The reality of work-life balance? Giving up control.
If I want to host Olive’s friends for her birthday, enjoy lazy mornings in the backyard, or drop everything to picnic and sketch in the park, it means I ship orders at odd times. My studio—and my business brain—becomes a heap of half-finished projects, stacked precariously but intentionally, so that whenever a quiet moment appears, I can pick up where I left off.
The mental side might be the hardest. I check out so completely that checking back in feels jarring. The gears are sandy. I’m unmotivated—not because I don’t care, but because barefoot in the grass with a good book is deeply compelling. Rest makes me more tired, maybe because in slowing down I realize how fast I’ve really been going. Still, there’s a constant inner commentary: things that need revamping, ideas tugging at my sleeve, to-do lists forming in the quiet. So it’s not always a peaceful kind of unmotivated—it’s a tangled one.
Creative work takes uninterrupted time. And I don’t have that right now. After enough days without it, my brain clogs a bit. The longer I go without real work hours, the more I crave them—and the more depleted I feel when they finally arrive.
But I’m 14 years into motherhood. I know this rhythm—the dance between family and work. What’s different is that I keep evolving. And so does my business. We both grow and shift each year. And so, each summer is just familiar enough to cause a little frustration when last year’s solutions don’t fit this year’s shape. Summer becomes a kind of trust fall, until the structure of the school year returns and I land back into the arms of steadier work time.
This morning I found myself thinking about the dream we often hear: A business that can pause for family.
It sounds lovely. Ideal. The ultimate goal. And maybe it is. But I think it also takes a particular kind of courage—to loosen your grip, to give up control.
We’re well into July, and the summer nights are slipping away. There’s an invitation in these next few weeks: to sacrifice control and lean into the chaos—best represented, I think, by my curly hair. She grows fuller with character after each ride in the lidless Bronco, each night sitting in the thick summer humidity.
And my job isn’t to tame her, but to fluff with respect, tie a headwrap with panache, and let her ride.
XO, Mrs. E