People often ask, how do you cope with the challenges of life? And it’s a fair question.
The weight of responsibility, the complexity of people, the constant demands of the work — it all adds up. There’s always more to carry, more to respond to, more that could pull you in a dozen directions at once. Whether you’re leading, serving, building, or simply trying to stay faithful in the everyday, the pressure is real.
But I’ve learned something over time. Coping isn’t about pushing harder. It’s about stepping away.
This past week I spent time in the far south of Tasmania — a long, long way from anywhere. Out there, you’re reminded pretty quickly how small you are. The closest help is technically within reach, but only by pressing a button you don’t press lightly, because you know you’re hundreds of kilometres from real assistance.
Standing on that beach, with my mate just a small figure in the distance, I was surrounded by something rare — space, silence, and a kind of raw beauty that resets you. No noise. No urgency. Just the rhythm of the ocean, the wind, and the vastness of creation.
Moments like that do something to you. They strip things back. They reorder your thinking. They remind you of what actually matters. And it struck me again: we were never meant to live without margin.
So much of life pushes us into constant motion — pressure, hustle, expectation, noise. We move from one demand to the next, often without pause, wearing busyness as a badge of honour. But a life without margin is a life that eventually begins to fracture.
Even Jesus modelled something different. In the midst of immense need, expectation, and responsibility, He regularly withdrew.
“Very early in the morning, while it was still dark, Jesus got up, left the house and went off to a solitary place, where he prayed.” — Mark 1:35
If Jesus needed to step away, how much more do we? Margin isn’t laziness. It’s wisdom. It’s survival.
My charge to anyone doing life right now, especially those carrying weight for others, is this: build margin. Intentionally. Regularly. Without apology.
Find a place where you can retreat. It might not be as remote as the southern coastline, but it needs to be real. A place where the noise drops away and you can actually breathe again.
For me, this isn’t just practical, it’s deeply spiritual.
There’s a scripture that has anchored me time and again: “Be still, and know that I am God.” — Psalm 46:10
That’s not just a comforting phrase. It’s an instruction. Stillness is not passive, it is intentional surrender. It is the deliberate choice to stop striving long enough to recognise that God is already at work.
Stillness is where perspective returns. Stillness is where striving fades. Stillness is where you remember who is actually in control.
And often, it is only in stillness that we are able to truly hear His voice. “After the fire came a gentle whisper.” — 1 Kings 19:12
God is not always found in the noise, the urgency, or the spectacle, but in the quiet place.
My refuge isn’t ultimately the beach, the mountains, or the wilderness, as powerful as they are. My refuge is in the Creator of all of it.
“God is our refuge and strength, an ever-present help in trouble.” — Psalm 46:1
The One who made the ocean, shaped the land, and formed each of us with intention is the same One who invites us into rest. Creation simply reminds me of Him. It draws my attention back to truth.
“The heavens declare the glory of God; the skies proclaim the work of his hands.” — Psalm 19:1
So yes, step away. Find your place. Create margin. But make sure your refuge is anchored in something, Someone, solid.
Because there’s a difference between escape and restoration. Escape numbs you for a moment. Restoration strengthens you for what’s ahead.
Jesus extends that invitation clearly. “Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.” — Matthew 11:28
Not distraction. Not avoidance. Rest.
Because at the end of the day, this is how you endure. This is how you carry what needs to be carried without being crushed by it. This is how you stay steady when everything around you feels anything but.
Not by striving harder, but by returning again and again to stillness, to margin, and to the presence of God.
Find your place of refuge. Return to stillness. And remember who holds it all.
