Carrying the Weight: Balancing Passion, Purpose, and Self-Compassion

Written By Latosha Walker
Founder & CEO, Wondering.Waves | Military Spouse | Creator | Storyteller

Originally published: October 21, 2025 – Updated for depth, mindfulness, and encouragement

The Invisible Pressure to Do It All

The sky in San Angelo is still dark when my alarm goes off, but my mind is already racing. Before I even reach for my coffee, the invisible to-do list unrolls: finish that batch of dolls, check in with the Wondering.Waves community, prep content, remember to text a friend, and squeeze in a moment of self-care. Some mornings, it feels like I’m carrying the weight of a dozen lives—business owner, military spouse, creative, volunteer, friend, daughter—all at once.

There’s a quiet pressure to do it all, to show up fully for every role, every mission, every person who relies on me. I love the vibrant tapestry of my life, but sometimes the threads tangle, and I find myself wondering if I’m enough for all of it.

Latosha steps outside on a crisp October night in San Angelo, slippers on and hot chocolate in hand, savoring a gentle moment under Orion’s Belt.

When Energy Runs Low (and the Energy Drinks Come Out)

In the past, after a string of late nights and early mornings, I hit a wall. I’d stayed up finishing a custom order, answered emails well past midnight, and woke up to a calendar packed with meetings and volunteer calls. By noon, I was running on sheer willpower and an energy drink, my creativity flickering like a low battery.

I worried I was dropping balls—forgetting a friend’s birthday, missing a deadline, losing my spark. The harder I tried to push through, the heavier everything felt. It’s easy to slip into self-criticism on days like this, to believe that if I just worked harder, I could “catch up” and finally feel on top of things.

A Morning Balancing Act: Coffee, Calendars, and Chaos

The sky is still a deep blue when I shuffle into the kitchen, the house quiet except for the soft hum of the coffee maker. I wrap myself in my favorite crochet blanket—one of the first I ever made—and step onto the front porch for a moment of stillness. The moon hangs high, casting a silvery glow across the yard, and the stars are bright and sharp in the Texas sky. I pause, breathing in the cool air, and spot Orion’s Belt—three perfect points of light, a familiar comfort before dawn.

When I open my phone, the familiar comfort of dark mode greets me, the glow gentle on my eyes—so important on mornings when a migraine threatens at the edges. My Google Calendar is a mosaic of color blocks: pink for Wondering.Waves doll orders, blue for blog posts and social media, purple for volunteering, and black-and-white for personal moments. I love the way the colors help me see my life at a glance, each role given its own space, a visual reminder that I’m more than just one thing.

Today’s plan looks neat and organized: a pink block for a morning of creative work, a blue slot for drafting a new blog post, purple for a midday check-in with my volunteer group, and a black-and-white window reserved for self-care—maybe a walk, maybe just breathing.

But within ten minutes, the plan starts to unravel. Matt’s shift changes, and suddenly I’m driving him to work an hour earlier than expected. A friend texts, needing support after a rough night, and I find myself listening, offering encouragement, and promising to drop off coffee on my way home. My inbox pings with a new Wondering.Waves order—urgent, of course—and my brain starts spinning with ideas and logistics.

I glance at my phone and see the pink block shrinking, blue and purple nudging up against each other, the black-and-white time for myself fading into the background. The tension creeps in—should I skip my journaling? Maybe I can answer emails while I eat breakfast? I feel the old urge to multitask, to squeeze every minute for productivity, but I pause and take a breath. The coffee is still warm. The world hasn’t ended because the plan changed. I remind myself: I am allowed to adjust. I am allowed to be human.

By the time I settle back at my desk, the to-do list is longer, but my heart feels a little lighter. I jot down a “small win”—delivering coffee to a friend, a smile from Matt as I dropped him off, the comfort of my blanket. The morning wasn’t what I planned, but it was real, and it was enough.

Learning to Ask for Help: Letting Others Lighten the Load

There was a time when I believed that strength meant carrying everything myself—never letting the seams show, never asking for help, never admitting when the weight felt like too much. I thought I was protecting others from my burdens, but in reality, I was shutting myself off from the very support I craved.

One morning, after a week of late-night deadlines and early-morning volunteer calls, I felt myself unraveling. I was behind on orders, my inbox was overflowing, and the thought of another day “powering through” made my chest tight. Matt noticed my silence at breakfast and gently asked if I was okay. My first instinct was to brush it off—“I’m fine, just tired”—but something in his expression made me pause.

Instead of pushing through, I took a shaky breath and told him the truth: I was overwhelmed, anxious that I was letting people down, and honestly, just exhausted. Matt listened quietly, then suggested we make a list of what absolutely had to get done and what could wait. He offered to handle dinner that night and texted a friend to see if she could help with a volunteer task I’d been dreading.

Asking for help felt vulnerable—like admitting defeat—but the relief was immediate. The world didn’t fall apart because I let someone else carry part of the load. In fact, things got lighter. My friend was happy to step in, Matt’s support gave me space to rest, and I realized that my value wasn’t tied to doing everything myself.

And honestly, since that night, something wonderful has unfolded: Matt has discovered a genuine love for cooking new dishes and has been expanding what he can do in the kitchen! While I still love the art of prepping ingredients—chopping, measuring, setting up the mise en place—he’s fallen in love with the act of actually cooking the food. Now, it’s become a shared ritual: I prep, he cooks, and we both get to enjoy the results together. It’s a rhythm that likely wouldn’t have developed if I hadn’t allowed him to step in and take charge that first time. Sometimes, letting go opens the door to new joys and unexpected growth—not just for ourselves, but for the people we love.

Since then, I’ve tried to make a practice of reaching out when the weight feels heavy. Sometimes it’s as simple as asking a friend for a listening ear, or letting Matt take over a chore. Other times, it’s saying “no” to a new commitment, trusting that the right people will understand. Each time, I’m reminded: self-compassion isn’t weakness—it’s wisdom. And community isn’t just about giving; it’s about receiving, too.

Creative Block and the Gift of Stepping Back

There’s a special kind of frustration that comes with creative block—the feeling of staring at a half-finished doll, a blinking cursor on a blog post, or a pile of yarn that just won’t cooperate. In the past, I would push myself to power through, convinced that if I just tried harder, the spark would return. But more often than not, the harder I pushed, the more stuck I felt.

One evening last year, when we were living in Norfolk, VA, I found myself unable to shake the heaviness. The ideas just weren’t coming. The inner critic was loud, deadlines loomed, and I felt like I was letting myself and others down. Instead of forcing myself to sit and struggle, I grabbed my keys and decided to get out of the house.

I drove down to the ocean just as the sun was slipping behind the city skyline, painting the sky in streaks of gold and violet. By the time I parked, the waves had turned deep blue—almost black—rolling steadily against the shore. I sat on the hood of my car, wrapped in my favorite blanket, and listened to the rhythm of the Atlantic. The salt air was cool, and the only sound was the crash and hush of water on sand.

Out on the horizon, I could see the silhouettes of tanker ships and barges, their lights blinking in the dark. Somewhere farther out—almost certainly—the Navy and Coast Guard ships were moving quietly through the night. I let myself romanticize it, imagining what it would feel like to be on a ship at midnight, surrounded by nothing but water and sky, the stars overhead bright and infinite. I pictured the peace, the solitude, the quiet strength it must take to navigate those dark waters.

In that moment, I didn’t find a solution to my creative block. But I did find a sense of perspective, a reminder that it’s okay to be still, to be small in the face of something vast and mysterious. I drove home with a softer heart, the sound of the waves echoing in my mind. The next day, the ideas returned—gentler, more hopeful, and somehow clearer for the time I’d spent simply listening.

The Power of Boundaries: Learning to Say “No”

For a long time, I believed that saying “yes” was the key to being a good friend, a dependable volunteer, a successful business owner, and a loving partner. If someone needed help, I was there. If a new opportunity came up, I squeezed it into my already packed calendar. I wore my ability to “do it all” like a badge of honor—until I realized that my yeses were costing me more than I could afford.

It took many seasons (and more than a few hard lessons) to understand that boundaries are not walls, but bridges to a healthier, more sustainable way of living. Saying “no” isn’t about shutting people out; it’s about making space for what truly matters and honoring my own needs.

The first time I turned down a volunteer role I would have loved, I felt a pang of guilt—like I was letting someone down. But as I watched my calendar open up, I noticed something else: relief. I had time to rest, to create, to show up fully for the commitments I’d already made. And when I did say “yes,” it came from a place of genuine enthusiasm, not obligation or exhaustion.

Now, I try to treat my boundaries as acts of self-respect and kindness. Some days, that means declining a last-minute request so I can stick to my creative routine. Other days, it’s choosing not to answer emails after dinner, or carving out a black-and-white block on my calendar just for myself. Each “no” is a gentle reminder that I am worthy of care, and that my energy is both precious and finite.

If you struggle with boundaries, know you’re not alone. It’s a practice, not a perfect. Every time you honor your own needs, you’re teaching yourself (and others) that your well-being matters, too.

A Gentle Challenge: Celebrating the Weight You Carry

If you’re reading this and feeling the invisible weight of all your roles—know that you are not alone. Life as a military spouse, creative, business owner, volunteer, and friend is a beautiful, complicated tapestry. Some days the threads feel tangled, and others they shimmer in the light. The truth is, carrying the weight is not a sign of weakness, but of care, commitment, and love.

This week, I invite you to notice the ways you balance your own passion, purpose, and self-compassion. What are the invisible pressures you carry? Where can you offer yourself a little more grace? Try writing down one “small win” each day—a moment when you paused, asked for help, honored a boundary, or simply allowed yourself to rest. Celebrate these moments, no matter how tiny they seem. They are proof that you are showing up, that you are enough, and that you are worthy of kindness—from others and from yourself.

Reflection Prompt

What is one role you carry that feels especially heavy right now? What would it look like to give yourself permission to pause, to ask for help, or to say “no” to something this week? How might your life feel lighter if you celebrated small wins instead of only big achievements?

Closing Thoughts: Carrying the Weight With Grace

As I look back on the waves I’ve navigated—early mornings under Orion’s Belt, late-night deadlines, ocean drives, and all the moments in between—I’m reminded that grace isn’t about having it all together. It’s about honoring the messiness, the beauty, and the growth that come from showing up, day after day, with an open heart.

Sometimes, when the day is done and the house is quiet, I slip on my favorite slippers and step outside into the crisp October air, a mug of hot chocolate warming my hands. The scent of autumn drifts on the breeze, and I look up at the night sky, searching for Orion’s Belt. In those moments, I let the hush of evening settle around me, grateful for the pause, the warmth, and the wonder woven into even the busiest days. These quiet pauses remind me that even when life feels heavy, there is beauty and gentleness waiting to be found.

Here’s to all of us learning to balance passion, purpose, and self-compassion. Here’s to the messy, beautiful, ever-changing tapestry we weave together—and to the weight we carry, not alone, but with a little more grace each day.

With gratitude and gentle encouragement,

Latosha