What I really needed in the days before this first session was a breather. Time to prepare myself mentally, emotionally, physically, and spiritually so that I could step into the workshop fully present, grounded, and ready. That’s my usual rhythm before a big event: give myself space, rest well, focus deeply, and align my energy with the intention I want to bring into the room.
But this time, it hasn’t happened.
Instead, I’m arriving at the week already tired. The days before the workshop have been crowded with distractions, each one meaningful in its own right, but together forming a perfect storm. This past weekend was full to bursting: Saturday was Pinner Strings, where I’d been practicing new music in preparation for our rehearsal. Then came Sunday and RoxyFest — an all-day community event that saw me helping set up, “man” our stand, and dismantle everything in the pouring rain at the end. Both of these events required not only the time of the day itself, but hours of preparation beforehand.
Add to that the normal demands of my work, the ongoing commitments that never pause, and then one more: a joyful but energy-consuming one. I agreed to help my daughter by collecting my granddaughter from nursery and babysitting until her bedtime. The day before my big event.
Each of these commitments, on its own, is fine. More than fine, really. They are things I love. I love my cello and the hours I spend each week practicing and playing in the orchestra. I love my community, the allotment, and the committee work I give my time to. And of course, I love my family, and there is nothing that brings me more joy than time with my grandchildren. These are not trivial distractions. They matter deeply to me.
And yet, all of them converging in the same narrow window of time and right before something that also matters deeply, has left me stretched thin. It’s in moments like this that I feel the creeping resentment: not at any one person or activity, but at myself. At the way I keep saying yes, at the way I allow my energy to be pulled in so many directions, until there is nothing left for me.
Why do we women do this? Why do we keep saying yes to every request, every opportunity, every call for help, even when it costs us the very time and space we need for ourselves? We don’t want to disappoint anyone. We want to honour our passions and our relationships. We tell ourselves, “It’s only a few hours,” or “It’s just one weekend,” and yet the tally adds up. The days fill, the margins vanish, and suddenly we’re staring down the thing that matters most without the reserves we wanted to bring to it.
Like so many women leaders I work with, I know I’ll dig deep. I’ll find the energy, the presence, the focus to deliver. I always do. And I know the workshop will go well. But I’m also noticing the cost. How easy it is for distractions, however worthwhile, to scatter our attention and drain our reserves.
The truth is, these distractions are not meaningless. They’re part of a rich, full life. But when they arrive all at once, when they pile in at the very moment we most need space, we risk losing the balance that allows us to thrive. Perhaps the real lesson for me this week is not whether I can power through. I know I can. Rather, whether I can be more intentional with my yeses. Whether I can create more breathing space, even when everything seems important.
Because I don’t just want to deliver. I want to deliver with ease, with joy, with the energy that inspires. And that means learning, again and again, how to set aside the distractions and give myself permission to rest.
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