I was talking with a dear friend about business planning, writing, and family when I realized something I’ve been feeling but hadn’t said out loud: I’ve been working under extreme conditions for a long time. The last six months have been tough. Caregiving roles have shifted, budget cuts have affected programs and my family’s income, and daily life feels marked by collective worry and grief. It has been a lot—and I know I’m not alone.
When I first imagined opening my business, I pictured flexibility and connection. I wanted to create programs for people writing while balancing caregiving, work, and community responsibilities. I imagined collaborations with museums and cultural centers, offering workshops that help people write their stories. Some of those dreams have come true, but many have been delayed or canceled as funding cuts and layoffs reshape what’s possible.
Even so, I try to celebrate what continues: the ways I show up for my family and community, the work I create, and my persistence in building something even when conditions are far from ideal.
I remind myself that I’m learning new paces. For most of my adult life, I’ve lived by the rhythms of academic calendars as a student, staff member, and faculty member. Fall always felt like the true beginning of the year. Now, as I settle into life as a writer and small business owner, I’m discovering how different the tempo feels.
These past few months have unfolded as a cycle of spinning, pausing, and pivoting. Everyone I know seems to be moving through similar patterns—navigating cutbacks, layoffs, violence, and the everyday anxiety of living through so much change. Spinning, pausing, and pivoting have become the rhythm of this season. I know I’m not alone in searching for ways to slow down inside it.
Spinning
Running a business feels a lot like how I once described being on the tenure track while caregiving: like running two marathons at once. Each race has its own pace and terrain. Just when I find my stride in one, I fall behind in the other.
This year has often left me spinning, trying to keep up with shifting needs and changing priorities. I don’t have a way to stop what causes the spinning, but I’ve learned that I can give myself permission to pause.
Early in the year, I found myself spinning as I worked to imagine and craft modules for asynchronous offerings like the ones I ran in spring and summer. I wanted to create a space for participants that would support reflection on their writing without taking time away from the act of writing itself. Reflection often moves the work forward, but I still needed to find the right balance between guiding and creating.
At the same time, I began the physical and emotional work of cleaning out my parents’ house. One task would lead to another, and the process unfolded in ways I couldn’t fully anticipate. Sorting through drawers, letters, and keepsakes became a series of moments spinning in multiple directions, balancing memory, grief, and the practicalities of the present. By the time I returned to my laptop each day, I carried both the weight of the past and the energy of ongoing projects, still trying to find my rhythm.
Even in the midst of grief and juggling multiple demands, these moments reminded me that pausing, even briefly, creates space to carry on and eventually pivot toward what matters next.
Pause
I had a long list of ideas back in January: workshops, drop-in classes, curricula for cultural institutions, and books to support writers. Some of these projects are still unfolding. Others have been paused because the time or resources simply aren’t there.
I wasn’t always at peace with that. When I had to pause my writing group for caregivers because enrollment was low, I felt disappointed and frustrated. Over time, I’ve tried to notice what these pauses teach me.
Sometimes pausing feels impossible. Bills don’t wait, caregiving doesn’t stop, and deadlines continue. In those moments, pausing becomes smaller. It might look like taking a breath between tasks, noticing how my body feels at my desk, taking a few minutes to journal, and steadying myself before moving on. These aren’t full stops, but they are still ways of catching my breath. Even the smallest pause can create the space to carry on. And when a pause opens up, it often clears the ground for a pivot.
Pivot
Pivoting feels like revising. In writing, you sometimes have to cut whole paragraphs or chapters to find the heart of what you’re really writing toward. This year has asked me to do the same with my business.
Some of what I imagined still holds true. Other parts have changed completely. Pausing or reshaping a program doesn’t mean it failed; it means it’s finding a new form. I’ve been trying to reframe pivoting as an act of care and a practice for making room for what’s possible.
Repeat
Then the cycle begins again: spin, pause, pivot. I’m learning to see this as rhythm, not failure. Writing teaches this lesson, too. A piece rarely arrives perfect on the first try. Business, life, and creativity follow the same rhythm. Each stage teaches what to keep, what to release, and what truly matters. Repeating doesn’t always mean you’re stuck; sometimes it means you’re present.
So here I am, spinning, pausing, pivoting, repeating, and learning that the pace I thought I needed isn’t the pace that fits my life right now. Maybe this slower, steadier rhythm is precisely what allows writing, life, and me to breathe.
I invite you to take a moment to notice your own rhythms. Reflect on your own cycles and consider what they are teaching you. To help guide you, here are a few prompts:
Take a moment to reflect on your own rhythms. Write (or sketch, or collage) about what this season feels like for you:
· Where have you felt like you were spinning, juggling, or rushing, and how did it affect your writing or creative work?
· When did you pause, even briefly? What did that pause give you in your writing or thinking?
· Do you feel called to pivot, rethink, or redirect your energy?
Full Circle Writing, LLC 
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