means Fridays are family. Sundays are sacred, for the most part, phone-free.

My mornings begin at 5:30 in the quiet with God before the day has any demands on me. It means that when a friend needs space — or when I do — we can say so without the relationship cracking. It means I'm running again, cooking again, watching Neiko race, sitting with Noah while he reads. The rhythm of our family is the most important thing I am building this year.

Polepole. Slowly. Gently. Without apology.

This is my first post back here in a while. I've missed this space. I'm glad to return to it the same way I return to everything that matters — quietly, on my own terms, when I'm ready.

I'd love to hear how you are spending your sacred time? How are you resisting the constant noise and making space for the people you hold dear vs. the most "urgent" demands? As always feel free to email me, I love a good "slow penpal" relationship. 

Peace.