I had a wonderful catch-up conversation with a coworker yesterday. Somewhere between talking shop and swapping life updates, they asked me about my morning writing routine. Then came a follow-up that caught me off guard:
“Do you ever take a break?”
I gave them a half-answer. “Kind of.”
Sometimes I do. Like on Sundays, when I’ll post a doodle. A little sketch, a five-minute burst, instead of the usual hour-plus at my desk. That feels like a break, I guess.
But the question lingered. It stuck with me last night. It was still there this morning.
Ritual
Because here’s the thing: at this stage, writing isn’t just about putting something out. If that were the point, I could literally write a post that just said “blah blah blah” and technically it would count. Streak alive. Box checked. Done.
But these posts have grown into something bigger. Not because I feel obligated. Not because I’m pressured to deliver something grand for the handful of readers out there (thank you, by the way!). It’s bigger because it’s practice. A ritual. A way of digging deeper. Of sitting with the problem. Of doing the hard thing, so I can keep getting better.
That’s why the idea of taking a break makes me hesitate. It stirs up something close to fear. Maybe.
Why? Because I know my history. When I stop, I don’t stop for a day. I stop for weeks. Months. Years. I’ve been down that road. Breaks reveal how fragile some of our streaks can be—how quickly momentum slips, how discipline isn’t always what we think it is. Am I worried it’ll happen again? Maybe a little.
Practice
But there’s another layer here. It’s not just about writing and hitting “publish.” It’s about how I do it. Every morning I’m speaking into a microphone, pulling in old notes I scribbled days, weeks, or months ago, chasing connections, trying to articulate what’s rattling in my head. Saying things out loud until they finally make sense.
And those small, messy reps prepare me for the bigger moments. For showing up sharper in meetings. For having clearer thoughts in one-on-ones. For talking myself through problems when I’m stuck. This morning ritual isn’t just writing practice. It’s life practice.
I once heard David Goggins say in a podcast that he doesn’t take vacations. His vacations are eating and showering.(Paraphrasing)
Now—I’ll never be Goggins. I don’t need or want to be Goggins. He’s one of the most hardcore humans alive, and I respect that. But my goals are different. My battles are different. My breaks look different. And that’s okay!
Ask
So will I take a break? Yeah. When I need to. I’ll give myself that grace when the time comes.
Break is breath in the middle of a run. It’s the pause in the music that makes the chorus hit harder. It’s the step back before the work you love rots into the work you resent.
Break is contextual. It’s not about matching someone else’s stamina. It’s about being honest about your own.
Right now? I’m not there yet. I’m good. I can keep going. For how long? I don’t know. We’ll see!
I’m glad my coworker asked. I’m glad I let the question sit with me overnight. It reminded me why I show up to the page every morning. That honesty isn’t just about what I write—it’s about what I ask myself.
Do I need to take a break from the thing, before the thing breaks me?
The grind doesn’t ask for reflection. The break does.
(For now… I’m good.)