October Newsletter

Sitting and looking at a scenic overlook while listening about how the name for this retreat center, Tributary, is so meaningful—because there are three waterfalls fed by springs that flow into the creek below us, which then flows into a bigger creek and eventually into the Buffalo National River—it brings to mind how our lives move in much the same way.

Life often feels like a river—steady, predictable, flowing in one direction. But sometimes, a tributary comes rushing in, changing the course. A tributary doesn’t stop the river, but it alters its path, forcing the water to find a new way forward.

One of my biggest tributaries was burnout.

For years, I poured myself out as a nurse and a missionary. My days were full—caring for children and adults, meeting needs, holding responsibilities that felt endless. On the outside, it looked like I was thriving, but inside, I was slowly unraveling.

I ignored the signs at first. I told myself to push harder, to keep giving, to hold it all together. But eventually, I reached a point where I couldn’t. The exhaustion was bone-deep. My joy was gone. I felt like a hollow version of myself, going through the motions while wondering, Who am I if I can’t keep doing all of this? It felt like my river had dried up.

Burnout came crashing in like an unwelcome tributary, forcing me into a new current I didn’t ask for. It meant letting go of roles and identities I had clung to for years. It meant grieving the version of me that could “do it all.”

I wrestled with shame. Shouldn’t I have been stronger? Shouldn’t I have been able to keep going? The truth is, burnout stripped me down to my most vulnerable self. It left me questioning not just what I could do, but who I really was.

Resilience, I came to realize, wasn’t about bouncing back or returning to who I was before. It was about sitting in the wilderness of exhaustion, listening to what my soul had been trying to say all along: Slow down. Breathe. Heal.

Resilience looked like saying “no” when I was used to always saying “yes.” It looked like giving myself permission to rest, even when rest felt foreign. It looked like leaning on others when my instinct was to keep giving. The river didn’t disappear—it widened. But I had to allow the tributary to reshape me before I could see it.

That painful season became the doorway into something new. Burnout, as brutal as it was, eventually opened the path to member care and life transitions coaching—a space where I now walk alongside others in their own transitions.

I never would have chosen that tributary. But it became a turning point, teaching me that endings are not failures, and new directions can hold unexpected beauty.

Life’s rivers are rarely straight and predictable. They bend, widen, and merge in ways we don’t anticipate. Tributaries may come crashing in when we least want them—but they are often what make the river deeper, stronger, and more alive.

Questions for You

• Have you ever had a tributary change the course of your life?

• What endings are asking you to release control right now?

• Where might resilience be inviting you to rest instead of push?