I used to track everything. Morning lifts, run times, macros, sleep hours. I had a system, and the system worked because I showed up for it every day. Lately, though, I haven't touched a barbell in over a week. The notebook where I log my training sits untouched on the kitchen counter. And if I'm being honest, I'm running on maybe four or five hours of sleep a night — sometimes less.

Elizabeth is two months old now, and she's in that stage where the nights blur together. She'll wake up hungry, and by the time she's fed and settled, it's 2 AM. Then Cecelia's up at six-thirty, full of energy and ready to start her day. Jenn and I tag-team mornings — breakfast, outfit negotiations, the usual toddler chaos — and by the time I've showered and caught my breath, it's nine o'clock and the day is already moving without me.

So the training falls away. The discipline I've built over years gets shelved. And part of me feels it — that low hum of guilt that comes when you know you're not keeping a commitment to yourself.

But here's the thing I keep coming back to: those hours between midnight and dawn, the ones I used to spend in the gym or getting solid rest, they're not wasted. They're just being spent differently right now.

Last night, Elizabeth wouldn't settle. I walked her around the living room in the dark, her tiny head against my chest, and I prayed. Not the formal kind of prayer — just the quiet, half-awake kind where you're asking God for strength and patience and maybe a few more hours in the day. And in that moment, holding her, feeling her breathing slow down as she finally drifted off, I realized: this is the work right now.

Not the work I can measure or log. Not the kind that shows progress in a spreadsheet or leaves me sore the next day. But the work of being present. Of showing up for the people who need me most, even when I'm running on fumes.

I still want to get back to training. I will. The discipline isn't gone — it's just redirected. And I think that's what this season is teaching me: that faithfulness isn't always about keeping the same rhythm. Sometimes it's about recognizing when the rhythm has to change, and trusting that the change is for a reason.

Jenn and I were talking about this the other night, after both girls were finally asleep. She said something that stuck with me: "We'll get back to our routines. But we won't get these nights back." And she's right. Cecelia won't be two-and-a-half forever. Elizabeth won't be this small again. The exhaustion is real, but so is the privilege of being here for it.

So I'm letting go of the scoreboard for now. I'm not counting reps or miles or hours slept. I'm counting something different: the number of times I get to be the one who calms Elizabeth down at 3 AM. The mornings Cecelia climbs into my lap and asks me to read her the same book for the fourth time in a row. The quiet moments with Jenn where we just look at each other and laugh because we're both so tired we can barely stand, but we're still here, still doing it together.

The training will come back. The sleep will eventually return. But this? This is the season I'm in, and I'm learning to be okay with that. More than okay — grateful for it.

God's teaching me that strength isn't just what you can lift or how long you can push. Sometimes it's just showing up tired, showing up imperfect, and trusting that's enough.

Your neighbor,
Rick