Hello from the soccer sidelines.
I started writing this post at a tournament this weekend — the kind where the folding chair sinks into the grass, the coffee goes cold too soon, and the parents on the sidelines have weathered just as many emotions as the kids on the field. I’m finishing it now from the comfort of my bed on a rainy Monday, listening to the drops hit the window and trying to convince myself that I should be doing something more productive.
The truth is, I have this endless list of things to do — chores, deadlines, emails, appointments. Both personal and professional, the kind that pile up faster than I can cross them off. But lately, I’ve been trying to honor this slower part of myself. And now the luxury is to just write — because the words have always been my wealth. They never fail me, even when everything else feels like a mess.
Maybe it’s the season of life I’m in, but I’ve been taking inventory — really thinking about the muddy middle. You know, that space between the starting line and the finish, where things get sticky and heavy and humbling all at once. It’s not glamorous, and it’s definitely not easy. But it’s real.
And then, out there in the drizzle this weekend, I remembered how much I loved rain games as a kid. I loved the mud. The splatter. The slipping and sliding and laughing until my stomach hurt. It was messy and imperfect and pure joy.
Maybe that’s the reminder I needed — that even in the middle of all this grown-up chaos, there’s still beauty in the mess. Maybe the point isn’t to avoid it, but to find the fun in it again.
So here’s to the muddy middle — where the real living happens. When was your last mud moment? Whether it’s actual dirt or just the grit of life, I hope you still know how to get knee-deep in the mud — because that’s where the best stories begin.
The Forty Files 