A Substack Sabbatical
a personal update
Dear Restful subscribers,
A couple of weeks ago, I shared with you that I have been suffering from an intense new phase of a chronic illness. I’m receiving support from care providers and trying to make decisions one day at a time in terms of what my body needs for care and recovery. In the meantime, I have also been completing the spring semester of seminary and tending to a couple of other commitments. It’s been challenging not knowing from one day to the next what my capacity might be, and many of you have been directly affected by my need to change plans at the last minute. I am especially grateful to those of you I met in spiritual direction, as this has often been where I have needed to postpone or cancel appointments and events. Thanks also to the guests I had invited to join me in a series of livestream conversations here during Eastertide; I appreciate your understanding as I had to cancel the series entirely.
I’m beginning to experience some relief from my symptoms and have high hopes that, before too long, I will be, if not “back to normal,” able to live in a new, healthy normal that fits my Rule of Life, which is to live a life of worshipping God, loving people, and enjoying beauty in the restful way of Jesus. But I am not there yet. Recently, in a conversation with my therapist, I began recounting my life as a writer—specifically, as an online writer. When I said I’ve been writing online almost daily for twenty years, I was surprised by my own words. An overwhelming sense of fatigue washed over me as I said, “I am tired.”
On April 10, 2006, I wrote my very first blog post, which consisted of just a single word: “Hello.” It didn't even have a subject line—just that one word, like a timid knock behind a closed door. The implied message was, “Is anyone there?” At that point, I was coming out of a difficult season littered with broken friendships and challenging ministry relationships. Though I still recall the names and faces of those who let me down, I now see that the greatest source of my pain was my own heart. I often mention this season in my book, The Spacious Path. I had spent a long time keeping my own counsel regarding my relationships with God and others, leading myself astray in ways that were almost irreparable. I was shaken, confused, and profoundly lonely.
Hello.
Is anyone here?
Would someone listen to me?
Before I started the blog, I may have spent too much energy on internal processing. After I began writing online, I may have swung too far toward external processing. More important, my simple word of introduction opened the door to communities, ideas, people, art, learning, and fun that felt unavailable to me in my provincial upbringing. I was hungry for connection, partly because I had missed the typical collegial and vocational experiences many people enjoy in their twenties. Instead, I had devoted all my energy to motherhood, and even though I tried to distance myself from the moniker “mommy blogger" (because motherhood as performance art is cringey), I was, in fact, a mother of four young children (ages 10-14), having passed the decade mark since giving birth, and I had just enough energy to write one word online: Hello.
Reading my early posts on that first platform (thank you, Blogger!) shows how nervous I was about being misunderstood. I even lost a close friend over my decision to write online; she warned me I was heading into “emotional promiscuity.” If I’m honest, I still carry that poisonous benediction with me every time I hit publish. I have come a long way toward freedom from bad juju, but that one landed in a tender place in my heart. While I have written plenty of emotionally transparent missives online over the past 20 years, my experience of writing online is more of an intellectual “coming of age” story than anything else. Here, I met people who have taught me to read, appreciate art, think about social and biblical justice, expand a severely truncated theology, connect with the global and historic church, savor liturgy, practice rhetoric and sentence writing, and throw really good parties. It would be impossible for my family to untangle the web of lifelong relationships that have grown from that one word I wrote on April 10, 2006.
Hello, old friends and new.
Hello, real people who have changed my life for the good.
And yet, I am tired. I am unwell. I need intentional rest and recovery, and I feel the Lord inviting me to press pause in the online writing space. Between blog posts, interactions with others’ posts, and social media promotions for my blog, I’ve hit publish thousands of times—almost daily for twenty years. It’s time to let the pendulum swing back toward internal processing for a while—at least regarding public writing. Some of you may remember that Brian and I took a three-month sabbatical in 2022. While it was primarily Brian’s sabbatical within the rhythm of his work as a priest in the Anglican church, I intended it to be a work sabbatical for me as well. Although I didn’t do much online writing during that period, I was writing a book on a six-month timeline from contract to first draft. I couldn’t take off three months then, nor did I want to. Who wouldn’t want to be writing a book while living in a rural cottage in County Cork? Not this girl. It was a dream come true, and I’m grateful for it all. Still, what could have been a respite for writing words to share with others wasn’t exactly that.
Now seems to be the time for that respite. As any healthy sabbatical should be, this is a pause to rest, produce nothing, and engage in leisure (in this case, writerly leisure, which sounds heavenly to me). I’m not taking a sabbatical from my other work roles as a spiritual director, a supervisor for Selah-Anglican, and a part-time seminary student at this time, but I am looking forward to some spacious weeks this summer for family vacation, as well as a long-awaited opportunity to travel to Rwanda with Brian and a beautiful team from our church.1
While I imagine I may return to Substack with new ideas for writing, I fully intend to come back. With that in mind, I have paused billing for all paid subscribers until August 7, 2026. That’s three months dedicated to an online writing sabbatical. I will likely practice this sabbatical on my social media platforms as well (although it might be really hard not to share photos of Rwanda, vacation, and my favorite neighborhood parks this summer). Your paid subscriptions are a meaningful source of revenue for me and help to support overhead for my other areas of work. I will miss those monthly and annual fees coming in, but I think it would be challenging to receive those deposits into my bank account without feeling the need to produce something to earn them. I believe in paid sabbaticals for employees, but as I am also the HR and manager of my little enterprise, I’ve agreed to take an unpaid sabbatical from Substack this summer.
If you are a paid subscriber on the annual tier, this pause will delay your subscription renewal by 3 months. If you are a monthly paid subscriber, you will not be charged for any of the months during which billing is paused. While I am away, you can still access my full archives. Let me point you to a few places you might enjoy reading as we move into Pentecost and Ordinary Time:
If you would like to support this sabbatical, here are a couple of ways you can help:
Venmo: @Brian-Murphy-105
Your support means a lot to me, and I’m grateful for this community. I promise to receive your generosity as a gift, not a transaction, and I’ll trust the Lord to bless you in His good gifts economy.
Thank you so much for your understanding and encouragement as I take this much-needed break. I truly appreciate the connections we’ve built together. I’m trusting Jesus for what’s ahead and for fresh insights to share with you when I return. In the meantime, feel free to explore the archives—I hope you find encouragement to practice the restful way of Jesus in your present reality and in the months ahead.
Always, we begin again,
Tamara
p. s. This is a photo of me at the place I imagine when I need to remember that I am safe, seen, and loved by God. It’s from our sabbatical in 2022. What place do you think of?
I’ve always liked the simplicity of God’s words to Julian of Norwich, “all will be well, and all will be well, and all manner of things will be well.” That will be my prayer for you as you take this time of rest.
May this sabbatical bring rest that sinks all the way down to your toes!