The Party's Over

When the party ended, the hangover crash was real.

The to-do list I had ignored for weeks came rushing back all at once. When's the last time I went to the gym? Did I pay my mortgage on time? How do I change my air filter? What's that noise in my attic? I have a week to do my taxes?! My driver's license is expired? I have so much to take care of. Where do I begin?

On top of feeling overwhelmed by all the administrative things I had let pile up while I was in party mode, the feeling of loneliness started to settle in.

I felt this emptiness begin to fill my heart, and it was blatant and honest. I felt like I was left to clean up after myself and face reality alone.

At this point, I had just celebrated my 31st birthday, and the physical act of tearing down my decorations felt symbolic. The party was over, and it was time for me to get back to work — well, back to my life, really.

But the strange part was — what is my life now? It's a funny thing to achieve everything you set out to do and still feel a longing you can't name.

In the span of what felt like a single breath, I had bought my first home, gone through a confusing break up, drawn the hardest boundaries of my life with people I love deeply, earned a promotion I had worked three years for, and stepped into a coaching role I had dreamed about since I moved home. Seven years of climbing. Seven years of trusting. Seven years of holding on when every part of me wanted to let go.

And I made it.

So why did I feel like I was still searching?

The upward momentum that had carried me through the hardest season of my life was still humming inside me, and I didn't know how to turn it down. I wasn't sure I wanted to. I wanted to meet new people — maybe start a new career

, move somewhere else, actually decorate my home, take a vacation, pick up a new hobby, or try a new church. It was like I had scaled a mountain I never thought I'd reach the top of, and now that I was here, I was realizing all the dreams I hadn't yet pursued — and feeling empowered to tackle them. And yet, I was scared.

But underneath the restlessness, somewhere in the middle of all of it, I had forgotten to grieve.

Grieve what, you ask?

The years it took to get here. The version of me who fought for this. The relationships that shifted when I set those boundaries. Because saying yes to everything ahead of me meant saying goodbye to some of what was behind me — and even the good things deserve a proper farewell.

"God, what do you have for me in all of this?" my heart cried out. I was feeling so burned out — still emotional from completing this seven-year journey, tired from my job, starting a new coaching role, still leading my youth group, and trying to make time for myself, friends, and family. It all felt like too much and not enough at the same time.

My heart isn't in all the things it once was. In saying "hello" to all these new opportunities, I would need to let go and say "goodbye" to the things my heart was no longer in — even the good things.

And I'm longing for something new. Something I don't have, and something I'm not even sure how to get.

But the same God who walked with me through seven years of climbing is still walking with me now. And if I've learned anything from reaching this summit, it's that the view from the top doesn't mark the end of the journey — it just shows you how much more there is to explore.

2026 is going to be my year. And I'm just getting started.