As a mom, wife, daughter, and friend, I often feel like I’m carrying an invisible tracking sheet— the one that keeps a tally of everyone’s needs, schedules, and emotional well‑being. I can sense when it’s been too long since we’ve seen our parents or when I haven’t reached out to a friend in a while. And for years, it felt like I had to know exactly what my family would need three to six months from now.

When our kids were younger, that level of planning felt necessary. Coordinating vacation days with my husband, lining up childcare for the weeks neither of us could take off, signing up for summer camps in February — it was a lot, but it was the only way to make things work.

But even now, with older kids and a little more breathing room, I keep getting the same reminder: leave space.

Some of our favorite summer evenings were never planned. They just unfolded — a few hours at the water, an impromptu dinner with neighbors, a fire that stretched long past bedtime. Those moments didn’t come from a color‑coded calendar. They came from having room to say yes.

And now, as we step into another big family change — my husband starting a new job that will have us rotating households — I’m realizing I need that space more than ever. We thought long and hard about this decision, and we know it will bring growth, stories, and probably a few podcast episodes’ worth of lessons. But it also means we’ll be figuring things out as we go. I can’t plan this season the way I’ve planned others. I’m going to have to feel my way through it.

I’ve teased my mom for years about not being able to plan too far ahead. Now I’m becoming her.

I’ve been thinking a lot about where I fall on the planning spectrum. Do I need structure to feel grounded? Yes. But do I get constricted when every square inch of the calendar is filled? Also yes. I’m far less creative when I’m busy. I don’t daydream. I don’t make things. Writing podcasts becomes harder when I’m forcing myself to produce instead of letting ideas bubble to the surface.

So I’ve been paying attention to the signs that I’ve scheduled too tightly. For me, it’s when something I planned starts to feel like a chore instead of something joyful. It’s when I don’t feel like I have time to shoot hoops with my son in the driveway.

Finding the right balance has always been trial and error. Some years I’ve cut back too much and felt lonely. Other years I’ve overcorrected and ended up exhausted. And just when I think I’ve figured it out, life shifts again.

Here’s the approach I’m using this year as I try to find my sweet spot between structure and spontaneity:

First, I identify the big things — the things that truly matter.
For us, that’s hosting the 4th of July, our annual camping and four‑wheeling trip, and celebrating my nephew’s high school graduation. That’s it. Three things. And honestly, summer is only three months long here, so that feels right.

Second, I name the things I want to bounce between.
This year: mountain biking, gardening, flowers, swimming, and friends. It’s also my first summer home with the kids, and I’m hoping to build a bank of podcast episodes so I’m not scrambling during the school year.

Third, I look at what naturally falls off the list.
Some hobbies just don’t fit anymore. Kyle’s beer‑brewing equipment hasn’t been touched in a decade. My scrapbooking supplies have been collecting dust for years. Letting go of those things creates space for what we love now — and maybe someday we’ll circle back, or maybe we won’t.

If the idea of committing to only a few things each season feels impossible, start smaller. Keep one weekend a month completely open. See how it feels. Maybe you’ll rediscover a hobby you forgot you loved. Maybe you’ll finally pick up your camera again. Maybe you’ll just breathe. Take a lesson from your pets – cats are the best at relishing a good nap.

There’s no perfect formula. You get to decide what feels right in this season of your life. And if you genuinely love the hustle of a full calendar, then go for it. But if you’re craving room to reconnect, to play, to wander, to say yes to the unexpected — I hope you’ll consider scheduling less and playing more.

Here’s to a season of space, joy, and curiosity.