Maybe the Next Chapter Is About Less

Lately, I’ve found myself thinking something that feels almost too simple to say out loud:

I just want a break.

Not a vacation. Not a long weekend where I spend the first day answering emails and the last day mentally preparing to go back.

A real break.

A break from being needed. From thinking three steps ahead. From managing calendars and careers and kids and emotions and appointments and practices and dinners and all the things that somehow become ours to remember.

Maybe it’s the season I’m in. You too?

My son just started middle school. Wait, what?!

My daughter has already been there for two years and needs me less and less, so this shouldn’t feel quite so monumental. I know what middle school looks like. I know the drop-off line. I know the activities and the teachers and the homework. Why so much homework?

But this time, it’s my youngest.

And somehow that makes it feel like a door is closing behind me.

There are no more elementary school first days in our house. No more little-kid years waiting in the wings. We’re moving into this next stage whether I’m ready for it or not.

At the same time, I look around at my friends and realize how many of us seem to be standing at our own strange crossroads.

Some are raising teenagers. Some are caring for aging parents. Some are navigating marriages that look different than they did ten years ago. Some are struggling quietly with things they never imagined they would face.

And then there are those of us who spent years climbing. We worked hard. We proved ourselves. We took the promotion, accepted the challenge, answered the email, joined the committee, volunteered for the project and figured out how to be at the school event at the same time.

We girl-bossed ourselves way too close to the sun.

And now?

Some of us are looking around thinking:

Wait. Do I even want to keep climbing?

I recently received an award that I am genuinely proud of. There was a time in my life when something like this would have felt like proof that I was doing everything right. And I am excited. But something else has been tugging at me.

Instead of only asking, What do I want to accomplish next? I find myself asking:

What am I doing with what God has given me?

Am I helping people?

Am I noticing the people around me who are hurting?

Am I making someone’s life a little lighter?

Am I becoming the woman God wants me to be—or just becoming more accomplished?

Maybe that’s why Psalm 46:10 feels different to me now: “Be still, and know that I am God.”

For years, I think I heard be still as another instruction. Now I hear it as permission.

You don’t have to solve everything.

You don’t have to carry everyone.

You don’t have to know what comes next.

You can be still.

And maybe that is especially important in this season because, as if raising adolescents and questioning our entire life’s purpose weren’t enough, many of us have also entered the completely humbling adventure of perimenopause.

Suddenly our bodies don’t follow the rules we’ve known for decades. Sleep changes. Emotions change. Energy changes. Some days I can handle absolutely anything. Other days someone asking me what’s for dinner feels like a personal attack.

It can be funny. It can also be really hard.

But I’m beginning to wonder whether all of these changes arriving at once aren’t simply things to survive.

Maybe they’re an invitation.

An invitation to loosen our grip on the version of ourselves we’ve spent years building.

To stop measuring our lives only by what we produce.

To pay closer attention to the people God has placed in front of us.

To call the friend who’s struggling.

To sit a little longer with our children.

To pray before immediately trying to fix.

To recognize that success and purpose aren’t always the same thing.

Psalm 23 begins with words most of us have heard hundreds of times:

“The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.”

But lately it’s the next verse I keep thinking about:

“He makes me lie down in green pastures.”

Maybe sometimes God knows we need rest before we’re willing to admit it ourselves.

Maybe the next chapter isn’t about doing more.

Maybe it’s about doing what matters.

My youngest will walk into middle school soon, and I know I’ll probably watch him go with that strange mixture of pride and heartbreak that seems to define motherhood.

I can’t make him little again.

I can’t freeze my daughter where she is.

I can’t fix every problem my friends are facing.

And I don’t know exactly what the next chapter of my own life is supposed to look like.

But I don’t think I need to.

“The Lord will fulfill his purpose for me.” — Psalm 138:8

There is so much comfort in that.

His purpose.

Not my timeline.

Not my résumé.

Not my title.

Not my carefully constructed five-year plan. His purpose. So maybe I don’t need to figure out the next mountain to climb. Maybe I can stand here for a minute. Grateful for how far I’ve come. Proud of what I’ve accomplished. A little emotional about the babies who aren’t babies anymore. Concerned about the people I love. Slightly hormonal. Definitely tired. And still hopeful.

Because perhaps this next chapter isn’t asking us to become more impressive. Maybe it’s asking us to become more present. More generous. More faithful. More willing to rest. More willing to listen.

More willing to let God lead.

And for the first time in a long time, that sounds less like stepping down.