Devotional Structure: How I’m Learning to Honor the Life I Say I Want

I was driving a long distance the other day and wanted something to listen to that wouldn’t pull me into the news cycle. Before I left, I opened my Audible account and searched for something that felt more nourishing. The Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron popped up as a suggestion. I had read the book years ago, and I had one credit left on my account, so I clicked, downloaded it to my library, started the car, and headed out.

A few miles in, I was already remembering why this book has stayed with so many people for so long. Julia teaches about creativity and overcoming blocks to creativity. Her two main suggestions come in the form of practices. Morning pages and artist dates. I’ve done artist dates for a long time. I’ll probably write more about that another day because the practice has brought a lot of beauty, curiosity, and unexpected magic into my life. But this time, morning pages caught my attention.

Three pages of longhand writing first thing in the morning. Stream of consciousness. No editing. No performing. No trying to make it useful or beautiful or profound. Just grab a journal and a pen and write for three pages.

I decided to commit to the practice for a while, mostly because I’ve been feeling flat. Not depressed exactly. Not hopeless exactly. Just… not quite myself.

A little foggy.
A little tired.
A little disconnected.
A little too willing to drift through the day without much direction.

Maybe you know that feeling too. That quiet sense that nothing is exactly wrong, but something in you is asking to be heard.

And wow! Just three days in, morning pages started telling on me. They started revealing things I already knew but hadn’t fully admitted.

I am eating more carbs than my body wants or needs. I am at my highest weight ever. My health isn’t terrible, but it isn’t where I want it to be. My energy is lower than I’m used to. My mental health feels tired. Not broken. Not beyond repair. Just exhausted.

I’ve also been escaping in small ways. A stop at Ollie’s for carb snacks I don’t really need. A ride to IKEA to wander aimlessly that somehow turns into spending money I could have saved. A trip through the drive through for french fries for dinner, not because it serves my goals, but because it gives me a temporary escape from the weight of things. 

And the truth is, none of those things are the actual problem. They are symptoms. They are little attempts at relief. Little hits of aliveness. Little breaks from the pressure of caregiving, uncertainty, money concerns, stalled momentum, and the strange grief of knowing that the life I’ve been living no longer fully fits.

That is what just three days of writing morning pages showed me. I am not lazy. I am not undisciplined. I am not failing. I am under-structured. Or maybe more accurately, I am ready for a new kind of structure.

And I don’t mean structure in the old productivity-obsessed way. I know that world well. I used to write goals. Real goals. Clear goals. Breakthrough goals. SMART goals. I reviewed my goals and created action  plans and tracked progress and moved through life with a level of focus and drive that got a lot of things accomplished.

I still get things done. That’s the funny part. Even in this foggy, tired, wandering season, I have managed my dad’s care through a myriad of health issues. I have renovated and organized my RV. I have written another book. I have kept writing blog posts. I have found gratitude in simple moments. I have created beauty and meaning and connection.

From the outside, it might look like I’m still producing. But inside, something has been off. I keep working and writing and creating, as I always have, but often with very little financial return. I get comments and kudos and beautiful encouragement. People tell me my words matter and encourage me to keep going. And I continue to feel inspired to write, and connect, and have an impact.

But the return is not always in the language this world understands.
It is not always money.
It is not always growth.
It is not always followers.
It is not always security.
It is not always success as the world defines success.

Sometimes the return is connection.
Sometimes it is love.
Sometimes it is one person feeling less alone.
And while that matters deeply to me, I also live in a body. In a world. With bills. With an RV that needs gas. With a nervous system that needs rest. With a future that needs some tending.

That may be the deeper truth morning pages are helping me see.

I do not need to abandon flow. But I may need to give my freedom some structure. Not the kind of structure that turns my life into a performance report. Something softer than that. Something truer. Something I am beginning to think of as devotional structure.

That phrase landed in me like a bell. Devotional structure.

I don’t think I need more pressure. I don’t need to bully myself into better habits. I don’t need to shame myself about my body, my bank account, my productivity, or the ways I’ve been trying to soothe myself.

I need to honor the life I say I want. That’s different. Very different.

Honor my body. Not punish it.
Honor my money. Not obsess over it.
Honor my freedom. Not postpone it.
Honor my creativity. Not demand that it perform.
Honor my next chapter. Not wait until I feel fearless.

That is the shift just three days of morning pages have revealed to me.

The old way of goal setting often sounded like: What do I need to accomplish?
This new way asks: What am I devoted to?

The old way asked: How much can I produce?
This new way asks: What kind of life am I creating with the choices I make today?

The old way asked: What is the measurable outcome?
This new way asks: Does this choice honor my body, my money, my freedom, my creativity, and my peace?

The question, "What am I devoted to?" changes things. It changes what I put in my grocery cart. It changes whether I wander through the Ollie's candy section or head to the beach for a walk instead. It changes whether I spend another hundred dollars at IKEA on something I don’t really need or save it for the road I say I want to take. It changes whether I sit in the chair scrolling and snacking, or take one small action that makes tomorrow feel lighter. It changes whether I keep waiting to feel fearless before starting the RV and heading toward the life that is calling me.

Because here is another truth the morning pages revealed:
I can feel the freedom when I imagine starting up the RV and heading out on an adventure. I can feel the space. I can feel the possibility. And I can also feel the fear that comes in the form of a bunch of what if questions ... 

What if I break down?
What if I don’t know what I’m doing?
What if I don’t have enough money?
What if I get stuck somewhere unfamiliar?
What if I leave and wish I had stayed?

But there is a bigger “what if” underneath it all that is far more important right now: 

What if I don’t go?
What if I don’t take the break my soul has been begging for?
What if I keep living in the same loop, soothing myself with snacks and spending and small escapes, while the bigger freedom waits for me to choose it?
What if I gain more weight?
What if I waste more money?
What if I keep writing about transformation while quietly postponing my own?

That is not an easy question to sit with. But it is an honest one. And I think honesty is where the healing begins. Not dramatic honesty. Not performative confession. Not public unraveling for the sake of attention. Just the quiet truth on the page.

The kind of truth that says:
Something is off.
Something wants to shift.
Something in me is ready for a different way.

The way forward is not to resurrect the old version of me who could set a goal, make a plan, and push herself across the finish line.

Maybe the way forward is to become the next version of me. The one who lives with devotion. The one who builds structure not as a cage, but as a container. The one who understands that freedom without structure can quietly become drift. And drift, over time, can become its own kind of prison.

That sentence is hard to write ... Freedom without structure can quietly become drift. And drift, over time, can become its own kind of prison. But I think it’s true.

I have loved being someone who can go with the flow. I have loved having the time and flexibility to be able to go with the flow. I have needed that, especially in this season of caregiving and uncertainty. I have needed room to respond to what life brings in each moment. But I am beginning to see that “going with the flow” can sometimes turn into a beautiful-sounding way of not choosing.

Not always. But sometimes.

I am ready to choose again. Not everything. Not all at once. Not in a massive life overhaul fueled by shame and panic. But just for today.

Today, I can honor my body with one nourishing choice.
Today, I can honor my money by not spending to soothe myself.
Today, I can honor my freedom by doing one thing that prepares me for the road.
Today, I can honor my creativity by writing for the sake of writing, without expecting that it bring something back to me.
Today, I can honor my next chapter by taking one step before I feel completely ready.

That is devotional structure. Not rigid. Not punitive. Not hustle in spiritual clothing.

Devotional. A way of arranging my day around what truly matters. A way of saying, with my actions, “This life matters to me.” My body matters. My energy matters. My money matters. My work matters. My freedom matters. My joy matters. My next chapter matters.

And maybe that is what morning pages are really giving me. Not answers. Not a perfect plan. Not a five-year vision with color-coded milestones.

They are giving me access to my own truth. They are showing me where I have been leaking energy. They are showing me where I have been asking small escapes to meet big needs.

They are showing me that I don’t need to punish myself into change, but rather honor myself into alignment.

That feels like a much better way forward. So for now, I will keep writing.
Three pages. One morning at a time. And I will keep listening for what the pages are trying to tell me.
Because apparently, they know ... and they are not afraid to tell the truth.

​Maybe there is a part of you that knows too. Maybe all it needs is a quiet page, a little honesty, and a willingness to listen.


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