Author: Jen Hatmaker

Flourishing is on the other side

Posted on by Jen Hatmaker

One sunny weird day in remote Canada 10 years ago (what is life?), Bob Goff famously said he quits something every Thursday, and I remember thinking: “I need to go to therapy just to recover from that sentence.”

Bob Goff

I’ve learned something about myself recently: I am far more resilient at alchemizing change when it happens “to” me.

When someone else makes a choice and it affects me — for better or worse — I know exactly how to adjust my sails. When yet another kid moves out and launches, I recalibrate the shrinking household, the relational change, the start of their independence. When my body goes perimenopausal without my permission, I take my ass to a functional doctor and turn every dial my lab work suggests. I have rebuilt far past the capacity I knew, because I had to. 

Somehow, I am the exact opposite when I need to make a change on purpose. My pattern is to stay well past an expiration date. I loathe change that affects other people, and my fixation on loyalty (or is it appearing loyal?) usurps clear data markers that say: “This has run its course.” Against not only my best interests but, frankly, those of my colleagues, I’ve extended the shelf life of numerous partnerships, alliances, and practices simply because I didn’t want to hurt someone’s feelings or forge a hard conversation. 

Early last year, I made some really big business moves which included a great deal of change, but good reader, it took me ONE CALENDAR YEAR of weekly business coaching, sleepless nights, and prayers to my ancestors to work up the courage. The mere idea of being a villain in someone else’s story is paralyzing. Perhaps you can spot the outsized hyperbole in even imagining that basic best practices make me an EVILDOER. My business coach once said: “Jen, this is not a Best Friends Convention. This is business, and you’re acting like you are breaking a blood oath.”

Instead of initiating good and right change, I’ve taken the lesser paths of passive aggressiveness, atrophy, and the slow erosion of progress. I’ve made it harder on other people, the opposite of Brené Brown’s brilliant observation that “clear is kind.” My compulsion to be easy has actually made me difficult. And because two dozen other people touch every molecule in my ecosystem, my aversion to necessary change has ground our work down and, to be honest, made a bunch of folks miserable. 

Ironically, change has taught me that flourishing is generally directly on the other side. Whether change happened to me and I have to adapt, or I’ve chosen change that was necessary, either way, the result is growth. And hell, in most cases, expansion, relief, and hope. If I would read the room correctly, I should actually look forward to choosing change. It has been a reliable first down marker, no matter how challenging those ten yards were to gain. All reluctance has ever netted is a delay in possibility. 

Why do we stay too long? Why do we go too far? There are so many culprits. My preferred batch of reasons have to do with conflict aversion and an outsized perception of how hard/bad/disappointing the change might be for someone else. Apparently it is my life’s work to never be disruptive. This is almost entirely where my change anxiety is located. 

There are other bundles to choose from revolving around fear: of the unknown, of failure, of will this actually work. Change means something is about to be new, which is untested territory. We’ve never been in a different career, single, focused on our health, in a new city, liberated from this toxic environment, honest, sober, relationally healthy, spiritually in alignment. We crave those things but haven’t experienced them, so we’re just not sure they exist as promised. And getting there typically means leaving something or someone or somewhere; a precarious ten yards for sure. 

I just interviewed the poet Joy Sullivan on the podcast (episode out shortly), and through 10 degrees of separation a few months ago, I stumbled on one of the poems she wrote in her upcoming book, Instructions for Traveling West (releases April 9). It was so profound, I screenshot it, saved it on Instagram, saved it to my photo album, and wrote it in my notebook:

Leap

“Nothing my friends tell me shocks me anymore. No wild dream or unadvisable plan or moonshot idea. Recently, my friend told me she wants to move to Wyoming to be closer to horses. She tells me horses can hear your heartbeat from four feet away. That’s enough for me right there. 

Another friend is relocating to Peru. Another to Alaska in search of his true north. Another is adopting a child. Another is turning down a killer job so she can finish the book she’s been trying to write for years. Another is leaving the man of her dreams for a woman. 

Look, America is awful and the earth is too hot and the truth of the matter is we’re all up against the clock. It makes everything simple and urgent: there’s only time to turn toward what you truly love. There’s only time to leap.”

The refusal to change, to make choices toward change, to move in the direction of change, to acknowledge change as a profound source of autonomy only keeps us from truly living. That’s the bottom line. Flourishing is on the other side. We should trust its proven process. Until then, we are delaying not only our own blooming but everyone else trapped in our inertia. Clear is kind — to other people but also to ourselves.

When it is clear that change is necessary, even if something perfectly good has simply run its course — just because something is over doesn’t mean it was bad — then we should bless where we have been, honor it for everything it taught us, thank it for serving its purpose…

…and leap. 

This Counts as Worship, Too

Posted on by Jen Hatmaker

Hello, beloveds. Happy New Life Day.

I don’t know how this Easter finds you…

Maybe it is full of joy and hope, and if so, I am so happy for you. You might be up getting ready for church, with your heart at rest. I have certainly had those years, and what a joy to settle deeply into your faith on this day.

However, some of you maybe aren’t there… for a million reasons. Suffering can knock the wind plumb out of us, as can pain, disconnection, the ordinary failings of the church, trauma, big questions around God or truth. 

Welcome to the normal human experience of people trying to make sense of Jesus. Every generation has wrestled with these things since time immemorial. This is not an anemic faith; this is faithfulness.

Honoring the day of resurrection has nothing to do with being inside a church building anyway; a fancy outfit in a church lobby has never been a litmus test for a seeking, searching heart.

For those of you at home today, finding new life in Jesus in brunch with your family, or in a long spring walk outside, or in music, or in stillness, or in prayer — however prayer looks for you — this counts as worship, too, even ringed with doubt or fury or confusion.

Regardless, however lost or sad or angry or scared you find yourself this year, know that Jesus insists that nothing is too dead for resurrection. And he understands your pain, because he was wounded before he was resurrected; his scars remain.

While I have no interest anymore in religious systems and structures and hierarchies and rigid interpretations, I will never get over Jesus. 

Never. 

He is like coming home.

He is risen indeed.

________________________________

For those of you on a faith journey…

Maybe your relationship with the church has gotten complicated; or some things in your church aren’t sitting right with you; or something major has happened in your life that has been a watershed moment; or your political views; or you’re having trouble answering the hard questions about the BIG issues.

Maybe you just have a million questions about what it all means. 

This is exactly why Evolving Faith’s Sarah Bessey and I teamed up for this Me Course on the deconstruction and reconstruction of faith. We are here to walk you through the wilderness and remind you that it’s not a shameful thing. It’s possible to live out your faith in new, even nontraditional, ways.

Join Now

Four Steps to a Winning Super Bowl Party — Plus the Wings Recipe You Need

Posted on by Jen Hatmaker

My perfect Super Bowl menu includes Diner Cheeseburger Sliders with Hot Trash Sauce, right around a million hot wings, and anywhere from four to 31 dips. If there isn’t a Crock Pot with a trough of Green Chili Chorizo Queso, is it even the Super Bowl?

Give me dips or give me death. I want chips, veggies, (gluten-free) crackers and crostini as far as the eye can see.

My favorite measure of happiness is how sloppy and saucy and drippy and messy my eaters are mixed with all their “Mmmms” and “Yummms.” Is your juicy burger dripping down your arms? Perfect.

Don’t think for a second that I didn’t include my favorite football food in Feed These People. Hell, that is an entire genre in my family.

Today, though, I want to give four steps to a winning Super Bowl party…

One, share the load. Super Bowl parties should ALWAYS be potluck. Furthermore, ask everyone to bring their award-winning, crowd favorite best appetizer. Weed out the lame, dry, store-bought cookies!

Two, disposable everything. SB parties are supposed to be fun, and what is not fun is two hours’ worth of dirty dishes after everyone goes home.

Three, read the room. At every Super Bowl party, some want to actually watch the game, and some want to eat the snacks and maybe watch the commercials. Have two designated spaces! One for the hard-core watchers, and one for the “go…sports” crowd.

Four, make these wings (or if you have a copy of Feed These People, you can’t go wrong with said sliders or queso, either — you know the ones).

Back to the wings… Maybe no other recipe that hits my favorite football marks more than hot, crispy chicken wings with homemade blue cheese sauce. Nobody doesn’t love them. No. Body. They are a delectable saucy mess. In my family, we make ‘em spiiiiiiicy—and we’re not sorry.

You can fry, bake, or grill these, but be sure to make a mountain of them, because you can’t eat less than six. I don’t make the rules. I’m going to beg you not to skip the blue cheese sauce because Wings + BC = TruLuv4Eva. However you do it, when you gather your favorite people and feed them outrageously good food, you are winning at life. Obviously: shoes are optional for this enterprise.

Chicken Wings and Blue Cheese (excerpted from Feed These People)

Ingredients

  • 3 pounds chicken wings (I’m assuming you want a bunch)
  • 3 tablespoons neutral oil
  • 1 cup flour
  • 1 tablespoon salt
  • 2 teaspoons black pepper
  • 2 teaspoons cayenne pepper (or kick it up if you like to party)

Wing Sauce

  • 1 (17-ounce) bottle sriracha
  • ½ cup maple syrup
  • 1 stick butter, melted but slightly cooled (that is Lindsay’s weird instruction)

Blue Cheese Dressing

  • 12 ounces blue cheese crumbles
  • 1 cup mayo
  • 1 cup sour cream
  • 2 cups buttermilk (you might use less than the full amount)
  • 1 teaspoon salt
  • Black pepper

This feeds a crowd, because who makes wings for three people?

Crank your oven to 425°F and let it preheat.

Rinse your wings and pat them totally dry, then coat them with the oil. Put the flour, salt, black pepper, and cayenne in a large bag (I use an old-timey brown paper bag like I’m at the five-and-dime in 1957, but you can do this in a big bowl) and shake it up. Toss in your oiled wings. Shake shake shake. We just want these lightly coated.

Grab a couple of baking sheets and a wire rack for each. Line the pans with foil and set a rack on top of the foil. (Your cleanup now equals trash-and-toss.) Pick up each wing with tongs, shake off any excess flour, and set on the racks in a single layer, not touching. Slide them into that hot oven and bake until the 20-minute mark, then flip and bake until they’re crispy, brown, and sizzling, anywhere between 15 and 25 minutes more.

While the wings are browning up, get your blender out for the two sauces.

  1. For the wing sauce, combine the sriracha and maple syrup and blend. With the blender running, slowly drizzle in the melted butter. Take a quick taste. Want it sweeter? Add more syrup. (Not a sriracha fan? Use your favorite store-bought wing sauce. But you don’t get to leave out the butter. Sorry. You remember that I don’t make the rules.) Pour this into a large bowl and rinse the blender jar.
  2. For the blue cheese dressing, combine all the blue cheese ingredients. Don’t add the full pint of buttermilk right out of the gate—maybe start with half. Blend it up and see if you like the consistency of the dressing, then add more buttermilk to thin it if you prefer. Pour the dressing into a serving bowl.

When your wings are done, put them in the bowl with the wing sauce and toss and toss to coat. Serve these with the bowl of blue cheese alongside for dipping.

Black flourishing means American flourishing

Posted on by Jen Hatmaker

I recently spent three days in a little NorCal mountain town with five women who are something north of friends and more in the realm of sisters.

We “met” in the Wild West days of blogging when women wrote on the internet under kitschy site names like Cookie Momster and Swaddles n’ Bottles. We found each other in the lonely space of faith deconstruction, a conversation often unrepresented or unsafe in real life. 

We were women on a mission then, happily accepting every invitation for an internet fight. Twitter? Was a place to go toe-to-toe with seminary theology bros who underestimated our linguistic prowess and the focused rage in which we were prepared to wield it. We fought like wildcats in defense of women in church leadership, women’s bodies, anti-racism, LGBTQIA+ folks, bridging the wage gap, confronting church abuse, dismantling colonizing missionary culture, toxic theology. God, we were pissed. 

Having come up through evangelical subculture, we were accustomed to valuing certainty (and the sound of our own voices). Speaking for myself, I harnessed the exact same self-righteous fury I was raised with and swung it around without – and this is important – actually being a member of those marginalized communities (exception: women). I knew what to do. I knew how to think right. I used that white saviorism FOR GOOD this time (sic). The moral imperative was well-placed but the methods were cringeeeeey. 

Sitting around the fireplace with my girlfriends last week, talking about everything that basically ever existed, I noticed the evolution of our analysis ten years later:

“I was a bull in a China shop.”

“I should have passed the microphone.”

“I still have a lot of blind spots.”

Turns out, we aren’t the banner holders for every march. Usually we are best placed somewhere in the middle of the pack following the better leaders up front. 

So this is the more humble, less centered energy I am taking into Black History Month. Seven years ago, I would have told you EXACTLY how to “fix racism.” I had thoughts. I had ideas. I had data. I could bludgeon you with words. I came armed with history, facts, dates, references. I wrote a million words blasting white supremacy and alienated endless people maybe *three feet* behind me in the work, because no one is more self-righteous than a freshly woke white anti-racist who knows just enough to be a menace.

Now I am far more interested in centering the black leader, the black experience, black leadership, black wisdom. The only reliable source of truth will come from the black community, and any attempt to replicate their bone-deep knowledge of white supremacy is a pale (yikes) version of the full story. 

Now, I fully know white people, white women specifically, have their place in anti-racism. I am not suggesting we throw our hands up and let the black folk deal. It is our imperative responsibility to confront our own internalized white supremacy, do the hard work of unlearning and relearning basically everything we were taught about American history, and examine our privilege to use toward racial justice at our own expense and labor. 

And before I rush past that list, this work is major: majorly essential, majorly disruptive, majorly extensive, majorly challenging. A walk in the park this is not, not if you are taking it seriously. It will require white people de-centering ourselves from the conversation, and this has never been required of us. We’ve had the privilege of prioritization which snuffed out the need for self-examination. If scrutinized, default to “good intentions”, that one black friend you have, and a notable nonuse of the n-word. If that doesn’t work, cry. Our perception? Assumed accurate. Our fear? Justified. Our fragility? Defended. Our version? Believed. Our power? Protected. 

This work is not simple, fast, or comfortable. 

I would say it took me the better part of six years. 

And that only got me partially there at best. 

My boyfriend is a 6’2” black man with dreadlocks, and I experience the world now at his side. I have two black children but they have grown up mostly under the protection of their parents’ whiteness and notoriety. They caught the edges of white privilege. Being in an adult relationship with a black man has thrown a light on my own lingering white supremacy, no matter how much “work” I thought was in my rear view mirror. The number of times I bypass a rule, assume safety, presume belonging, or even hail us a cab (with success) has revealed my own innate sense of privilege. Whereas my partner says: “I would/could never.” For me, daily racism is out of the realm of theory and into the space of experience. 

In the work of anti-racism, the lived black experience is the leading voice, added to the helpful resource of true American history, and there is no better classroom than actual proximity. That’s just it. White folks, that makes our work pretty straightforward:

  1. Listen to black people. Read their books, download their podcasts, follow them on socials, hear their stories, heed their pain. They are telling the truth. Believe them. Stop telling them they haven’t experienced what they have experienced. Just listen and learn and be quiet. This is how it really is, and how it has always been. 
  2. Unlearn whatever garbage version of American history you were taught and get really serious about confronting the white supremacy this country was literally founded upon. Abandon American exceptionalism and learn the truth. America is not great but she could be. 
  3. If your world is all white, change it. You know what we get to choose? Friends, doctors, dentists, pediatricians, coaches, neighbors, school districts, pastors, churches, clubs, restaurants, leaders, teams. Sure you may have to drive further or take more time or make big changes, but that is why this work is called work. Proximity will change you. 

Black flourishing means American flourishing. White supremacy keeps us all in a prison of our own making. Anti-racism turns into representational leadership, a higher GDP, safer communities, better schools. It means brilliant black minds unleashed to the same degree as brilliant white minds, elevating dialogue, culture, art, innovation. It results in more just legislation and equitable policies. It is a solution to poverty, violence, and despair. Anti-racism will hasten the reversal of our outrageous school-to-prison pipeline and a prison industrial complex that suspects, charges, indicts, and sentences black men five times more than white men. 

The end of white supremacy is good for every single heart, mind, soul, and body in this country. It will heal our brokenness.

Racism is a scourge on the American landscape, and the only way through it is with confrontation, reckoning, repentance, and restitution. Then we would all be free of its insidious grip and could get on with the business of maybe, just maybe, actually making this country great. 

A good place to start? We’ve had incredible guests on the For The Love podcast. Check out their work and learn from them here.

Try Being Gentle with Your Earlier Selves

Posted on by Jen Hatmaker

I’m writing a book right now. It’s a lot. The last trade book I wrote was in 2018 (came out April 2020…excellent timing!!). I had, truly, an entirely different life.

Anyway, I am deeeeeeeply examining all the systems and hierarchies and sub-cultures and biases that built me (easy breezy), and I’m doing so through memories and moments and snapshots…

  • 11-year-old Jen being called domineering by her teacher
  • 13-year-old Jen in the first class of True Love Waits
  • 18-year-old Jen sitting across from her parents with a budget on a legal pad explaining why she should get married

One recurring feeling is, surprisingly, a sense of compassion for the young versions of me. Current me wants to pull my hair out and wail at the absurdity of so much of it, the doomed-ness, the naivety and foolishness and limitations, but I can honestly say I was doing the absolute best I knew at the time.

I was earnest. I thought whatever I had was whatever there was, or at least was the right thing, or the good thing, or the true thing, or the faithful thing.

Who among us can’t look backward and realize how far we’ve come or how much we’ve learned or how deeply we’ve changed? This is how growth works, and there is no fast forward button; it is a function of time.

If you are tempted to disparage the earlier versions of yourself, berating her for not knowing or doing better, could you try being gentle with her instead?

She was probably doing the best she could with what she knew. She got you to where you are today, and that counts for something. She ran her leg of the race. Be proud of her for trying her best and going as far as she was able. She was probably handed some harmful narratives that take most of us a lifetime to dismantle, so good on her for surviving those.

Sending so much love to the young versions of you today, dear ones. Proud of them for getting you here. Let us be tender with our earlier selves, like wiser older sisters, like nurturing aunts, like good, good mothers.

“i hope
when you come home to yourself
there are flowers lining the front porch
that were left from all the women
you were before”

~ @maiapoetry
When the Waves Come

Fear Isn’t the Problem

Posted on by Jen Hatmaker

I was raised by a mother who is something of an… under-responder.

I didn’t even know moms regularly worried about, well, anything. My mom’s motto was basically: “It’ll be fine.” She didn’t “over” much: overreact, overprotect, overrule, overkill, overcorrect, overbear.

I asked her once when my kids were little, “Mom? Did you and your friends worry you were doing everything wrong when we were kids?” And she famously responded, “God, no. You and your friends “parent” (air quotes employed). We just raised you.” Welp. 

You are forbidden to interpret this as criticism. My mom was the only calm human being in our house. While the rest of us ran up and down the scales with our hair on fire — the embodiment of melodrama — mom held a low-register steady note that never faltered. So rather than an entire family in the rafters, mom nonchalantly filed her nails waiting for us to descend from whatever ceiling we were glued to that day. 

However, because she was so unflappable and under-responded to things that should have arguably raised at least an eyebrow, we grew up and had no idea we were supposed to be afraid of stuff. I could fill 50 books with things I have absolutely no fear of that I should. No hint of a lie, I did not own a key to my own house for a solid decade. “What if someone breaks in??” gasped the friends. “Who on earth would break in??” replied Jen, truly baffled. Against substantial evidence, I steadfastly believe no one means any harm, people won’t swindle, nothing will go wrong, and everything is safe. I live in the upper portion of the top half of the glass. (This is no exaggeration. Ask anyone who loves me.) 

So it was genuinely disorienting to lose my marriage after 26 years and discover I was now afraid of everything. I didn’t sleep 15 seconds between 2:30 a.m. to 4:30 a.m. for six months, lying awake in complete fear, my mind a soupçon of panic. It would be quicker to list the things I wasn’t afraid of than outline everything that felt unhinged. Dread wrapped its tentacles around my brain, and I was certain I would never feel safe again. 

I was afraid I might die of pain. I was afraid I might live with pain. I was afraid I couldn’t do it on my own. I was afraid for my kids. I was afraid for our future. I was afraid about money. I was afraid about my career, my community, my church, our friends, bills, yard maintenance, our cars, my in-laws, my unborn grandbabies, loneliness, being broken, my credibility, Legacy Collective, faith, college, retirement, trauma, holidays, my own patterns, my foolishness, my naivety, my ignorance. 

Turns out, I should have been afraid all along. 

Which is the exact sentiment I took into therapy: I’m scared now. There is reason to be scared. I should have been scared. I will always be scared. Please teach me how to live as a scared person for the rest of my days. I have no training. 

As you might surmise, my therapist thought this approach to the next 40 years was ill-conceived. She would ask me horror questions like, “What are you exactly afraid of?” And I was like, “Ma’am, this session is $125 an hour. I will get to the end of the list and owe you a quarter of a million dollars.” But because I am an Enneagram 3 and wanted to win therapy, I listed my fears and begged her to tell me how to make it stop. I wanted none of it. I wanted to sleep through the night. I wanted to feel my old sense of confidence for 15 minutes a day. I wanted this in my rearview mirror and needed the therapist’s secret formula for making bad things end. 

“Jen, there is how you feel, then there is your resistance to how you feel. The first is hard. The second is catastrophic. You are afraid right now. This makes sense. This is appropriate, because you are a human person who experienced trauma. This is a normal response. But your refusal to face your fears with open arms, welcoming each and every one like the fitting companions they are right now, will delay your healing more than a single other factor. Your fear isn’t the problem. Your resistance to fear is.”

I didn’t care for this. My $125 an hour was meant to evade the suffering and resurrect the sparkling person who didn’t own a house key. All I did was resist my fears. At no point did I sit with my feelings and just let them exist. I fought like a wildcat against every worry, every doubt, every possibility of future anguish. I argued with my terror, gave myself every Girl Boss lecture, seized any 60-second burst of optimism and declared myself “healed.” I resisted fear like it was my paying job. 

Only because I couldn’t tolerate the suffering anymore, I reluctantly tried to figure out what my therapist was saying. I literally had no practice with this. I was a shiny girl born to a shiny dad with a zen mom and a historical nonchalance toward fear. In a sentence that cost me $2.08, I said to my therapist: “Talk to me like a kindergartner. When you say ‘stop resisting your fear’, what that means is… that I would… I want to say… just decide to be happy?” (I was definitely not winning therapy, and this is why counselors need their own counselors.)

With much guidance, I learned the rudimentary practices to embrace fear instead of resist it. I learned to go soft when a fear rose up, to unclench, to relax my forehead and hands and shoulders. I learned to breathe in for eight seconds, hold for four, then exhale slowly for another eight, and I’ll be damned if BREATHING didn’t help calm the internal panic. What on earth? Even babies know how to breathe! And they didn’t even have to pay to learn! 

I learned to let a scary thought ride its own wave without trying to squash it or fix it or deny it; I just let it live in my scared little mind while breathing helped me endure it. I would tell myself: “It’s okay that you feel scared about this. It is a normal way to feel. You’re not doing something wrong. Relax your forehead. Check if your hands are clenched.” Low and behold, the thought would find its end and I didn’t die from it. 

It doesn’t make sense, but facing a fear, letting it be what it is, letting yourself feel how you feel, while intentionally staying calm and keeping your body soft is better than resisting. I don’t know how it works.

Resisting fear seems smarter. It seems like kickass, Annie Oakley, mind-over-matter shit, and I can promise you I’d still be doing that if it worked. I’d be sparring against scary thoughts and terrifying what-ifs, talking myself out of every emotion. But some transmutation happens when you let the fear rise, peak, and recede without a fight. It forfeits a great deal of its power, like it feeds off the strain and without the tension, it goes slack. 

I wonder if whatever you are resisting might find a quicker end if you just let it exhaust its energy without your participation? Can you just let it come, knowing it will also go? What if you shifted your attention to your forehead, your hands, your shoulders, and your breath? Most fear is not productive anyway; inventions that are uncontrollable, unchangeable, or unlikely. When I think back to my litany of fears, almost zero percent of them came to pass. Well, to be fair, I don’t yet know if my unborn grandbabies will make bad choices because of my divorce, but I’ll let you know later if I should have hung on to that one. 

I’m less shiny now, sure, but I’ve developed some tolerance for fear when it comes. I’ve learned to shrink its run time, and that’s about the best we can do. The less oxygen I give it with resistance, the quicker it moves through. I would say I’ve returned to the bottom portion of the top half of the glass; fear didn’t permanently change my orientation but just lowered it a few degrees. You still cannot convince me the streets of New York are dangerous at 3:00 a.m., I’ll ask a stranger to hold my purse, and I never think any football player flagged for a face mask meant to do it. 

My shiny tendencies have mostly recovered, although on my best, most regulated day, I will never under-respond like my mom who, upon learning my brother drove her Jeep into a river, shrugged: “Well, it’s just a car.” Jesus, give me one-tenth the restraint of Jana King, but so help me if one of my sons drives my Bronco into a river, I will have to forfeit my salvation.

Hello rafters, my old friend. 

How I Want to Kick Ass and Take Names (KATN) in 2024

Posted on by Jen Hatmaker

A couple of years ago, I found myself in a position where I just had to “kick ass and take names.”

Let’s call it KATN for short.

This was part of my KATN list at the time:

  • I had to get my life in order.
  • I had to get my money in order.
  • I had to get my home in order.
  • I had to figure out what it meant to be a single mom.
  • I had to figure out what it meant to be in charge of my own budget.
  • And so on.

Maybe you have a list that looks a little or a lot like this, too.

Somewhere in the middle of that whole process, I was like, “I am kicking ass and taking names.” And it kind of stuck with me and resonated with many of us.

So, I wanted to tell you how I am hoping to KATN in 2024. This is all aspirational at this point of course, but I have a couple of things that I’d like to tackle.

How I Want to KATN in 2024

  1. Content creation.

2024 is going to be a year of content creation for me, because I’m writing a book.

It has been a long time since I’ve done this in my world. I wrote the cookbook, Feed These People, most recently — and that is definitely a writing project — but I haven’t written a book-book since I wrote Fierce, Free, and Full of Fire, which started in 2018.

So this is a year that I want to make what I hope to be my most meaningful content that I’ve ever created. Certainly, in the book project, but also everywhere — in the For the Love podcast, on the socials, and in all the places that I communicate.

I really want this to be meaningful. I want to be careful. I want every word to matter. I want to give it my all.

As we were preparing for this book project, my agent, Margaret, told me something, She told me: “Save nothing for the swim home,” and I love that. I’ve hung onto that sentiment.

Swim so far and hard out to the middle of the ocean and don’t hold back; don’t save energy for later; don’t leave any content for the future. Truly, save nothing for the swim home, and that’s what I hope to do.

  1. Mom-ing.

I really want to figure out what it means to be the best version of myself as a mom this year.

This is going to be a big year in 2024. My oldest kid gets married, so we have a wedding coming up in March. Then, in May, my youngest kid graduates from high school.

We are growing up. Our little family is growing up; my kids are growing up, and so I want to finish strong.

I want to finish this last leg of the race with my youngest in a way that is special and connected and celebratory — and I want to cheer on my oldest son as he starts a whole new life with his wonderful fiancé who we all love.

I want my kids to feel so loved and so supported. I want to figure out what my role looks like, and I don’t want to waste a lot of time being weepy about it all.

I want to be thrilled, I want my kid to feel like their mom is proud and she has our back and these changes are great. I want to be a part of their happy, happy memories with these big milestones.

So, that’s my KATN list for 2024.

To make sure it happens…

  • I am willing and ready to offload a bunch of other stuff, so that I can do those two things well.
  • I am willing to say “no.”
  • I am willing to say “not this year.”
  • I’m willing to say “this needs to be triaged.”
  • I’m willing to say this particular thing has come to an end.
  • I’m also preparing to subtract, so that I can do these two things really well.

I am willing to do it all to be the best mom for my kids and the best me for my community.

How are you going to KATN in 2024? Make yourself a little list of a couple ways — and think about what you’ll add or subtract or say “no” or “yes” to, to make it happen.

Hope, Peace, Joy, and Love

Posted on by Jen Hatmaker

For the month of December, we’ve been celebrating the four weeks of Advent and the themes of Hope, Peace, Joy, and Love.

I’m sharing each one of those short little video sessions right here for you.

All are welcome to our little “church” time. Sending you hope, peace, joy, and love.

Week One: Hope

Hope is a word that gets used a lot, but it’s not flimsy, wishful thinking. It’s not weak-minded or naive; it’s not silly.  

Hope is powerful and helps us withstand fire and trials and despair. Hope can live in the white-hot center of the flame.

We don’t only access hope when the hard thing is over. Hope can live in the middle of it. 

Watch Hope

Week Two: Peace

The idea of Peace might feel farfetched right now. There is so much going on in the world. But maybe we are also waging war against ourselves, our bodies. Maybe we might be waging war with things happening in our relationships, the people in our lives, or our thoughts, or our struggles. 

But what about waging peace? We can do this. This the perfect time to commit to pursuing peace, well-being, wholeness, and “shalom” in our lives and in our communities.

Watch Peace

Week Three: Joy

It is possible to have Joy even when we are not experiencing happiness. Happiness happens to us but Joy is a choice purposely made.

The third week of Advent, often referred to as Gaudete Sunday, (Gaudete is a Latin verb that means rejoice.). Gaudete Sunday calls us to a contemplative joy, one that recognizes the sacredness of the season. 

No matter where this season finds you, we have access to joy. Joy to the world! The Lord has come.

Watch Joy

Week Four: Love

Let’s talk about Love that knows no boundaries — reaching out to the farthest corners of our hearts.  This love beckons us no matter where we find ourselves. 

What small simple act of kindness can we extend to make a difference in others’ lives? Love just isn’t an idea, it’s a verb. Let’s actively participate in love and choose love.

Watch Love

Why taking the weekend off is self-care

Posted on by Jen Hatmaker

“Self-care” as a term has gotten weird. 

It’s almost like it got co-opted from its original intent and now it just applies to things like manicures or massages.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I love those things. But I am more interested in the broader idea of self-care.

So, self-care for me looks like taking the whole weekend off. 

That’s not lazy; that doesn’t mean you’re not a hard worker; and it doesn’t mean you’re just phoning in your job or your career. 

Rest is mature. Rest is wise. 

What rest looks like in my life is that, on Friday, I identify what’s outstanding on the task list and I prioritize which of these things literally has to get done before I check out at the end of Friday. 

I make sure that I have any time-restricted tasks finished — anything that has a deadline, anything that’s due — so that I give my brain the possibility of actually taking the weekend off without feeling anxious or guilty or behind. 

It has worked wonders for me.

Whatever your work life looks like — whatever day or two days that you get to build in for days off — prioritize what you need to get done, so that your 3:00 a.m. brain thoughts aren’t racing about what you didn’t finish. 

Gently lay your work down and say: ‘I will see you on Monday; you will be there waiting for me, I know that you will. But in the meantime, I’m going to take these two days and I’m going to rest; I’m going to relax; I’m going to recover; I’m going to be with my people; I’m going to cook long meals in my kitchen; I’m going to take walks.’

All of this isn’t just a luxury, it is imperative to the long game.

Take your weekend, so do whatever you have to do to ensure the weekend feels restful and relaxing to you instead of anxiety-provoking.

Then on Saturday and Sunday (if those are your days), you get to not have care of the world. Watch football, cook pot roast, hang out with your family and friends.

We always need rest; this isn’t just a holiday season suggestion. But, especially now we need it if we want to have enough gas in the tank to get to 2024.

How to Preserve Your Joy This Holiday Season

Posted on by Jen Hatmaker

In some holidays’ past, I have not excelled at preserving joy and making the most of this really busy time.

Eventually, I realized that there has to be a better way. 

So when I received a thoughtful question from one of our community members, Kelly, about this very thing, it really made me pause and reflect on what I’ve done to turn this ship around.

So here are some easy hacks I’ve personally put into place that might be helpful to you.

1. Establish and then manage expectations. 

If you kind of act as the keeper of the holidays, then this probably starts with you. Think about what your expectations really are — and what’s also reasonable. This might be even more crucial to consider if you have grown kids — or if you’re divorced. I check the box on both of those.  So there are a lot of moving parts. 

Ask yourself:

  • What are my values here?
  • What do I wanna stick to? 
  • What matters the most? 
  • And what can I let go of? 
  • What’s not worth it?

Establish your own expectations and then communicate them clearly to your people. 

Sometimes we don’t even know the little stories that our people are telling themselves in their heads about how the holidays are going to go. This would have saved me 40 million hours of holiday drama. 

For example, this year for Christmas, I decided early on that I wanted to do the whole thing differently this year. I wanted a completely different environment than what we had last year. So we are doing a destination Christmas, with very, very few gifts, but a trip. Just me and the kids. I set that expectation early on and now we’re all thrilled about it.

2. Put the word “no” in high rotation. 

The thing about the holidays is that there are a million opportunities for fun things.

There are so many parties. There are so many get-togethers. There are so many gift exchanges. There are activities and parades. It’s kind of endless.

Nobody’s being a bad person inviting you to their fun thing. It’s just how it is. And so, again, link it up to your expectations and what you want to experience over the course of this holiday.

Then, just use the word “no” as often as you need to. For example, say: “Oh, thank you so much for inviting me for that. I’m not going to be able to make it this year. I hope you have the best time.”

That’s it. You don’t need anything else. You do not have to say yes to everything, and if you do, you will regret it. The word “no” is your friend.

3. Instacart. I said what I said.

It’s my favorite tool to use during the holiday season.

The one place where I tend to feel like I get in the weeds is cooking. There’s just so much cooking and I’m in charge of my whole family and my home.

And so between all the days and all the meals and all the gatherings and all the special events, I have let the tail wag the dog on this before and regretted it. So I use Instacart. I load up every single thing I need in my Instacart and have it all there.

There’s no mad dash calling my neighbors for sour cream. Or that I forgot to get more butter, or whatever the thing is.

When I have all my ingredients ordered and delivered — and I’ve planned it out — I’m not helter-skelter trying to figure out what to do on the day of. It eliminates so much anxiety and stress off my shoulders. 

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These are the tools that I’ve added that have changed our holiday season from being manic and over-scheduled and disappointing to actually delightful. 

Pare it down to exactly what you’re hoping to experience with each other and with your friends and family this year. You can do it.