It’s been a bizarre and exhausting week and a half. It feels as though a year of life has been compressed into the past ten days. In response to the roller coaster we’ve been on, I’m making it a priority to ensure our whole family has the space we need to rest and recover.

*Before I harvested the lavender in our garden I spent some time just admiring the bees and their singular efforts.*

In the past, I might have sensed the chaos beginning to taper off and responded by trying to restore our rhythms all at once—picking up every loose end in an effort to make up for “lost time.” But this past week has been different. Our routines fell completely by the wayside when my uncle in the Philippines passed away, another family member shared news of a personal crisis, my in-laws arrived from Mississippi for a visit, one of my dear friends underwent major surgery, and my two eldest children were preparing for auditions with our local musical theatre company.

Whew.

Navigating all of this at once has left me feeling deeply worn out. And so, instead of rushing forward, I’m taking time to observe what our family actually needs—to discern what will help reset our nervous systems, restore our spiritual equilibrium, and gently return us to our natural rhythms before re-engaging with schedules and external obligations.

For now, that looks like:

minimal chores
essential commitments only
extra quiet time
long stretches outdoors
unhurried connection
early bedtimes
simple meals
limited screens
a return to our regular Bible reading.

*Skyward views from our garden. Growing up in Canada, I always dreamed of one day having a home with a palm tree.*
What this photo doesn’t capture is what happened moments later. I had just settled in with a book when one of the neighbour boys began scream-singing at full volume—loud enough to send me straight back indoors.
*Now, a few days later, I’m writing this from our front room, and yes—he’s at it again. I can hear him clear across the property, even with all the doors and windows shut.*
*This is a part of our daily rhythm. Sigh.*

I realize this may seem counter to how life typically operates here in the greater San Francisco Bay Area. But that’s precisely why it feels necessary.

When my husband and I first moved here in 2009, we were struck by the pace and pressure of life. We learned of the troubling rise in teen suicides linked to academic and extracurricular demands. We encountered a culture where many people left vacation days unused, choosing instead to work longer hours in pursuit of an edge—whether at small start-ups or behemoths like Apple and Google. One- to two-hour commutes each way were considered normal, and the newest, fastest version of everything was always within reach for those willing to pay.

Sixteen years later, those patterns have only intensified. Traffic has worsened, consumerism is ever-present, and the pace remains relentless. Even enrolling children in extracurriculars now requires months of advance planning, significant cost, and ongoing coordination.

The structure and cost of life here stand in stark contrast to our preference for margin, rest, and unhurried time together.

And yet, this is where God has led us—to build a home, raise our family, and invest in community.

This rose from the garden carries a scent that reminds me of something in the Cotswolds—though I can’t quite place it. Set in a small bud vase by my bedside, it’s drawn me back again and again throughout the day to breathe it in.
*I love bringing the outside in.*

There is much to be grateful for. I love the weather. I still marvel at growing both olives and citrus in our backyard—a novelty for a Canadian. I’m grateful for the beauty of California, for friendships that feel like family, and for work that allows us to stay close to home. We are settled here, and content to be where we believe God has placed us.

But living in a place defined by speed, consumption, and striving requires intention. To swim against that current, we have to be deliberate—especially in how we teach our children that a slower, more grounded way of living is not only possible, but essential for our well-being.

Which brings me back to this coming week.

Instead of trying to catch up on everything, my goal is to resist that pull entirely. I want to offer each of us the space to recover in ways that are truly restorative—to reconnect without hurry, and to re-center our home around Christ’s presence.

Before we dive back into school, to-do lists, activities, and obligations, we are going to slow down and simply be.

There are, of course, a few commitments we’ll keep—but they are minimal, by design. Beyond that, my hope is that we’ll allow a sense of grace to shape our days, guiding us toward what is healthy, wise, and life-giving.

What will that actually look like?

You may want to check back in and see.

It will be imperfect. My good intentions may unravel. More chaos may ensue.

And if it does, we will respond by seeking even deeper rest, connection, and peace from the One who offers true abundance: the Good Shepherd, who leads us to green pastures and beside quiet waters—the one who restores our soul.

Field Notes: March 2026 — Finding Stillness After the Storm

First Time in the Cotswolds? Read This Before You Book Anything