I've been staying up until somewhere between midnight and 3:30 in the morning most nights this week. Then I'm up again by 6:30 or 7:00, and by the time both girls are fed and dressed and the morning chaos settles, it's 9:00 and I haven't showered yet. I'm running on four, maybe five hours of sleep, and I can feel it in my body — that low hum of fatigue that sits just behind my eyes and makes everything take a little longer than it should.

The weird part? I'm choosing it.

Not consciously, maybe. But I am. Because those late hours are the only time the house is quiet. The only time I'm not needed by someone else. And I've been using them to decompress, to feel like I have a pocket of control in a season that doesn't leave much room for it. A newborn and a toddler don't negotiate. They need what they need, when they need it. And I want to show up for them. I do. But somewhere in the back of my mind, I've been telling myself that I also need time that's just mine — time to wind down, time to think, time to exist outside the rhythm of diapers and breakfast and bedtime routines.

So I stay up. And then I pay for it the next day.

The Cost Shows Up Quietly

I haven't worked out in over a week. Not once. And that's not like me. I've built a routine over the years — strength training, running, discipline that doesn't rely on motivation. But this week, the discipline just… wasn't there. The time was there, technically. I could've trained in the morning, or mid-afternoon if I planned it right. But I didn't. Because I was tired. Because I was behind. Because I convinced myself I needed the margin for something else.

And here's the thing I'm realizing: the late nights aren't giving me energy. They're costing me energy. The trade I thought I was making — a little sleep in exchange for a little space — isn't actually working. I'm not more present with Jenn or the girls. I'm not sharper or more patient. I'm just… running on fumes. And the stuff that usually keeps me grounded — the training, the rhythm, the intentionality — has quietly slipped away.

It's not a crisis. It's just a drift. But drift is how you end up somewhere you didn't mean to go.

What I'm Learning (Again)

This isn't the first time I've been here. I know what the right move is. Go to bed earlier. Protect the sleep. Let the decompression happen in healthier ways — a short walk, a few minutes of prayer, a conversation with Jenn instead of staring at a screen in the dark. I know all of this. But knowing it and doing it are two different things, especially when you're in the thick of a season that feels like it's moving faster than you can keep up with.

What I keep coming back to is this: I can't be the husband and father I want to be if I'm not taking care of myself. Not in a selfish way, but in a stewardship way. My body, my mind, my energy — those aren't infinite. And if I keep trading sleep for the illusion of control, I'm going to keep showing up as a lesser version of myself. More irritable. Less patient. Running on obligation instead of love.

Elizabeth is only two months old. Cecelia is two and a half. This season is temporary, but it's also formative. They won't remember whether I stayed up late or went to bed early. But they'll feel whether I was present or exhausted. Whether I had margin to play with them, or whether I was always just trying to catch up.

The Adjustment

So I'm making a change. Starting tonight, I'm aiming for bed by 11:00. That's not perfect, but it's progress. And I'm putting the workouts back on the calendar — even if it's just 20 minutes, even if it's not the full program I was running before. Because the discipline isn't about the workout itself. It's about showing up for the commitments I make to myself, so I can show up for the people I love.

This isn't about having it all together. It's about recognizing when I'm drifting, and making the adjustment before the drift becomes the norm. That's the work of a good season — not avoiding the hard parts, but staying honest about them. And then doing the next right thing.

Your neighbor,
Rick