Sabbatical as an Act of Resistance

I have to say—it’s pretty wild to be leaving for a sabbatical at the exact moment when the nation feels like it’s burning down.

How is it that now is when I get to step away, when people are in the streets protesting in below-zero temperatures, when government-sanctioned violence feels both normalized and escalating? I left the Albuquerque airport just minutes before a shelter-in-place was announced: nobody gets in, nobody gets out. And here I am, flying to sunny San Diego to tap out for four weeks—to rest, to recalibrate, to avoid burnout, so that I can attend more deeply to my ministry in the world.

Everyone should be able to do this—especially after major life upheaval, especially when standing on the edge of compassion fatigue and over-responsibility—and yet…

I find myself swimming in survivor’s guilt. Luxuriating in peace and quiet while others are suffering and dying. Feeling the reflexive need to justify my time off so I can be “allowed” to rest without shame. But that reflex—that pressure—is the old way of being. It’s white supremacy culture whispering that my worth is tied to my productivity, that rest must be earned, that I am only valuable if I am grinding or rescuing or saving the day.

At this point in my life, I’m aiming for something quieter. More subtle. No less powerful.

I’m exactly halfway through my time with Circles USA—a national nonprofit building community to end poverty. Eight years in, eight years left until retirement. I’m a newer empty nester. A recent divorcee. A recovering codependent who has unplugged from unhealthy relationships in every arena of my life. I’ve cleaned up what was unsustainable and damaging to my wellbeing. My health has done a full 180. My finances are slowly rebuilding after a grueling divorce. My relationships are mutual, nourishing, and honest. My ministry—both with Circles and in New Thought churches in New Mexico—feeds my soul.

And still, even after all that healing and recalibration, I was standing on the edge of burnout.

I was still doing too much.

This sabbatical—this profound privilege—is possible because of my deeply committed team at Circles, a board that understands organizational health includes mental health, and my own growing capacity to recognize when I need help and actually ask for it. What I need right now is simple and radical:

I need to stop.

After my separation, my father’s death, and serious health challenges in August of 2024, I threw myself into music, work, and church. At first, that made sense. It got me through the raw devastation and grief. It gave me enough momentum to put on pants, leave the house, see people, and engage with something that resembled life and even purpose.

But I lived in six places in less than a year.

Untethered.
Unmoored.
Out of time and space and familiar ground. Walking into walls in the middle of the night on my way to where I thought was the bathroom.

And so I kept going, a little bruised and a little lost. That survival strategy carried me through—but by the end of 2025, it had also worn me down to the bone.

Somewhere between guardian angels and my higher self, a different plan was being stitched together. In October, I mentioned—to one trusted soul—that I thought I might need a sabbatical. I could tell I was losing it. A week later, an entirely different person asked my board whether they would consider offering Rev. Kamatara a sabbatical to prevent burnout. That felt like a cosmic high-five. Then a board member offered me a place to stay in Southern California. My SkyMiles covered the flight. One very affordable rental car later, the entire trip had fallen into place with almost no effort.

I couldn’t have orchestrated this if I tried.

And then—of course—I tried.

I caught myself immediately planning outcomes. Structuring goals. Designing schedules. Turning rest into a project. Ah. There you are again, old friend. The part of me that fears unscheduled time. The part that treats rest like a guilty pleasure rather than a human right.

When was the last time you had truly spacious, unclaimed time?

I think I was four.

So I released the plan. I laid down my organizational superpowers and surrendered to Spirit. I took off my watch. I set my phone aside—not as an act of irresponsibility, but as an act of reverence. I don’t know what I’m “supposed” to do here. I only know I’m meant to be here—sleeping when I’m tired, eating when I’m actually hungry, deepening my spiritual practice, listening to my body, and reading a nerdy historical fiction novel purely for joy.

As Michael A. Singer teaches, “When you are not resisting life, life flows through you.” That is the posture I’m practicing now.

I pray these four weeks will move like water—gently, persistently—over my soul, reshaping the riverbed just enough to realign me with my true course. The water softens hard edges. Wears down old ridge lines. And sometimes, that water comes in the form of tears—rising up and spilling out without a single, specific reason, and yet for everything: my own life, the losses I’ve carried, the suffering of the world, the grief we rarely give ourselves permission to feel. Tears cleanse what words cannot. They carry what the body has been holding for far too long.

I allow myself to be in this moment and loosen the grip of a culture obsessed with doing.

Brené Brown reminds us, “Rest is not idle, not wasteful. Sometimes rest is the most productive thing you can do for your soul.” Audre Lorde went further, calling self-care “an act of political warfare.” Not indulgence. Not escape. Resistance.

Elizabeth Gilbert writes about devotion to a life that is honest rather than impressive. Rev. Michael Bernard Beckwith teaches that alignment, not exhaustion, is what allows us to be effective instruments of love and justice in the world.

So perhaps unplugging from the relentless pace of society—stepping out of urgency culture, productivity worship, and performative martyrdom—is not abandonment.

Perhaps it is preparation.

Perhaps recalibrating to the rhythms of nature, the wisdom of the body, and the voice of Spirit is how we remember who we are beneath all the noise.

This sabbatical is not me disappearing.

It is me choosing to know myself beyond what society tells me I must be.

And in times like these, that choice—grounded, intentional, embodied—may be one of the most powerful acts of resistance there is.

So I leave you with this reflection:
In a world that often feels bent on destruction, what are you being called to do to protect and foster your soul? What would it look like to loosen your grip—on urgency, on expectation, on the stories about who you must be—and listen instead for what restores your life force? Your answer may not be loud or dramatic. It may be quiet, simple, and deeply subversive. And it may be exactly what this moment is asking of you.