The Season of Surrender

Created by MidJourney with a custom Tio moodboard

There’s a certain kind of tired that espresso doesn’t touch. It’s not the kind you shake off with a nap or an extra day of rest. It’s quieter than that, a slow erosion that starts at the edges and works inward, wearing you down grain by grain.
That’s where I’ve been lately.

The weeks blur together. School, cross country, classes, grading, the long drives to meets and competitions. I love it, I truly do. Watching kids discover their potential, seeing them push through the pain of the final hill, or beam with pride after a good race. These are the moments that remind me why I said yes to another year. Why I still show up when my tank feels empty.
But love doesn’t erase limits.

Last week was a blur of buses, bleachers, and back roads. Two hundred miles one day for a cross-country meet, another long drive a few days later for a mural competition. The kids ran hard, painted brilliantly, and came home shining with the kind of pride that makes every early morning worth it. I smiled, I cheered, I celebrated with them, but somewhere inside, I could feel the quiet hum of depletion. The kind that doesn’t show up right away, but settles in once the noise fades and you’re finally still.

When I finally made it to the studio last week, there were cobwebs on the shelves. Literally. The silence in that room had texture, thick and stale. My brushes looked like they’d been waiting for an apology. I have not made it to the studio this week, but my single short visit last week I stood there for a long time, hands on my hips, trying to remember what it felt like to lose myself in paint and sound and story. It was disorienting, like walking into your own house and not recognizing it.

And for a moment, I did what most of us do when we’re overwhelmed: I went straight to guilt. I should be painting more. I should be rucking more. I should be more organized, more disciplined, more… everything. Ugh. Demoralizing, depressing even.

But beneath the noise of “should,” something else began to whisper: maybe this is just fall...and I love fall.

Nature isn’t panicking right now. The trees aren’t ashamed for letting go. The garden isn’t apologizing as it turns to compost. Everything is slowing, settling, and surrendering. Not quitting, surrendering. Trusting that rest is part of the process.

Studio Practice: Step outside today. Notice something changing—the color of a leaf, the angle of the light, the smell of the air. Write down three words that describe what you observe. Keep them close; let them be the palette for your next painting, poem, or page in your journal.

And maybe that’s the invitation in front of me, to stop resisting the rhythm and start living in sync with it.

Created by MidJourney with a custom Tio moodboard

I call it The Season of Surrender. It’s the moment when you stop pretending that burnout is a personal failure and begin to see it as a signpost. A reminder to pause, to release, to reorient. It’s when you realize that being tired doesn’t mean you’ve lost your purpose; it means you’ve been pouring from a deep well and forgot to refill it.

There’s humility in that kind of pause. You start to see the quiet work of grace, the composting of your own perfectionism. All the grand plans and self-imposed timelines start to soften. I have a long list for this fall: launch Muse Under Siege, finish Breaking the Blank, finalize the Creative Truths Journal Series, tighten up marketing for the Italy workshop, more involvement with the boards I serve on. But maybe the real work right now isn’t finishing, it’s refining. Not tightening deadlines, but loosening control.

“Done is better than perfect” has been my mantra forever, but I’m beginning to realize that “done” might sometimes mean “rested.” That progress can look like breathing. That creativity, like a good harvest, needs fallow time.

So, this week, I’m not going to chase the Muse. I’m just going to show up. I’ll go back into the studio and sweep the floor if I can get in there Sunday. Maybe light a candle, put on some jazz, move paint around for fifteen minutes without expectation. Maybe nothing comes of it. Maybe something small does. Either way, it’s enough. Because creation isn’t always about producing; sometimes it’s about returning, to yourself, to silence, to gratitude.

The truth is, I’ve felt this before. Every artist, every teacher, every coach has. We give so much, our energy, attention, empathy, presence, that it’s easy to forget we’re also soil that needs tending. And when we finally stop, it can feel uncomfortable. But in that discomfort is the beginning of renewal.
This season, I’m letting things fall. The plans, the pressure, the illusion that I can hold everything together. I’m letting some of it hit the ground, trusting that what’s meant to root will.

Studio Practice: Write down everything that’s currently “in the air”—projects, responsibilities, goals. Circle three that can fall to the ground for now. Let the others breathe.

Maybe you’re there too. Maybe your own version of fall is showing up, that moment when your energy dips, your to-do list laughs, and your creative joy feels out of reach. If that’s you, I want you to know: this isn’t the end of your story. It’s a transition.

There’s beauty in decay. There’s clarity in surrender. There’s life waiting under the pile of leaves. Let the studio gather dust for a minute if it must. Let the unfinished work stay unfinished. Let yourself rest, and not as an excuse, but as an act of faith. Because just like the trees, we’re not dying; we’re deepening.

Keep Making, Keep Growing, Be You,
Tio

Reflection Prompt: When was the last time you showed up for your art without asking it to perform? What would it look like to simply inhabit your space and see what wants to emerge?

Created by MidJourney with a custom Tio moodboard