This week would have been my mom’s seventy-ninth birthday. It’s been fourteen years since Lewy Body Dementia stole the life from her, and her from us. Lately, I’ve been thinking about my own life, often wondering if I’m doing enough to stay healthy in this busy second half of life. While this type of dementia has unknown origins, I hope that by staying healthy I can stave off dementia in any form, let alone the other big ailments in life.
Unfortunately, my body has begun whispering for attention.
Finding Peace in Slowing Down When Life Feels Too Full
For months, I brushed off the fatigue, pain and sleepless nights—surely just the cost of a busy season, right? I’d been juggling work, ministry, and all the “shoulds” that fill a woman’s days until the symptoms finally stopped being whispers and became shouts. Suddenly, I couldn’t do everything I once did. The harder I pushed, the less strength I had left to give.
At first, I was frustrated. I’ve built my life on perseverance—keep showing up, keep giving, keep moving. Knowing now that I also have ADHD, I can understand why slowing down feels so alien to me. I figured I just needed a vacation. After all, it had been two years since I’ve taken one. Hurricane Helene saw to that last year.
But in the quiet that followed, peace began to take root. I started to sense an invitation. It was as if God had gently placed His hand on my shoulder and said, “Daughter, be still. Let Me care for you.”
The world rewards motion. We’re praised for productivity, for pushing through, for multi-tasking even our spiritual lives. Yet Jesus invites something far simpler: “Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest” (Matthew 11:28). Not “earn rest” or “schedule it once you’ve done enough.”
Just come.
How Faith Simplifies Life
How easily we can overcomplicate the very things God designed to be simple. We make faith a checklist, health a project, and our worth something to prove. We chase order and efficiency, forgetting that peace isn’t found in control but in surrender. Somewhere along the way, we trade the simplicity of being with God for the complexity of trying to manage life on our own.
But when we strip away the noise, faith really is simple. Love God. Love people. Rest in God’s grace. Find peace in slowing down. The rest is commentary.
As I began to slow, I rediscovered the small sacred moments I’d been missing: the warmth of the sunrise, the beauty of the autumn leaves, and the comfort of quiet. I think of my mother again—how her slower actions in those final years became a classroom for grace. She no longer measured her days in accomplishments, but in connections. She simply was, and that was holy. I learned a kind of love that lingers instead of hurries.
Slowing down hasn’t been easy. Old habits fight hard to survive. Some days, I still feel as though I need to justify my pause. But the more I listen, the more I realize that rest is an act of obedience. It’s trusting that the world will keep spinning even when I stop. It’s believing that God can accomplish more in my stillness than I can in my hurry.
Finding Peace in Slowing Down Through Loss and Renewal
Scripture reminds us, “He makes me lie down in green pastures; He leads me beside quiet waters; He restores my soul” (Psalm 23:2–3). The phrase “He makes me lie down” always catches me. Sometimes God makes us rest, because we won’t choose it on our own. But even that is mercy.
I’m learning to view this season not as interruption but as transformation. My limitations are teaching me how to listen better—to God, to my own needs, to the gentle rhythms of grace. I’m beginning to see that what feels like being sidelined is actually being sheltered. The more I simplify, the more sacred life becomes.
So if you find yourself in a forced slowdown—through illness, grief, transition, or exhaustion—take heart. Maybe God has hit pause not to keep you from your purpose but to restore your strength for it. Maybe, like me, you’ll discover that stillness is not the absence of growth, but the soil where it begins.
Today, as I remember my mom, I light a candle and breathe deeply. Her life reminds me that every breath is sacred, that love remains even when words and work fall away. And as I sit quietly in this slower, simpler season, I hear the echo of grace whispering the same truth she lived and God now teaches me anew:
Rest is not giving up. It’s giving in—to love, to healing, to God.
“Stillness is not the absence of growth, but the soil where it begins.” A powerful statement, Laura. Thank you.
“She simply was and that was holy.” I absolutely love this line. We try to define ourselves in so many ways. But in the end, this is what matters.
I’m glad you’re taking time to breathe!