Learning to step away, soften the pressure, and return to the page as myself.

By Katie Rea — spiritual director, writer, and companion for those listening deeply to life as it is.

“Are you okay?”

My husband’s voice pulled me out of the spiral.

Right then, I realized how stressed I looked, slumped over my desk with my hands ready to pull my hair out.

I sighed.  “I’m trying to write this story, but it is not coming together how I want.”

He gently placed his hands on my shoulders. I already knew what he was going to say.

“Maybe you could take a break. Come back to it.”

I knew he was right. It worked every time.

But stubbornness disguised as discipline paralyzed me. Doubt persisted.  Anxiety settled into my body, causing my muscles to tense, and my stomach ached.  My inner critic continued the negative thought spiral.

What if it doesn’t work this time? If I walk away. I’m a failure. I’m done.

Still, I took a deep breath. I said a quick prayer, and I stepped away.

I took a week or two off, but it stretched into the month. I was still writing. But I was working on drafts I wasn’t ready to share.

Ideas and creativity flowed. Interviews completed and more planned. I could talk about my new greenhouse, my DOK adventures, the list was endless.

Yet, when it came to blogging, I’d sit at my computer and just stare at the cursor.

We discussed my writing frustration with a friend at dinner.

“You could write in your new greenhouse,” my friend suggested.

My husband perked up. “That’s true, didn’t Roald Dahl write in his garden shed each morning.”

Immediately, my inner critic fired back: I’m not Roald Dahl. Which translated to I’m no one special.

Even so, the idea lingered. Henry David Thoreau wrote among the elements. Mark Twain loved his view of the landscape from his study. Supposedly, Sir Walter Scott wrote from the back of a galloping horse.

Surely, my greenhouse was safer than a galloping horse.

The next morning, I tried.

I settled into a chair that was far less comfortable than I’d hoped. The sun filtered through the glass. Birds trilled a cacophony of music. A soft breeze moved through like a welcome.

And slowly, without forcing, the words came.

Not perfectly. But they came.

At one point, my cat jumped up and planted herself squarely on my writing hand, as if to remind me who was really in charge. I laughed, gave her the attention she demanded, and returned to the page.

Something had shifted.

It wasn’t just the scenery. It was the pressure. The grip had loosened. The anxiety had quieted

It turns out, the problem wasn’t the writing.

It was the belief that I had to push through, prove something, produce on demand, or risk being no one at all.

Stepping away hadn’t made me a failure.

It made space.

Space for my body to settle.
Space for my mind to soften.
Space for my voice to return without the weight of comparison.

I’m not Roald Dahl.

But I don’t need to be.

I just need to show up. Be present, attentive, and willing to be myself.

And, as it turns out, that’s where the words begin again.

Reflection Questions:

Where in your life are you trying to force something that may need space instead?

What does your inner critic sound like right now? What is it asking you to prove?

A newsletter by Katie Rea.

www.katierea.com