I used to think a good life was one that stayed full. Full clinic. Full calendar. Full cupboards. But somewhere along the way—between Angela’s last breath and the boys’ first heartbreak—I came to believe different.
A simpler life isn’t an empty one. It’s a life with room.
Room to sit in the driveway and listen to Hank play his piano through the open window. Room to throw the football with TJ and not check the time. Room to say, “Come in,” when a neighbor knocks, even if the sink’s full of dishes.
After Angela passed, the house felt too big. Too quiet. I started clearing things out—not out of bitterness, but because I needed space to breathe. I boxed up what we didn’t use. Gave away what didn’t hold a story. Kept only what felt like love.
The same thing happened in my work. I cut back to four days a week. Folks said, “Aren’t you afraid of falling behind?” I said, “Behind what?” I wasn’t running a race. I was trying to stay alive.
Now, I design my days around people, not pressure. Around what makes me feel close to God, not just productive. I still show up for my patients, still carry a beeper when I’m on hospice call. But I’ve stopped mistaking exhaustion for worth.
The world tells us more is better. But scripture reminds us: “Better a little with peace, than much with strife.” (Proverbs 17:1)
A simpler, intentional life ain’t quiet because it’s empty. It’s quiet because it’s full of the right things.
Ask yourself: What would your life look like if it fit your soul, not just your schedule?
What could grow if you made some space?