Entry #5 • September 9th, 2025

Shhhhhh...Just Be

Be still.

No performance. Drop the show. Just be.

No accolades. Just be.

I thrive on accomplishing ideas, goals, projects...conquering whatever I set out to do. But right now? Everything feels like too much. I’m swimming in a sea of obnoxious tasks that weigh me down: endless health insurance battles, confusing medical bills from our out-of-state hospital stay, a lingering sales tax mess from my ex-accountant, surprise tariff charges from back in the spring, appliances breaking at home…the list goes on.

I keep telling myself, “when it rains it pours.” But maybe these are just everyday problems that feel magnified because of the heavier circumstances I’m already carrying.

Tonight was our monthly staff meeting (Wednesday, 9/3). Afterward, I stayed to work (like I usually do). But honestly? Settling into work after a staff meeting is almost impossible for me. I’m too amped up from hanging out with my staff. I probably need to plan a better “after staff meeting” ritual...something light and low-stakes, like a puzzle. Something that lets my brain slow down and process the meeting while still feeling enjoyable.

But not tonight. Tonight I tried to push through. I did a couple of small tasks (I couldn’t even tell you what now), then sat there scrolling up and down in my overflowing inbox. I knew exactly what each email required: some quick deletes, some thoughtful responses, some real actions. And normally I have a great system for processing them into a dynamic to-do list. But tonight? I couldn’t be bothered.

So I just stared. Picked a random low-stakes email. Scrolled again. For what purpose? None. Finally I thought: Well, I could at least dump these thoughts into the next issue of Just Me. At least that’s something.

See it? Doing something. Because I am so bent on productivity. Everything has to have a purpose. 🙄 (For my fellow Enneagram nerds: yes, I am the poster child Three.)

I had a flood of thoughts I wanted to capture here, but within minutes I was distracted by another email…and poof, they were gone. That’s when it hit me again: I don’t want this series to become another item on my “to-do” list. Another box to check.

This is supposed to be a place to be. To process, to journal, to share stories. Not because I have to, but because I want to. A space to be honest about how I’m navigating life. Not another achievement, not another way to collect accolades (though, let’s be real, an Enneagram 3 loves a good accolade...ps - keep replying to these, it really fills my cup).

All of that is fine—it’s part of who I am. But I also know I’m in a fragile state right now, and I don’t want to push myself over the proverbial edge. (No, not in a morbid way. I mean that point where you stop caring about the things you normally care about.)

For me, apathy is always the canary in the coal mine. Because if I’m normally passionate and driven, and suddenly I feel indifferent? That means something deeper is stirring. Stress. Disappointment. Fear of failure. Grief. Exhaustion.

Those feelings aren’t the enemy, they’re human. It’s not about whether I feel them, but what I do with them. My default is to shove the emotions aside so I can keep achieving. Nothing gets in the way of my productivity. Hahaha…so silly.

When the Wheels Start Coming Off

For me, it usually goes like this: Yay, doing all the things! Crushing goals! This is fun! Then—boom—I hit apathy. Somewhere, out of nowhere.

So I start peeling it back. Why do I feel apathetic? Oh…because I let someone down (disappointment). Now I don’t even want to try (fear of failure). Or maybe it’s grief—like my son’s recent life-altering diagnosis. Once I can name what’s underneath, then I can start to deal with it.

And here’s what I’m learning: the best thing I can do in those moments is REST. Just stop. Just be. Which is incredibly unnatural for me. If I’m not careful, it feeds the loop of: well then I’m a failure, I’m not measuring up (to whatever impossible standard I set for myself).

Or the pendulum swings the other way—I’ll find ways to mask resting while actually still doing. And that’s where I’m treading carefully with this series. I LOVE writing these. Truly. It’s been a creative outlet, a way to process, a way to connect. But it would be so easy to turn it into another internal performance metric.

It actually took me several tries to get that last sentence out, because I didn’t want to admit it. But then I reminded myself: No, Megan...you’re committed to pushing through the scary and being open here in Just Me. No masking. No performing (the hardest one). Just be.

So, welcome to my brain. Slowed down a little, haha, but still - this is what it’s like in here. The wrestle. The thoughts. Me trying to funnel it all out onto pen and paper (okay fine, keyboard and screen).

The truth? I am really, really pressed right now.

In 2 Corinthians 1:8b, Paul wrote,

I was talking with a friend who also has the blessing (and curse) of thriving in high achievement. We both know the struggle: when you operate at a high capacity, it’s hard for people to see when you’re actually falling apart. Because on the outside, you keep performing. You keep producing. The wheels are wobbling, but to everyone else it looks like a little blip. Normal. But you know. You can feel the wheels coming off the cart.

I feel like that right now.

Case in point: I did something I’ve never done before...I missed a sales floor shift. The store wasn’t open the first half of the day because I didn’t show up. I was blissfully unaware at a park with my kids.

Yes, technically it was a “small” scheduling snafu. But I have checks and balances so things like this don’t happen. And yet, I am so pressed beyond measure that one of those wheels finally fell off.

Hours later, when I finally realized my mistake, I texted my team. Honestly, I had a couple reasons for doing it: 1) so the person coming in mid-day would know why the store was locked, and 2) so my team could see that I, too, make mistakes…and that I’m under a lot of stress right now. (I guess that’s technically three reasons, but in my head point 2 was all one and the same.)

Some of my team members read this email series, so I know they’ll see this. And I’m not saying anything here that I wouldn’t say publicly anyway—because this is public. But here’s the thing: my team really only got those first two points. They knew why the store was closed, and they saw that I’m human.

What I don’t think they grasped was the real why. Because I didn’t communicate it. To them, it was just an “oops, haha, way to go boss 😆.” Which is true…but it wasn’t the whole picture.

The real why wasn’t just a calendar mishap. The real why was why did Megan’s system fail? That’s what it looks like when the wheels fall off the cart for a high achiever. Not always big, dramatic meltdowns. More often, it’s the small things. The seemingly trivial things. Like a missed shift. An “oops.”

But here’s the thing—those “trivial” signs aren’t trivial at all. In a high achiever’s world, they’re the early warning lights. The wobble before the wheel comes off. If you have a high-achieving friend, these are the moments to notice. Don’t just ask what you can do to help, step in and take something simple off their plate. Drop off a meal. Pick up their kid from practice. Send them a grocery gift card so they don’t have to think about dinner. Tackle a small errand you know is hanging over them.

Freeing up even one menial task gives them a sliver of bandwidth to steady their cart before it tips.

A few people asked if I gave myself grace for it. I laughed and said, “Oh yeah, I didn’t even care.” Which is that apathy response. Normally, I would care deeply—whether it was me or a staff member. But right now? I’m so maxed out that I couldn’t be bothered.

Peel back the apathy layer, and what’s underneath? Grief. Stress. Lately, these are the ones that keep showing up.

Did I mention I absolutely want to throw up 🤢 writing this to you? Pretty sure I’ve said that in half of these issues…nervous laugh.

The Day I Became a Panic Button Risk

I’ve been in an absolute billing nightmare with a local hospital for months now. Not related to my son’s diagnosis—this one goes back over the past 18 months to a couple of ER visits my teen boys had (sports 🙄).

I’ll spare you the maddening details, but after being ignored by both the billing department and the patient advocate (who, ironically, wasn’t advocating), I finally showed up in person...armed with a three-ring binder full of notes like I was going to court. My mom came as my “advocate” since apparently the official one couldn’t be bothered.

We found the patient advocate’s office. Naturally, the door had a sign on it: Be back soon. Of course. They’re really committed to the brand of unavailability.

I slumped into a chair outside the office, overwhelmed, when a customer from my store walked by and asked if I was okay. For once, I didn’t give the “I’m fine!” answer. I said, “No, I’m not.” I told him I was having billing issues and needed to speak with someone…anyone. He immediately tried to help. Not his job, but he pointed me toward the check-in desk and encouraged me to try there. It meant so much...just that tiny moment of being seen. Seen by someone who didn’t have to notice, but chose to anyway.

So I walked over to the desk, binder in hand, definitely looking a little deranged. “Do you need help?” the staffer asked. “Oh yeah,” I replied, “I definitely need help.”

The flash of panic across his face was almost comical. I explained, “I’m under a lot of stress. I’ve typed out what I need to say, and I’m going to read it, because I honestly can’t think straight.” He nodded nervously, bracing like he was about to hit a panic button.

I flipped to page one of my binder and, because I couldn’t manage a normal human interaction, I just started reading—word for word—like it was a courtroom deposition.

“Hi there. I’ve been trying to resolve some serious billing issues. I’ve left voicemails, sent emails, spoken with multiple staff members who promised follow-up…and I’m still getting no response. I need to meet with someone in person today or at least get a meeting scheduled.”

When I finished, he looked relieved, like, oh good, she’s not about to flip this desk. He scrambled for a billing department business card, only to realize they were out. (Because of course.) He scribbled the address on a scrap of paper and assured me they were open for another hour.

As I walked away, the security guard gave me a cautious smile like, phew, glad that didn’t turn into an incident.

We found billing. I spent over an hour with the manager. Exhausting. About thirty minutes in, she finally realized I wasn’t crazy…I really had been neglected by their team, which created this whole mess. I’ll spare you the financial weeds, but suffice it to say: it’s still unresolved. Still on my already groaning (and always growing) to-do list.

Later that night, I recounted it all to a friend over audio messages. And I admitted how oddly cathartic it felt to be “the crazy person” for a hot second. To open my binder and read a script because I couldn’t function otherwise. To make someone almost hit the panic button. I’m literally laughing out loud typing this. I can’t believe I’m even admitting it here. IT FELT SO GOOD.

Two days later it was Saturday: my long workday (10am–12am). Fourteen hours, with a two-hour dinner break. Saturdays are my favorite. I love the rhythm of them. I always get dinner at Qdoba, order the exact same thing, and savor how easy it is. No decisions, no draining creativity. Just routine. And then I go back to work with fresh energy.

That Saturday, though, as I drove back from Qdoba, I approached an awful downtown intersection with zero visibility. You basically have to pull halfway into traffic just to see if any cars are coming. I edged forward in my Honda Civic, saw a car coming, and they threw their hands up at me…angry I was “so far out.” Normally I’d wave them through or just speed across.

But not that day.

Nope. That day, I threw my hands up right back at them. 🙃

Totally out of character for me. But my goodness, it felt so good. My friends laughed to tears when I told them later. Apparently my version of “losing it” is just…throwing my hands in the air at someone in traffic.

Seeing the Unseen

Whew. Why am I telling you all this?

Because everything feels hard right now.

And yet, I know it won’t always be like this. I’m grateful for that. I also know it could be worse. For now, I’m just trying to settle into this season. To focus on being. To let go of things that don’t matter, while still holding onto who I am and what I value.

It’s hard to admit things aren’t okay. Because honestly people don’t always want to hear that. It’s uncomfortable. What do you say when someone tells you the actual truth?

This is where we all need to practice slowing down. Seeing people. The cashier at the grocery store. The neighbor across the street. The friend on the other end of the phone. Even the frazzled woman in the hospital lobby with a three-ring binder.

Just stop. For real. See the people around you.

Even when you don’t feel like you have the capacity. (Hello, raising my hand.)

We need to get comfortable with the uncomfortable.

Oh boy, do I have a story for that one…

A few weeks ago, a woman walked past the store in the middle of that ridiculously hot August week—two suitcases in tow, sun hat on, maybe in her seventies. She looked out of place. I assumed she was headed for the bus station and shrugged it off.

But then I saw her again a couple of days later, downtown, same suitcases. My heart sank. She wasn’t just passing through. She was stuck.

The third time, I was hustling to my car already late for church one Wednesday evening. She was sitting on a bench with her suitcases. I knew instantly I was supposed to stop. And I argued with God every step past her.

“God, no.”

“Megan.”

“Ugh, I’m already late.”

“Go talk to her.”

I literally stopped on the sidewalk out of her sight, spinning in circles (seriously, turning around and around) with my own excuses. I knew if I kept walking, I’d live with the memory of her face as a “what-if.” So instead, I detoured back into the store to grab a bottle of water...something, anything, to break the ice.

I walked up to her. “Hi, I’m Megan.” (Trust me, I felt like an absolute idiot. I was not enjoying any of this.) “I wanted to bring you a bottle of water.”

She was surprised but thanked me. I sat down on the neighboring bench—still squirming inside—and asked her name. Where she was from. Where she was headed. “Yeah, you looked pretty out of place. I’d seen you a couple of times downtown and was wondering how you ended up here.”

She shared just a glimpse of her story: stuck here, trying to get to point B but realizing it wasn’t going to work out, probably going back to point A.

I told her about some local resources, places where she could get a hot meal once a day. I told her she wasn’t invisible, that I see her. “If I see you again, I’m going to come say hi and check in.” She thanked me for that.

Before I left, I asked if I could pray for her. (Seriously, I was just dying a million deaths through this whole conversation. Every bit of me wanted to crawl out of my own skin. But sometimes we need to do uncomfortable things for other people. It’s not all about OURSELVES.)

She said, “Well, I’m not religious…but sure.”

So I prayed...halting, awkward, not even sure what words were coming out. After praying, I told her, “I don’t have much to give you, but here’s $20. I hope it helps.” She was grateful. I said goodbye and reminded her I’d say hi if I saw her again.

As I walked away, I asked God, “Whyyy? What was the purpose of that?” And I still don’t know. I likely never will. And that’s okay.

I haven’t seen her since.

We don’t always get the answers. We’re not owed them. Sometimes it’s just about stopping. About actually seeing the people around us.

I’ve been buried in my own muck and mire, and if anyone gets a pass right now to be self-absorbed—it’s me. And yet, even so, I was pushed to stop. To see someone who might have been feeling invisible...whose wheels might be falling off their cart.

Would you do that today? Please? Push yourself to see someone. Even when it’s uncomfortable. Even when it’s inconvenient. Because it’s not all about you. And it’s not all about me.

A Dear Reader shared a song with me after the last issue: Control by For King and Country. I’ve heard it a hundred times before, but listening again, the lyrics hit differently this time:

And I’d love to hear about it. Hit reply and tell me one way you’re going to see someone this week—or share a moment when you already have. Sometimes sharing our small steps makes them stick, and it might just encourage someone else too.

Oh, and one more tiny thing: if you made it this far, would you click here just to let me know you’re reading? It helps make sure these keep landing in your inbox every time.

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-Just Me[gan]

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P.S. Several of you downloaded the wallpapers from Issues #1 and #4, and I loved hearing how much they encouraged you. So for this week you’ll find a new set for Issue #5 and since I hadn’t started making them back then, I also went back and created a couple for Issue #2. You can grab Issue #5 here and Issue #2 here. If you use one on your phone, text me a screenshot (970-387-7844 - this number will prompt you to save me in your contacts) as I'd love to see it in use on your phone!

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