When It All Started Connecting: Decluttering, GLP-1, and a Healthier Home

Lately, I’ve been noticing a pattern—and I don’t think it’s a coincidence.

What started as a few separate things in my life has slowly started weaving together into one bigger lesson. Cleaning out boxes. Paying attention to how my environment makes me feel. Learning how to eat differently on this GLP-1 journey.

At first, they didn’t seem connected at all.

But now? I can’t unsee it.

It started while Jon was hiking Philmont. While he was out carrying only what he needed across miles of trail, I was at home surrounded by… cardboard boxes. So many boxes. The kind that sit for years, quietly collecting dust, holding “important things” that never get touched.

I didn’t throw anything out that wasn’t mine. That wasn’t the goal.

But I did start replacing those old cardboard boxes with sealed totes. One by one. Slowly.

And in the process, I found myself cleaning some of the dustiest areas of our home.

Here’s the part that stopped me in my tracks:
I didn’t get sick.

That felt significant.

Because just weeks before, being in the office for less than an hour would leave me dealing with drainage, sneezing, coughing, and that foggy, can’t-focus feeling I’ve come to recognize all too well. And yet at home, doing actual physical work—stirring up dust, breaking down boxes—I was completely fine.

If you’ve been following along on Santini Serenity, you already know why that stood out to me.

Our environments matter.

Not just in obvious ways, but in subtle ones too—what we store things in, how long we keep them, what’s sitting unseen in corners of our homes. Cardboard vs. sealed storage suddenly didn’t feel like just an organizing preference—it felt like part of a bigger picture.

And at the same time all of this was happening, I’ve been walking through my GLP-1 journey.

Another area where I’ve had to slow way down.

Eating isn’t automatic anymore. I can’t rush through meals like I used to. I have to pause, pay attention, and actually ask myself if I’m still hungry. Sometimes I stop mid-bite and realize… I’m done.

That’s new for me.

But here’s what’s interesting:
It feels a lot like what’s happening in my home.

Less excess.
More awareness.
More intentional choices.

Whether it’s what I’m storing in my house or what I’m putting into my body, I’m realizing how much of life I used to run on autopilot.

And I think that’s what this season is really about.

Not perfection. Not extremes.
Just learning to pause and reset.

This verse keeps coming back to me:

“Better one handful with tranquility than two handfuls with toil and chasing after the wind.”
— Ecclesiastes 4:6

One handful.

Not overflowing closets.
Not overfilled plates.
Not pushing past limits just because that’s what I’ve always done.

Just… enough.

Enough space to breathe in my home.
Enough awareness to listen to my body.
Enough peace to not feel like I have to carry everything at once.

It’s funny how it all came together—cardboard boxes, air quality, eating habits, and a hiking trip in New Mexico. But somehow, they all pointed me to the same truth:

Less really can be more.

More peace.
More clarity.
More health.

And I’m still learning. Slowly.

But for the first time in a long time, that pace feels exactly right. 

Learning to Slow Down (and Actually Listen to My Body)

Lately, I’ve been realizing something I didn’t expect when I started this GLP-1 journey.

It’s not just about eating less.
It’s about learning to slow down.

For so long, I didn’t think much about how I was eating—just that I was busy, moving fast, and grabbing food when I could. Meals were rushed, distracted, or sometimes just automatic. And honestly, I don’t know that I was ever really paying attention to what my body needed… or when it had already had enough.

Now? I don’t really have a choice.

Everything has slowed down.

My appetite is different. My cues are different. And sometimes I have to pause mid-meal and ask myself, “Am I actually still hungry, or am I just eating because this is what I’ve always done?”

That pause is new for me.

And if I’m being honest, it’s not always comfortable.

Because slowing down doesn’t just apply to food—it spills over into everything. My pace, my habits, even my thoughts. It’s like I’m being gently forced into a reset… learning to fuel my body without overfilling it, and learning that “enough” is actually enough.

This verse keeps coming to mind in the middle of it all:

“So whether you eat or drink or whatever you do, do it all for the glory of God.”
— 1 Corinthians 10:31

I’ve read it before, but I don’t think I’ve ever applied it this literally.

Eating with intention.
Pausing with purpose.
Being mindful instead of mindless.

This season feels less like a diet and more like an invitation—to be present, to care for my body differently, and to stop pushing past the signals I used to ignore.

I’m also realizing that “fueling my body” doesn’t mean restricting or obsessing. It means finding balance. It means choosing foods that nourish me, but also respecting when my body says, “that’s enough.”

And sometimes? It means putting the fork down even when there’s still food on the plate.

That’s a shift.

But it’s a good one.

Just like with the other things I’ve been working through on Santini Serenity—whether it’s creating a healthier home environment or decluttering physical space—this feels like another layer of the same lesson:

Less excess. More awareness. More intention.

I’m not rushing through this.
I’m not chasing perfection.

I’m just learning… slowly.

And honestly? That might be exactly what my body needed all along.

Resources:

Scripture: YouVersion Bible App

A huge "thank you" to Coach Amber at Steadfast for timely posts on under fueling and her continued suggestions of higher protein meals.  Also, thank you to the coaches who worked with me to extra scale recent workouts when I showed up instead of canceling because I wanted to move but needed less volume or other adjustments.

Trading Cardboard for Clarity (While He Was Hiking Philmont)

While Jon was out hiking the rugged trails of Philmont in New Mexico—carrying only what he needed on his back—I found myself on a very different kind of trek here at home.

Mine involved cardboard boxes.

You know the ones… stacked in closets, tucked into corners, quietly collecting dust and “important things” we haven’t touched in years. With him gone, I decided it was the perfect time to start cleaning and organizing—but with one important boundary: I didn’t throw out any of Jon’s stuff.

This wasn’t about purging. It was about stewarding our space better.

So instead of tossing things, I focused on replacing all those worn, dusty cardboard boxes with sealed totes. It seemed like a small shift, but as I worked, I realized it was actually a pretty meaningful one.

Cardboard, especially older boxes, holds moisture, dust, and who-knows-what-else. It breaks down over time and becomes a perfect hiding place for allergens. From a “sick building” perspective—the kind I’ve written about here on Santini Serenity—it’s kind of the perfect storm.

And yet, here’s what stood out to me:

Even while I was cleaning some of the dustiest areas of the house, I didn’t get sick.

That felt significant.

Since the end of May, I’ve been working remotely because of allergy and sinus issues I was experiencing at the Kinnear office on my hybrid days. It wouldn’t take long—often less than an hour—before the symptoms would hit: drainage, sneezing, coughing, and this overwhelming inability to focus, even when I was just sitting at my desk doing normal office work.

But at home, it was a completely different story.

I was doing physical work—unpacking boxes, breaking them down, stirring up dust in places that hadn’t been touched in a while—and still, nothing. No flare-ups. No fog. No spiral of symptoms.

That contrast was hard to ignore, especially in light of everything I’ve been sharing about sick building environments on Santini Serenity.

It made me realize that this isn’t just about how I feel—it’s about what I’m exposed to.

And in the middle of all that cleaning and swapping out cardboard for totes, I could sense it:

There was a noticeable shift.

As I swapped out box after box, the space started to feel lighter—not just physically, but mentally too. Clear bins replaced crumbling cardboard. Stacks became systems. Hidden messes became visible and manageable.

And in the middle of it, this verse came to mind:

“For God is not a God of disorder but of peace.”
— 1 Corinthians 14:33

It’s such a simple truth, but it landed differently in that moment.

Disorder isn’t just inconvenient—it can quietly steal peace. And while clutter might not seem like a big deal, it can contribute to both mental overwhelm and physical discomfort when it affects the health of our home environment.

This ties right back to what I’ve been exploring on the blog:
Our buildings—our homes—have an impact on our well-being. And sometimes the issue isn’t just hidden toxins or air systems… but the everyday materials and habits we overlook.

For me, this was a reminder that:

• what we store matters
• how we store it matters
• and what we allow to accumulate can affect more than just appearances

While Jon was out carrying only the essentials across miles of trail, I was learning my own version of that lesson at home.

Less cardboard. More intention.
Less hidden dust. More breathable space.
Less chaos. More peace.

And maybe that’s part of creating a healthier home—not just fixing what’s obviously broken, but slowly replacing what no longer serves us… one box at a time.

Resources:

Scripture:  YouVersion Bible App

Note that I did box up some of my own items to donate and that upon returning from Philmont, Jon cleared out 20+ polo shirts from his closet.  We donate our items to Good Life Ministries who has a convenient 24/7 accessible donation center in Plain City on West Avenue near the Shell Station.  

Holding Pain and Joy Together: Centering Prayer, Letting Go, and Finding Clarity in Uncertain Times

In these past few reflections—wrestling with Centering Prayer, learning to let go in the midst of uncertainty, and finding clarity again (even something as tangible as cleaner air and a clearer mind)—a quiet thread has been emerging.

It’s the thread of release.

Of letting go, not once, but over and over again. Of discovering that peace isn’t found by escaping life’s challenges, but by learning how to remain present within them.

It’s in that space that these words from Br. David Steindl-Rast feel especially meaningful:

“If we shut our hearts to the pain of the world our celebrations become superficial. If we let that pain overwhelm our hope, we are lost in the dark. Tears in which pain and joy flow together do justice to life in its fullness.”

There was honesty in Learning to Let Go: Wrestling with Centering Prayer—the kind of honesty that admits how difficult it is to sit still, to release control, and to surrender the constant movement of thoughts. That wrestling is not a failure of prayer; it is part of it. When we enter into silence, we don’t just find stillness—we encounter everything we’ve been carrying beneath the surface. Anxiety, distraction, resistance, even unrecognized grief begins to rise. Letting go becomes less of a single decision and more of a returning, again and again, to a willingness to release.

In Centering Prayer in Real Life, that inner practice met the unpredictability of everyday life—workplace concerns, uncertainty, the tension of not knowing what comes next. This is where the balance Br. David describes becomes real. It would be easy to shut down, to push through and pretend everything is fine, but that kind of denial thins out our joy until it becomes superficial. It would also be easy to let uncertainty take over completely, draining hope and leaving only heaviness. Instead, there has been a quieter, more courageous path—staying open. Allowing concern to exist without letting it define everything. Returning to prayer not as escape, but as re-centering.

Then came Clarity, Air Quality, and Getting My Brain Back, where there is a palpable sense of relief. Anyone who has experienced mental fog or environmental strain understands how profound it is when clarity returns. It feels like grace—unexpected, undeserved, but deeply welcomed. Yet even this clarity ties back into the same unfolding journey. It wasn’t forced into being; it emerged alongside release. As something shifted physically, something also softened internally. Space opened.

Looking across these moments together, it becomes clear that life is not one thing or another. It is not struggle or peace, uncertainty or clarity, pain or joy. It is both. Centering Prayer gently teaches us to sit within that tension without trying to resolve it too quickly. Thoughts come and go. Emotions rise and fall. Moments of frustration sit beside moments of stillness. And if we allow it, something deeper begins to take shape.

This is where the quote finds its fullest expression—tears where pain and joy flow together. The frustration of distraction sits alongside the quiet return to presence. The weight of uncertainty coexists with a steady, underlying hope. The fog of overwhelm gives way, at times, to clarity that feels like a gift. None of these cancel the others out. Together, they form a fuller picture of what it means to be alive.

What has been unfolding across these reflections isn’t just a practice of prayer, but a way of living. It is the courage to stay present instead of numbing out, to let go without knowing the outcome, to receive moments of clarity without trying to control them, and to hold both struggle and peace without needing immediate resolution. It is not polished or perfect, but it is real.

And maybe that is exactly where we are meant to be—in lives that aren’t simplified into easy categories, but are held gently in their complexity. Lives where hope is not the absence of difficulty, but the presence of something steady beneath it. Lives where even our tears can carry both sorrow and gratitude at once.

Resources:

Br. David Steindl-Rast Quote from grateful.org

Scripture Image - YouVersion

Update: Clarity, Air Quality, and Getting My Brain Back

I wanted to share an update following my recent posts about what I believed might be Sick Building Syndrome and the impact it’s been having on my health and work.

After environmental testing, the EHS (Environmental Health & Safety) results came back indicating that air quality levels were within acceptable ranges. While that was reassuring from a compliance standpoint, it didn’t fully explain how I had been feeling.

What has made a difference, though, is time and distance.

I’ve now been working remotely for about three weeks—and the change has been dramatic.

Physically, I feel fantastic. The lingering fatigue and mental fog I had been struggling with have essentially lifted. Mentally, it’s like a switch flipped: my focus, energy, and clarity have all returned in full force.

What’s been most telling is the shift in my work itself.

I’ve been diving into Splunk again, and not just maintaining things—but improving them in ways I simply wasn’t capable of while I was feeling off. I’m making meaningful updates to dashboards and reports, revisiting logic, refining visualizations, and uncovering opportunities I hadn’t even considered before. It’s a level of creativity and productivity that had been noticeably absent—and I didn’t fully realize how much until it came back.

Whether the root cause was environmental, physiological, or some combination, the takeaway for me is clear: how we feel directly shapes how we think, and how we perform. When something is off, even subtly, it can have a bigger impact than we realize.

For now, I’m focused on maintaining this momentum, staying attentive to what my body is telling me, and continuing to build on the progress I’ve been able to make since stepping away.

More to come as I keep observing and learning.

Resources:

YouVersion: Scripture Image

Copilot: SEO optimization

Centering Prayer in Real Life: Letting Go Amid Workplace Concerns and Uncertainty

Lately I’ve been thinking about how different parts of life—especially workplace stress and my faith—intersect in ways I didn’t expect.

If you’ve been following along, you know I’ve been writing about the concerns I’ve experienced with our office environment—the dust, the air quality issues, and the uncomfortable feeling that something just isn’t right. I’ve also shared my experience with the EHS testing that, in many ways, raised as many questions as it answered, along with what I’ve been learning about possible sick building syndrome symptoms. More recently, I’ve talked about the process of requesting a remote accommodation and trying to advocate for my health.

None of that has fully resolved yet, and sitting in that kind of uncertainty has been challenging.

At the same time, I’ve been reading Open Mind, Open Heart by Thomas Keating and trying to understand centering prayer. I’ll be honest—I don’t fully grasp it yet, especially how it applies in the middle of stressful situations like work.

But I’m starting to see that maybe these things aren’t separate.

In my work situation, there’s this constant undercurrent of tension. Waiting. Wondering if concerns are being taken seriously. Trying to make sense of information and determine what is “normal” versus what feels off in my own body. It’s easy to get caught in a loop of overthinking—replaying conversations, analyzing details, searching for clarity.

If I’m really honest, a lot of that comes back to control. Wanting answers. Wanting resolution. Wanting things to feel settled and certain.

And that’s exactly where centering prayer has started to challenge me.

The idea of letting go—not chasing every thought, not needing to resolve every question immediately—feels almost opposite to how I’ve been approaching everything else. In centering prayer, the invitation is simple but not easy: notice the thought, and gently let it go. Come back to stillness.

I’m realizing just how hard that is for me, especially when the thoughts feel justified. These aren’t random distractions—these are real concerns about health, environment, and what feels like my ability to function well day-to-day.

Letting go doesn’t mean ignoring those concerns. It doesn’t mean I stop advocating for myself or asking questions. What it changes is the internal posture I bring into those situations.

Instead of being driven entirely by urgency and anxiety, there’s an invitation to hold things a little more loosely.

That’s new for me.

I’m slowly learning that I can continue to pursue answers and take action where needed, while also recognizing that not everything is within my control—and not everything has to be solved immediately for me to experience a small measure of peace.

Reading Keating’s book, I keep coming back to the idea that something deeper is happening beneath the surface, even when I can’t see it or understand it. That applies to prayer—but I’m beginning to think it applies to this season of life too.

Maybe growth isn’t always something I can measure right away.
Maybe clarity doesn’t always come on my timeline.
Maybe being in an uncertain work environment doesn’t mean everything is broken—it might mean I’m still in the middle of the process.

That process isn’t easy. It includes real stress, real questions, and situations that still feel unresolved. But it also includes something quieter—learning, very slowly, how to sit with uncertainty without letting it take over completely.

I’m reminded of Psalm 46:10:
“Be still, and know that I am God.”

That stillness doesn’t come naturally to me—especially when I feel like something needs to be fixed. But I’m beginning to understand that stillness isn’t about having everything figured out. It’s about choosing, even briefly, to release the need to control every outcome.

So this is where I am right now:

Still asking questions.
Still advocating for my health and what I need.
Still walking through conversations and uncertainties.

But also beginning to practice letting go—just a little sooner than I usually would.

Even if it’s only for a few moments at a time.

If you’ve been following this journey—from the office environment concerns, to the EHS testing, to exploring sick building syndrome, to navigating a remote accommodation request—you know this hasn’t been a straight or simple path.

And if any part of this resonates with you—whether it’s dealing with workplace stress, advocating for your health, or trying to find peace in an uncertain situation—you’re not alone in that.

I’d really value hearing your experience. Feel free to share your thoughts in the comments, or explore the earlier posts if you’re walking through something similar.

Resources:

Sweeping Up Dust to Detect Emerging Viruses

YouVersion Bible App - Scripture Image

Related blog posts on this Journey:

https://santiniserenity.blogspot.com/2026/05/workplace-health-update-continuing.html

https://santiniserenity.blogspot.com/2026/05/workplace-health-update-personal-note.html

https://santiniserenity.blogspot.com/2026/03/when-office-makes-you-sick-recognizing.html

Learning to Let Go: Wrestling with Centering Prayer

Lately I’ve been reading Open Mind, Open Heart by Thomas Keating, and I have to admit—it’s both really interesting and a little hard to wrap my head around. I keep feeling like I’m almost understanding it, but not quite. And maybe that’s okay.

Centering prayer is described as something you don’t really do, but something you consent to. That alone feels different from how I’ve always thought about prayer.

Most of my life, prayer has been active—talking, thinking, reflecting, asking. Even when I’m quiet, my mind is usually full of words. But this way of praying invites something else entirely. Less doing, more being. Less effort, more letting go.

In the book, Keating talks a lot about releasing thoughts instead of getting caught up in them. Not pushing them away or getting frustrated, but just gently returning to a sacred word. It sounds simple enough, but in reality, I’m finding it kind of difficult.

My mind really doesn’t want to be still. It jumps around constantly—planning things, replaying conversations, coming up with random thoughts I didn’t even know were there. And when I notice it happening, my instinct is to either get annoyed or try harder to “fix” it.

One thing that’s been surprisingly challenging is the idea that there isn’t really a way to measure success here. It’s not about feeling peaceful or focused or like I’ve “had a good prayer.” Even when I feel distracted the whole time, that doesn’t mean I’ve failed.

That’s a hard shift.

I’m so used to wanting to know if I’m doing something right or getting better at it. But this kind of prayer doesn’t seem to work that way. It’s more about showing up and being willing—just sitting there and consenting to God’s presence, even when I don’t feel anything happening.

Keating talks about how something deeper is going on beneath the surface, even if we can’t notice it. I think that’s where some trust comes in. Trust that the silence isn’t empty. That letting go isn’t pointless. That God is still there, even when I feel distracted or unsure.

I don’t think I fully understand that yet. But I’m starting to sense that I don’t have to.

Maybe part of this is accepting that I won’t grasp it all right away. That it’s not just something to think about, but something to slowly grow into. So for now, I’m trying to approach it with a bit more openness and a little less pressure.

Just sitting quietly for a few minutes. Picking a simple word. Letting go when I notice myself drifting. And then doing that again…and again.

If you’re exploring centering prayer too and it feels confusing or frustrating at times, you’re definitely not alone. I’m right there in it.

I may not fully understand what I’m doing—but I think I’m still showing up. And maybe that counts for more than I realize.

Resources:

Related Blog Post: Quieting Your Mind: Tips for Centering Prayer

YouVersion - Scripture Image