I Quit.

By Christine Chandler Prater

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.

Christine chandler prater

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.

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