The Season of Being Stretched Thin

If I’m honest, the season where I feel the most stretched isn’t some dramatic chapter from the past.

It’s right now.

Four kids, ages four to sixteen.
Driver’s licenses.
College prep.
High school pressure.
Bible studies.
Careers growing.
Fitness.
Marriage.
Aging parents.
Building a company from nothing.
Writing.
Filming.
Editing.
Posting.
Thinking.

It’s a full life.

It’s a Beautiful Life.

And some days, it feels like there’s no extra margin anywhere.

What’s strange is that when I look back at earlier chapters, they feel easier. Simpler. Less demanding.

But I know that’s a trick, it’s the magic of memories.

If I could step back into the exact shoes I was wearing at twenty-six, or thirty-five, or even five years ago, I’d probably feel just as challenged. Just as pulled. Just as tired at the end of the day.

Every season feels like 100% when you’re living it.

That realization helped me stop romanticizing the past and start being more honest about the present.

Right now, there’s very little time for anything that isn’t a priority.

That sentence sounds severe when you say it out loud. It can feel like a loss. Like something is missing.

And in a way, it is.

I love camaraderie. I love grabbing a beer with the guys. Laughing. Decompressing. Being human in a room with other men. I genuinely enjoy that. I miss it sometimes.

But I’ve learned to be honest about the cost.

Every yes to something good is a no to something else that matters.

There’s no free space.
No hidden hours.
No magical pocket of time that appears when you want it badly enough.

If I say yes to the bar, what am I saying no to?

Sleep.
Time with family.
A workout that keeps me healthy.
A block of focus that moves the business forward.
A conversation that actually matters.

That doesn’t mean the answer is always no.

But it does mean the answer has to be conscious.

Adulthood, at least the version that involves responsibility, is largely a long series of tradeoffs.

Pretending otherwise just creates resentment.

That’s been a hard lesson for me.

One of the most humbling realizations in this season is something simple.

I’m not good at multitasking.

Maybe that’s true for everyone. Maybe it’s just me. Maybe… it’s just Men? But I’ve tested it enough to know that when I try to do five things at once, I do all five poorly.

So I stopped trying.

Instead, I moved toward something far less impressive and far more sustainable.

One thing at a time.

I work in focused blocks. One or two days (yes, for me it tends to be days not hours) on a given task. Then I move to the next. When I’m with a kids, I try to actually be with them. When I’m working, I try to give that my attention.

Is it perfect? No.
Does it make me feel caught up? Never.

But it keeps me honest.
And it keeps me present.

There’s another shift that’s happened quietly.

I no longer expect life to feel balanced.

Balance implies symmetry. Equal distribution. Clean lines.

That’s not what this feels like.

This feels like carrying several heavy, important things at once and accepting that the weight shifts throughout the week.

Some weeks the business gets more of me.
Some weeks the family needs everything.
Some days my own health has to come first.

The mistake I used to make was thinking imbalance meant failure.

Now I see it differently.

Imbalance is information.

It tells you where attention is required right now. Not forever. Not permanently. Just now.

At the end of the day, I’ve stopped asking myself whether I did enough.

That question is a trap. The answer is almost always no.

Instead, I ask something narrower and more useful.

Did I move the right things forward today?

Did I show up for my family?
Did I protect my health, even a little?
Did I make progress on something that matters long-term?

If the answer is Yes to those, I count the day as a win, even if a dozen other things went untouched.

This is how you survive long seasons without burning out or becoming bitter.

You stop grading yourself on completeness and start grading yourself on alignment.

I think about this often in terms of what my kids might remember someday when they look back on this chapter.

I don’t want them to remember a father who was constantly frantic or emotionally unavailable.

I also don’t want them to remember a father who avoided responsibility in the name of comfort.

What I hope they remember is someone who loved them deeply, carried the load that came with that love, and chose what mattered, even when it meant letting go of good things.

This season is demanding. There’s no way around that.

But it’s also meaningful.

And meaning, I’ve found, is a far better fuel than ease.

If you’re stretched thin right now, there’s a good chance you’re not failing.

You’re just living a life where things actually matter.

And that kind of life rarely feels light while you’re inside it.