At the starting line

I did not want to get out of bed this morning.

Five hours of sleep might technically qualify as rest, but it doesn’t feel like recovery. If I’m honest, I feel like I need twelve hours and a quiet cabin somewhere to catch up.

But here we are.

The house was oddly quiet. Kids getting ready for school. Movement without noise. The kind of quiet that feels like everyone understands the assignment.

There’s something about knowing what’s ahead that makes getting up easier.

A week of baseball.
A long stream with Rale planned for Friday.
The last week of this session for two classes.
Two new classes, books, rubrics and lessons starting next week.
Work pathways finally solidifying.

It’s not calm.
It’s not chaos.

It feels like cresting a hill.

Baseball practice started last week. David has been tired. But the good kind of tired. The kind that stretches him. The kind that grows him. As a parent, you can see it. You can feel it. He’s stepping into something that will shape him.

The house changes when baseball season begins. More chaos. More cleats by the door. More calendars. But somehow, more focus too. Urgency and joy sharing the same space.

This is our first true school season of it. We’re learning what other families already know. Figuring out logistics. Building rhythm in real time.

And I don’t resent it.

That’s new.

At work, something feels clearer. A manager of mine is stepping into a new team. We are finally on the pathway for that transition. I’m excited for her. She is going to shine. And I’m excited for what it means for our team to recalibrate and grow.

Movement without panic.

Home life feels like that rollercoaster climb we’ve been on for months has finally clicked into place at the top. There’s that split second before gravity takes over. You don’t know exactly what’s coming, but you know you’re moving now.

David finished his school project last night. A sarcophagus built out of a Pringles can. Dangerous to assign something like that when one kid wants to be an engineer, one is eyeing archaeology, and I’m over here working through anthropology courses. We had a blast. Glue and paint and research and laughter.

Saturday was supposed to end with the food pantry. Instead, a wrong item shipped to us turned into a three-hour round trip to Best Buy for cables. Closest one. Kids in the car. Dinner on the way home.

They were incredible.

That trip gave my wife time to sleep. Time she desperately needed.

Worth every mile.

Asher and I got time together too. He’s still not ready for church. But he’s doing better. He told me sometimes he acts the way he does because he knows we’ll come get him.

Parenting is not for the weak.

And then Sunday.

My wife was healthy enough that she sang in the choir. I love hearing her voice. She also stepped outside her comfort zone helping plan things, and she knocked it out of the park. I’m proud of her in ways that are hard to articulate without sounding dramatic.

Streaming hasn’t happened in two weeks. Part of me wants to “make up” the time. But that’s ego talking. The fire is still there. It’s not gone. It’s waiting for the right conditions.

Writing isn’t being rushed anymore either. The book will happen when it can. Because of that, it will be better.

I feel confident at work. Confident in the direction. North Star is underway. Pathways are forming. Lives are being improved.

And here’s the thing.

You’re not late.

You are where you need to be, right on time.

Maybe you rested this weekend. Maybe you didn’t. Maybe you’re carrying more than you’d like. Maybe you’re stepping into something new.

But we are at the start.

Starting is exciting.

We don’t know what this week holds. But we know what we’ve already survived. We know what we’ve already built. We know the strength we’ve earned.

Excitement, when it’s mature, isn’t loud.

It’s steady.

It’s standing at the starting line without resentment.

It’s knowing the hill behind you shaped you.

It’s trusting the track ahead of you.

A little tired.
A little behind.

But right on time.

Maybe Monday doesn’t feel different because life suddenly got easier.

Maybe it feels different because I stopped fighting it.

There was a time when I measured progress by acceleration. By how fast things were moving. By how much noise surrounded the motion.

Now I measure it by alignment.

By whether my shoulders are carrying what they’re supposed to carry.
By whether my family is steady.
By whether the work ahead of me matches the man I’ve become.

Starting used to feel like pressure.

Now it feels like permission.

Permission to try again.
Permission to build slower.
Permission to be tired and still be ready.

If this week brings chaos, we’ll handle it.
If it brings clarity, we’ll use it.

Either way, we’re here.

And sometimes that’s the only metric that matters.

A little behind.
But right on time.