Hay Happens and Hay's Happen

The Endless Cycle of Trying One More Thing

I recently started reading fiction again for the first time since high school, when it was required. That might not sound like a big deal, but for me, it is.

I am a recovering information junkie.

For a long time, I believed every minute needed to be productive. If I was reading something, listening to something, or spending time on something, it needed to teach me something or be useful. Reading just for fun felt like a waste of time.

And when you are wired that way, and you are dealing with a health issue, it does not stay contained. It grows.

You start listening to every podcast, reading every book, following every expert, and buying into every promise until you become the expert yourself. That way, you can feel more in control of what is happening. To someone who likes to be in control like me, that actually sounds rational.

But somewhere along the way, it stops being helpful. And if I am honest, it starts becoming a little obsessive. Your health issue stops being something you are dealing with and starts becoming part of who you are.

But it is subtle. It does not happen overnight. But one day, you realize that if your input is constantly searching for the next answer, then your output is going to be more of the same.

There is always more. More supplements to try, more experts to learn from, more protocols to discover. It starts to feel like you are searching for something that is just out of reach, but everything begins to look the same.

And before you know it, you are not really living your life anymore. You are merely managing it.

It reminds me of remodeling a bathroom. One small change leads to another, then something else no longer matches, and before you know it, the project has expanded far beyond what you intended. That is what this started to feel like.

So I made a small change. I started reading fiction.

It was a tiny step, but it represented something bigger. It was a way of letting go, just a little. Letting my mind rest instead of constantly trying to figure things out.

What this looked like for me

From there, I began to simplify. I started to pare down my supplements, not out of fear but out of clarity. I kept what felt necessary and let the rest go. I focused on my sleep, not perfect sleep but consistent sleep, getting into a manageable routine. 

I also started going outside first thing in the morning (with Cooper, my dog) before coffee, just getting sunlight. Nothing complicated, nothing new, just something simple my body craved.

I stopped constantly trying to fix myself and started focusing more on gratitude, especially with my family. And I leaned into my relationship with Jesus, trusting that maybe healing was not something I had to control so tightly.

That gave me a sense of freedom, just enough to start creating again. Writing. Drawing. Doing something simply because it brought something back to life in me.

I told myself I would give it a year. A year to stop chasing every new answer and come back to what I already knew:

There is no magic solution.

My body just needed time and space to heal without all the extra noise.

Because the truth is, our bodies do not respond well to constant change. They respond to consistency, to rhythm, to safety. They respond to being cared for, not constantly managed.

I am not against information. If you are reading this, you probably are not either. Maybe you are even searching for something that will help you feel better.

But at some point, more information stops being helpful and starts becoming noise. And for me, healing did not begin when I found the next thing.

It began when I simplified, slowed down, and gave my body the chance to respond.

Why stillness might be exactly what our minds and bodies need

Let’s just imagine, for one day, the phone in your hand became lifeless.

I think the average person’s heart rate would increase. They’d feel anxious…maybe even a little panicked. And standing in something as simple as a grocery store line, they wouldn’t know what to do.

That first instinct would be: I can’t just stand here! Because just standing there? That would feel…

Boring.

I wonder if you took it a step further, and gave it a week. I wonder what would actually happen?
Maybe people would start to:

– stare into space and actually think
– talk to the person next to them
– process something they’ve been avoiding
– notice something right in front of them they’ve never seen before

Do you think fifty years ago, someone standing in a grocery store line would have said,
“I’m bored”; Or that they lived a boring life? Probably not.

People (I was one of them) were used to space that wasn’t constantly filled. It was just the way it was.

There’s a line I heard years ago that stuck with me:
“Boring people are bored.”

I don’t really like the word “bored.”
But I now understand what it was getting at: Not filling every moment and leaving space for just thinking and being. 

This simple line shaped the way I raised my daughter. If she ever wasn’t sure what to do, I did not hand her a screen or turn something on as a knee-jerk reaction. I would merely say,

“Go find something to create; imagine something; build something…or read!”

I think we all need to do this, and if I’m honest, I haven’t always done that for myself.

But lately I have been forced to sit in stillness. This has made me wonder what that has done to our health and whether all of this constant, distracted time we fill 24/7 has contributed to it.

Not just mentally…
but physically.

I learned the hard way that our bodies don’t separate those two systems, and our thoughts (usually negative) or lack thereof can make us more stressed. This in turn can affect our digestion. When there is no pause…no stillness…no space…our system never really settles.

Our gut, especially, is deeply connected to that. Another thing I learned the hard way is that it responds to stress; it responds to constant input, and it responds to nonstop activity. And not in a good way.

It’s not just about the foods we eat or avoid; it’s about how we live.

When something feels off in the gut, it’s somewhat like a dashboard of a car. It’s a warning light. It’s information that something needs attention. The key is tuning in to what it could be. Perhaps it’s our constant need to fill every quiet moment. Our bodies might be telling us this all along.

I do believe people are craving true nourishment. Not just from good food but from real connections in real time. Real experiences with real people. That might be what our guts are trying to tell us. Slow down. Smell the roses. Enjoy real food. Be still. 

Maybe it’s not boredom we’ve been trying to avoid. Being still may be more of the challenge. But stillness shouldn’t be something we escape; it could be what we have been missing. As I’ve navigated healing, I’ve learned to embrace the room to think, the room to notice and observe. It’s not always comfortable, but it feels better than filling up with mindless distractions.

And if I’m honest, part of healing can feel…boring.
It’s slower, less stimulating, and not filled with constant distraction.

I think God had a point when He said, “Be still and know that I am God.”

If we could just follow the first two words, perhaps our minds and bodies would have what they need.

Because when we never allow ourselves to be still…when we never allow space…
our systems stay in a constant state of activity.

And I can’t help but wonder if part of what we’re seeing today like the increase in stress, digestive issues, and nervous system support needs isn’t just about what we eat or what we aren’t taking. Perhaps it’s about the fact that we’ve lost the ability to simply be.

And maybe that’s what we’re learning again. Not how to do more…
but how to be still.

I used to stand in front of my middle school students after they finished an essay or story and ask one simple question:

“So what?”

They would stare at me, unsure what I meant. I wasn’t trying to be mean or sassy. I was trying to get them to find meaning behind their story. So I’d continue:

Why are you telling me this?
Why does it matter?
What’s your point?

I used to drill into my students that every good story needs a “so what,” a reason, a takeaway…a point.

But I’ve realized that question only works for essays, not for real life, especially in seasons of suffering. I’ve had health issues, and I still do. And when you go through a season like that, you don’t ask “so what?” You ask why. Not a “why me?” but more like, why now?

And there isn’t always an answer.

“What’s the point?” doesn’t feel like the right question when you’re just trying to make it through the day. It doesn’t feel meaningful in the moment.

And if I’m honest, for a long time my story felt like one big unanswered question:

So what is all of this for?

But today at church, something hit me. 

“Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ… who comforts us in all our affliction, so that we may be able to comfort those who are in any affliction…” (2 Corinthians 1:3–4)

The pastor focused on those two words: 

So that.

Wow, he comforts me (which He always does), but comfort for me to give another. 

What if my life was never meant to be a “so what”…
What if it’s always been a “so that”?

So that I would slow down and pay attention. 
So that I would be humbled.
So that I would stop performing and moving so much.
So that I would actually feel what others are walking through.
So that I could sit across from someone in pain and not try to fix it, but to understand it.

So that someday, I could help someone else.
And so that I can give something I may have needed so deeply myself.

Everyone has a “so that.” It’s something bigger than you. A purpose. Maybe it’s the question we’ve been missing. Something may have been given to you, a struggle, a hardship, a challenge, a tragedy, and it can be devastating. Heartbreaking. It can change your life in ways you didn’t plan. 

But perhaps it’s time to finish the sentence:

This has been happening to me so that….

For me, it hasn’t explained everything, but it has given it meaning and purpose.

And for that…
I can trust Him.

Walking Up the Down Escalator

I’ve always loved escalators. 

When I was a kid, I had this strange fascination with trying to walk up the down escalator. I would step onto the moving stairs headed in the opposite direction and start climbing. Usually, an adult nearby would quickly reprimand me and send me back the right way.

But it was the challenge that excited me. The harder you pushed, the faster you climbed. At least that’s what it felt like. Eventually, though, you realize something strange: no matter how much effort you put in, you barely move. The escalator keeps pulling you back down.

For years, I approached my body the same way.

Eat to Move

As a kid, I spent a lot of time home alone after school. Being a latch-key child meant the kitchen became a place for experimentation.

My creations weren’t exactly gourmet since my mom didn’t buy the usual processed junk food. So I became a bit of a chemist: cocoa powder, Cool Whip, and a saltine cracker, for example. Sometimes the results were surprisingly good although weird. 

But somewhere in those years, a subtle shift happened. I began to realize that I had control over what went into my mouth, and that awareness created a powerful sense of agency.

Alongside that control, another habit quietly formed: if I ate more, I felt the need to move more.

At first it seemed harmless. Logical. But over time it became automatic.

Constantly Undernourished

I think many women can relate to this pattern because we are often sent the same message: if a little is good, then more must be better. Especially when calories increase for any reason, many of us feel the need to “balance it out” with more movement.

Over time, that thinking creates a familiar habit:

increase calories → increase activity → weight doesn’t change (or it does briefly) → reduce calories again.

The body begins to expect that whenever more food arrives, more movement will follow. So instead of allowing nourishment to stay, the system compensates.

It’s a seductive pattern, and many people can get stuck in it for years without realizing it.

What happens next is subtle but important: the body never fully experiences consistent nourishment. Calories come in, but they are quickly burned off. Instead of allowing nourishment to stay, the body is constantly trying to keep up. Over time, it becomes much harder to build the resilience, stamina, and lean strength that most women are working toward.

Over time this pattern can also keep the nervous system on high alert, relying more on stress hormones like adrenaline to keep energy moving instead of allowing the body to fully recover and rebuild.

Why the Body Needs Consistency

One of the most important shifts I made recently felt completely foreign at first. For years, I paired eating more with more activity. Any increase in food was quickly followed by more movement.

I had to change the pattern. 

For a period of time, I simply ate more, and I became far more sedentary than I had been in years. At first, this felt almost irresponsible.

Metabolically, however, it was an important signal to my body. I had to create a new pattern so my body could learn something different:

If food increases, movement does not automatically increase.

My body finally experienced something it hadn’t felt in a long time: Consistent nourishment.

When the body begins to trust that fuel will remain available, it can finally begin rebuilding energy, strength, and resilience. For me, this was the first time that had ever happened.

What Actually Builds a Strong Body

The physique many women say they want…lean, strong, and feminine…rarely comes from running more, walking more, swimming more, or simply moving more.

More often it develops through a much less glamorous approach:

adequate nourishment (yes, protein through whole foods)
good sleep
resistance training
walking and normal daily movement
lower stress hormones

and patience.

Sometimes the most disciplined choice is counterintuitive: allowing nourishment to stay long enough for the body to remember what strength feels like again.

And when that happens, something interesting begins to change.

The body begins to step out of “fight or flight.” Energy becomes steadier. Strength builds more naturally. Movement starts to feel productive again instead of punishment.

For me, it was time to turn around on that escalator.

Climbing up the down escalator led me nowhere fast. But it took me way too long to figure that out, and I had to learn the hard way. (and I’m not there yet).

So now I choose to step onto the right escalator and finally let my body work with me instead of against me.