Listening to the Body

The other day, I was chatting with someone when it happened—that familiar tightening I hadn’t felt in a while. My fists were clenched. My shoulders were high. My mind felt foggy and overworked. And suddenly I recognized it. My body was telling me something it has told me before.

The feeling was eerily similar to the mental exhaustion I carried during the height of COVID.

Not the same circumstances, not the same level of isolation—but the same deep weariness that comes from working against broken systems while trying to hold people together. The kind of exhaustion that doesn’t come from doing too much, but from having to say the same hard, necessary things over and over again. Racism is not okay. No, it is never OK for our President to do... No, this is not Christian.

This week, in more settings and spaces than I can count, I’ve found myself reminding people to be kind. Reminding them that love of neighbor is not optional. That for Christians, it is not a political stance or a personality trait—it is our highest priority. Injustice doesn’t happen because some people are bad and others are good. It happens when systems forget our shared humanity. When we advocate for dignity, justice, and compassion—we are not being political. We are being baptismal.

And that work is exhausting.

It is exhausting to push back against misinformation. Exhausting to name harm without hardening your heart. Exhausting to keep choosing love when fear is louder and cruelty feels easier for some.

I want to be clear: I’m okay. I really am. I’m actually doing better than I did during COVID. I have more tools now. More clarity. More support. More ability to recognize the signs before they take over.

But I also know myself well enough to know this: if I don’t slow down, I will hit a wall.

Bodies are wise. They keep the score. They notice what our minds try to override in the name of faithfulness or responsibility or “just getting through this season.” My clenched fists were not a failure of resilience; they were an invitation to pay attention.

So I’m listening.

Listening to my body. Listening to my limits. Listening to the still, small voice that reminds me that love of neighbor includes love of self—and that rest is not a retreat from the work, but a way of staying faithful to it.

This work matters. Community matters. Kindness matters. And so does sustainability. We cannot dismantle broken systems or heal wounded communities if we grind ourselves down to nothing in the process.

Slowing down is not giving up. Pausing is not abandoning the call. Rest is not a lack of courage.

Sometimes, it is the most faithful thing we can do.

And today, I’m choosing to believe that.