I Quit.

By Christine Crawford

the overwhelm got ugly.

The deadlines.

The headlines.

The worry lines.

I was wilting under the weight

of carrying my career,

my classes, my calling.

I was doing

homework,

home work,

and working

from home.

Plus, I was working through

some childhood trauma

while navigating daily drama,

and it was enough

to make this little mama...

wanna drink.

When folks would say,

“I don’t how you do it all,”

I would smile on the outside,

but my inside voice would whisper,

"Not very well."

The tension was building,

my health was suffering,

and the shame was suffocating.

I tried to balance better but

as anyone who’s been there knows,

there's no balance in burnout.

All my check engine lights

were flashing on the dash,

and I just kept revving the engine.

My body ached.

My temper flared.

My focus waned.

Finally, I just wanted to quit,

So… I did.

(Or rather... I am.

I am learning.

Or rather...unlearning.)

The point is… I quit.

I quit

buying

in on

burning

myself

out and

selling

myself

short.

And for the first time in a long time—

with the help of the Holy Spirit

and a really great therapist—

I’m feeling my full feelings,

honoring my own needs,

and finding my true voice.

It has cost me though.

I’ve had to turn down the noise,

lower my own bar,

dial back my expectations,

and be brave enough

to lay some things bare.

I had to make some hard choices.

I quit accepting new clients

for a couple of months.

I took a leave of absence

from school for a semester.

I moved to a smaller house,

smaller town, smaller life.

I stopped accepting responsibility

for other people's behavior.

I quit nursing relationships with folks

who would not reciprocate kindness.

I stopped believing people when

they tried to tell me who I was

and started believing them when

they showed me who they were.

I made some fun choices, too.

I watched old classics

and silly rom-coms.

I enjoyed books with absolutely no

academic or moral merit.

I bought some new plants,

donated some old clothes,

refurbished a vintage camper.

I positioned my recliner

—because yeah! I bought myself a recliner—

where I could watch the sun turn the sky

pink then gold every morning.

I did some new, good, daring things.

I started by calling BS

on the break-neck speed of my life

I stopped wearing my exhaustion

as a badge of honor.

I looked my people-pleasing

and perfectionism in the eye

and said, "You are not welcome

here anymore."

I allowed my counselor

to convince me that I am worthy

of compassion, too.

I wrote a lot of super-ragey poetry

that hopefully only God and I will ever read.

I made kinder, gentler choices for myself

and when the voice of shame called rest, “lazy,”

I answered with truth.

I did these things and

I have to keep doing these things

—and some other harder-but-better things—

because I'm not going back.

I'm. Not. Going. Back.

I know better now.

I’m awake.

I am choosing slower,

smaller, sweeter.

Like more time with

the Prater pups on the porch.

And longer walks in the woods.

And a little old bunkhouse

in the middle of nowhere

with lower payments and taller trees.

And… I’m loving it.

I’m learning how to identify birds

and propagate cacti.

I’m trying my hand at gardening

and killing almost everything,

but I don’t care because I love

the way the sun feels in my hair

and the soil feels squishing between my fingers.

I’m taking a songwriting course

and fumbling around on my guitar.

And the goal is not to get great,

but to be honest—even if it’s terrible—

because it’s my voice, my story,

the song God gave me to sing.

I’ve stopped apologizing

for my personality

and scrapping for a seat

at the big boy’s table

(or begging for someone

to throw me their scraps

under the table). Instead,

I’m building a new table

where I'm welcome,

where others are welcome,

where you are welcome.

I’m not choosing myself over other people,

I’m choosing Jesus’ way over the world’s.

And I am saying yes to his invitation to rest,

although I don’t know what it looks like

and I don’t know what’s next. And I’m learning

to be okay with that too, as long as He’s

here with me. And He is.

I know because I've been sitting with him

—and not in my usual angsty/manic/

pray-my-way-through-the-day kinda way—

but just sitting with him,

talking to him, resting in him.

And I’m learning that instead of rest

being some form of resignation,

it’s an act of outright

rebellion in obedience.

And for me, in 2023,

I’m declaring a revolution

by choosing rest as my resolution.

About the author

Christine Crawford

Christine is a poet, lyricist, theology geek, and founder of The Holy Shift. She is a graduate of Dallas Theological Seminary and loves to ponder tough questions and challenging truths through art, story, and humor. Christine lives in the Central Texas Hill Country with her hunky hubby and two fur-babies (one sinner, one saint). She’s an awkward-conversations enthusiast and loves anything that takes place outdoors. Or requires words.

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