Overwhelm. Having it all. Working hard, working from home, making dinner, cleaning up, all things entrepreneurial. Podcasts, blog posts, articles about meditation. The strange, thin line that lies between self-employment and unemployment. It's all I think about lately. I told Rob the other day that between blogging and freelance work, I'm making more money than I have in the past, but I feel unsatisfied in some way. Obviously money is not everything, but it is something. Either way, I love what I do but sometimes it feels like something's been missing.

Last week I drove through the city on a weekday morning and felt nothing but jealousy as I saw women in pencil skirts walking down the sidewalk together, with bags on their arms and Starbucks cups in their hands. And yet, when that was me, I dreamed of working for myself--of a big white desk in my apartment and a life where I got eight hours of sleep and cooked and made it to they gym every day no matter what. The grass is greener on the other side, some say; and others tell you that no, the grass is greener where you water it. I have found that both of them are true, but it's impossible to water your own grass when you can't stop staring at the neighbor's.

Here's a thing I've never said before: Sometimes being a lifestyle blogger feels really stupid. You write about everything and in doing that, you're almost always alienating one reader from the others. This person likes you because they want recipes. This person wants you to write. This person wants more style posts! And this person understands why you do sponsored posts, but wishes you wouldn't. And I'm over here, somehow trying to do all of it, but not always doing a very good job at any of it.

But Freckled Italian was born out of a desire to write.

And I'm trying to find a way back to that.

I walked along the beach last weekend by myself--barefoot, listening to the waves, waving at black labs and golden retrievers busy chasing frisbees, smiling at young dads up early to set up umbrellas for their new families--and I thought, this is what they're talking about when they say everyone needs time to recharge, reset, reconnect. To stand in shallow water, watching the tide come in. To ignore your phone, leave your laptop at home, and laugh until your sides ache with friends. To have a couple glasses of wine and face your fear of the ocean--to dive under the breaking waves and feel more accomplishment about that simple feat than you have in months. To simply slow down.

“Allow the luxury of time, dreaming out the window, a little noodle walk through a dime store...

I know more but I don’t push it because there are things I don’t know that I want to come to me. I’m calling up understanding beyond myself. If I get too determined, to linear, I’ll miss the tugs of intuition at the periphery of my perceptions, the things I don’t want to say, the things I have never said, these things that enrich the writing.”

— Natalie Goldberg, "Old Friend from Far Away"

I've written about this exact same thing multiple times, but most recently here. I feel like I finally might be getting somewhere. But, like most things in life, it just takes time. And, I guess, a trip to the beach.

"I could tell you what water is made of: two parts hydrogen, one of oxygen. I could describe what it feels like to dive into a lake on a hot summer day or the briny feel of sand and salt at the beach, but the task here is to find your own pool of liquid and give it shape...

You have to find your own dynamic structure, one that fits your story and what you personally have to share.

...You can't tell every minute of your life--or put in every darling experience. You can't eat everything on the table. You choose a portion, some fruit...and put it on your plate. You choose a time, a subject, a place, you give a shape to what is unruly. You lend it a form. The form is not a trick. It develops out of what you want to say and how you want to say it.

--Natalie Goldberg, Old Friend from Far Away

I came back from Salt Lake City feeling a little overwhelmed by all the things I want to do and how far I feel I still have to go. I often find myself wanting to share every part of my life while simultaneously treasuring the long, slow brunch I shared with my husband in a dark tavern on a lazy Sunday afternoon; or the hot cup of coffee I drank while I sat down to talk to a new friend for the first time in my favorite coffee shop. The hour-long walks I sometimes take by myself or the quiet cups of tea I often drink in the afternoon sunlight of my living room. They don't make it to my Instagram feed and yet they are valuable moments in my life.

Last year I felt like I was almost "there" in some way (but what does that even mean, really?), and this year, though I've come so far in so many ways, it feels as though there has never been a longer road ahead of me. Do our standards get higher as we go on? There is so much that I want to create, write, or share and I haven't even begun yet. And then there are the things that I might never let you read, that will stay typed out on old pieces of paper stapled together through old writing workshops, or scribbled quickly and furiously onto the pages of a leather-bound notebook in the drawer of my bedside table.

2015 is quickly becoming for me the year of less is more, or rather, do less with more. More effort, more intention, more love. More creativity and more practice. More thought. More laughter and more adventure. And, somehow, more structure. I will stretch myself but not too thinly. And I will be truer to myself in the process.

Sometimes I send myself emails before I fall asleep. Or I'll ask my night owl husband to text me. Things I want to remember or think about or write about the next day. "Rob," I'll mumble sleepily, "text me and say 'ear piercing, sleeping on opposite side for back scratches, and new bed.'" It's probably obvious that the next day I sometimes struggle to put the pieces together, but I figure it's worth a try.

This morning I woke up to a relatively vague, but perfectly clear thought that's been on my mind all week. You can't force anything.

Because it's true. Whatever it is, you can't force it. You can do your best and you can wish and dream and pray, but friendships and book deals and epiphanies don't always just fall out of the sky. And sometimes, as much as you might want or need something to be immediate, things can take time. Even letting go can be a process.

Simple as that. And, simultaneously, totally complicated.

This post is in response to the following prompt: "Tell me about a time something dawned on you, a realization, words came together or simply you saw a lightning bolt on a mountain." (From Old Friend from Far Away, page 66.) If you write a response of your own, please share a link below in the comments! For a list of some previous prompt, you can check out this post (or just search the Old Friend from Far Away category below).