Nearly a year ago I wrote some thoughts about fallow ground. Nearly a year before that my friend Annie challenged me to write one sentence a day for 40 days.  It was an invitation I was reluctant to take because I was beginning to believe the writer in me had disappeared forever.

Instead of giving up, I dusted off a notebook a friend gave me many years before. The paper is soft and silky, and the notebook feels luxurious. It was also thin, making it an ideal candidate for 40 sentences. I procrastinated by making an opening page. Notice I didn’t finish coloring the rocks because the words started demanding my attention.

Instead of writing, I sketched. I wanted to capture the tension I was feeling about hope.

Then I turned the page and strings of colorful lights emerged, plus some scripture. God always does heavy lifting with me through scripture.

My writer’s heart was stirred while walking. I pulled out my phone and used the notes app to collect some thoughts. As soon as I was home, I opened my notebook and lingered with one sentence. I was shocked when the next day more words were dancing in my mind, demanding that I line them up on the page.

Later that day, another sentence came to me. Then it happened again at the gas station with another sentence. My notebook was with me, and I captured it while the gas pumped.

I felt lighter as I played with words in a charming notebook. Little did I know that the next page would change me. I brainstormed about an idea Annie mentioned: the way farmers intentionally allow their fields to lie fallow. Then, a sentence emerged and I colored it green.

When it seems life is bare and dreams are barren, perhaps it isn’t desolate, but rather fallow—intentional inactivity to nourish and replenish energy that can only regenerate through rest.

And then I wanted to write more. It was like those few sentences warmed up my writer-muscles and the words flowed across the page, even though I only wanted to write a single sentence. I became open to the idea that inactivity and rest can be helpful, even essential, to being the kind of writer I wanted to be. 

I wrote forty sentences (and one extra), filling the notebook on December 31, 2022. I thought I would see fruit of a life well-lived in 2023, but it remained fallow. I wrote the Fallow Ground post in December of 2023 in an effort to remain patient.  

I committed to living wholehearted in 2024. 

Rather than a focus on living well, I shifted my attention to aging well. Perhaps it is semantics, but if I didn’t love the nuances of words, I wouldn’t be an old blogger. As I committed to being a wholehearted woman of wisdom and whimsy, I expected my writing life to sprout. Instead, there seemed to be movement in other parts of my life, but not in being the kind of writer I wanted to be. 

In June, I sat in the Catskills alone with my notebook in the early morning light. Just like I do every morning, I spilled words on the page. The water tumbled over rocks, playing a melody that I could feel deep in my soul—let hope stick; there is more.

No one was more surprised than me when I returned home and a new book started knocking around my heart and mind. It was one that demanded a co-writer; I was resistant. 

The more the book idea rooted around my heart, the harder it was to ignore. I’m in a fallow season, I rationalized. For so many years nothing has taken root; I did not want to disappoint anyone, and my own heart wanted to avoid the sting of failure. I didn’t know if I could trust my inactive writing life to maintain the energy and momentum needed for a book.

Then I reached out to the person I hoped would be interested in co-writing with me. It was a gentle invitation. A small question on a text thread. Her reply was prolific and wise. “You should write about that,” I said. This pattern when on for many days, until I found the courage to say—

Would you like to write about that with me?

I remained as noncommittal as possible, but her energy and wisdom made it impossible for my writing life to be dormant. We teased out a book proposal in just a handful of weeks. We submitted to an editor, and he was interested. 

The submission process is not a speedy one. Meanwhile, Becca and I continue to talk about the perplexing behaviors of students (and our own children who were in foster care) and the reality of experiencing extreme behaviors more often in schools.

We realized the complexities and nuances of our thinking could not be confined to the draft of our new book. It felt urgent to begin a real-time conversation with a community of educators.

Instead of ending the year on fallow ground, a new wholehearted project bursted forth.

Sticky Hope is a movement to allow hope to stick, even in the stickiest situations. We offer tools, resources, and straightforward conversations to support healthy regulation.

You can sign up for Sticky Hope Notes below. This way you’ll be the first to know when new episodes of our podcast drop (usually on Mondays). When you sign up, you’ll get a collection of printable postcards so you can help hope stick with your friends and colleagues.

If you’re reading all the way to the end of this post, I wish we were having hot drinks together. I’d look you in the eyes, clink my mug to yours and say, “Thank you.” It is not lost on me that my posts are delivered to thousands of inboxes. Please know you are more than a number. You are fuel for my hope, and I’ve thought of you—sweet blog reader—as we’ve put together this new space in the world. 

Twenty years ago people started blogs to build a community and conversation about important topics. Today, it is podcasts. I do hope you’ll continue to join me for the journey of helping children know that they can rewrite their stories in any direction.