Enough for Today

The Double Pull

I’ve always been someone who looks ahead. I think in trajectories. I imagine what could be, what needs to be built, where we might end up if we stay faithful to the work. That orientation has served me well—especially in leadership and business. It helps me see around corners and prepare for what’s next.

But lately, I’ve felt another pull. A quieter one. A call to be more rooted in what’s already here. Not just grateful, but grounded. Not just present, but receptive.

There’s tension in holding both: the desire to shape a better future and the practice of receiving today as enough. One voice says, “Keep building, there’s more to do.” The other says, “You’re here now. Don’t miss it.” Neither is wrong. But learning to hold them together—without letting one drown out the other—feels like its own kind of growth.

Scarcity and Abundance

That tension between future-thinking and present-grounding isn’t just philosophical. It’s personal. Especially when I’m in a season of real constraint—when the math doesn’t work, the energy runs low, or I can’t yet see a path out of the deficit I’m in.

It’s one thing to talk about scarcity as a mindset. But what about when scarcity feels like fact?

For me, this is where the idea of abundance gets tested. It’s not about pretending there’s enough when there isn’t. It’s not blind optimism. It’s something quieter, more stubborn. A kind of defiant trust that says: Even here, something good is still possible. Even now, I can live and work in a way that reflects wholeness, not panic.

That doesn’t mean I stop planning or stop solving. It means I try not to let fear take the lead. I still carry responsibility. I still face the numbers. But I want to hold them with open hands—not clenched fists.

Some days, that kind of trust feels strong. Other days, it feels like a whisper I can barely hear. But I keep returning to it. Not because it always fixes things, but because it reminds me who I want to be in the middle of the struggle.

Vision and Contentment – Not Opposites

It’s taken me a long time to realize that abundance doesn’t mean I can do everything. I used to believe it did. That if I just worked harder, optimized better, stayed faithful—there would be enough capacity for all the things I care about. Every project, every person, every good idea.

But I’ve hit the wall enough times now to know: I can’t carry it all. Not at once. Not without cost.

And honestly? I’m still struggling with that.

There’s a grief in letting go—not of the bad or the unnecessary, but of the good. The things I want to build. The people I want to serve. The future I imagined I could create if I just pushed a little harder.

But I’m trying to reframe abundance. Not as boundless capacity, but as trust. Trust that I don’t have to do everything for something meaningful to grow. Trust that my worth isn’t measured by my output. Trust that what I can carry—faithfully, humanly, honestly—is enough.

Vision still matters to me. Deeply. But I’m learning to let it be a guide, not a burden. To let contentment shape the pace. To hold both, even when it feels impossible.

Some days I get there. Other days, I don’t. But this is the work now: learning to live with the tension, without letting it hollow me out.

A Practice of Enough

I haven’t found a formula for holding all of this. But I have found a question that helps me stay present:

What is mine to carry today?

Not in theory. Not someday. Just—today.

Most days, the answer is less than I expect. Less than I want. And that’s hard. Because I still feel the pull of everything I’ve said yes to, everything I wish I could build, everything that feels urgent or important or good. But I’m learning—slowly—that faithfulness doesn’t always look like doing more. Sometimes it looks like releasing what’s not mine to carry right now.

Abundance doesn’t promise ease. It promises presence. And contentment doesn’t mean giving up on the future. It means trusting that how I show up today—in all my limits, in all my effort, in all my letting go—is part of building the future I still believe in.

Some of this echoes what I wrote in What Faith Looks Like at Work—especially the kind of quiet, defiant trust that’s often required in seasons of constraint.