A forgotten sabbatical, and many moves later.

On a recent call someone asked me about the sabbatical I took at the beginning of this year— they listened to the podcast episode where John and I talked about it. And my brain sort of glitched for a second…like, oh, shit, I did do that this year didn’t I? My life certainly shifted because of the sabbatical; I connected to parts of myself that I hadn’t been in touch with for years. And at the same time, in the ensuing crush of 2025, I have occasionally forgotten that it ever happened.

I’m not sure any of us really anticipated the shape of this year. The uncertainty and anxiety—my own and that which I’ve held space for others—has certainly impacted my brain. Unimaginable cruelty is a tap and a scroll away, and I’m certainly not alone in that witnessing the inaction of empires in the face of genocide has broken my brain in a fundamental way.

As a result I’ve published less this year than I have in years. Some big projects¹ took longer than I thought, I’ve been deeply immersed with a full client plate, and I found myself with far fewer good blocks of focus time than, well, probably ever in my life.

Then my partner and I unexpectedly needed to find new housing this summer, and were thrown into a stressful cycle of searching for a new home in Vermont’s extreme housing shortage. Some sort of cosmic luck alongside the kinds of diligence and privileges that make us extremely attractive renters landed us a new place quickly, but the whole cycle of housing stress started back in July, and wiped out both our summer and the sliver of remaining brain space I had for deep thinking and writing.

Something had to give.

In a material sense, I have mundane and minor problems, and yet even with the relative okayness of my daily life, I can’t work the way I did a year ago. And while I tamped down a few squeaky inner voices whispering that it’s small and petty to share my own inconsequential struggles amidst so much profound suffering, I also don’t want us pretend. I would bet you too are living in the mundane reality that many people around you aren’t “okay” in the sense of being able to function the way that they once could, for whatever reason.

This is a long lead up to state that I started the process of moving off of Substack back around June and low and behold, it’s November, and I’m finally sending an email.

What I want to say to myself, and so many of Wanderwell’s clients, and now you, reader:

Something has got to give.

If you’re caring for family, children or parents or chosen family, practicing the devotion of mutual aid like never before, scrambling to shore up a business amidst unrelenting economic confusion, or just trying to find space to hang out with a friend or two…good god, put something down.

This is not easy. It’s actually somewhat impossible. And yes, I’m rationalizing to myself this unexpected fallow period at the same time as I am exhorting us to practice an impossible feat.

In fact, sometimes we must put down joyful things, or the things that beckon devotion. Writing and publishing are Jenga blocks that cause me existential angst, nag at my periphery on a daily basis, but don’t particularly topple my business or anyone’s livelihoods when put down.

Which is to say: choose what you put down carefully. You might have to resentfully give up something you love, or put down something that will harm your business or cause consequence.

On the other side of moving, with a new office, and refreshed and emergent routines (the nearest “not home” place for me to head for coffee and writing space is a 100 year old Hardware store that is also a bar), I’m hopeful to get back to writing and publishing rhythms. We’ll see how it goes.

Enjoy Today,

Kate