"Whatsoever ye ask the Father in my name it shall be given unto you, that is expedient for you; And if ye ask anything that is not expedient for you, it shall turn unto your condemnation." (D&C 88:64–65)

Warning – this is long.

I’ve been sitting with this topic for over a year now—pondering it, revisiting it, turning it over in my mind—knowing that eventually, I’d need to put it into words. But it’s a deep one. A weighty one. And I knew writing it wouldn’t come easily, so I’ve put it off. Again and again.

And honestly, it hasn’t taken much to distract me from doing it.

(Squirrel!)

But I finally decided it was time to start—at least to gather in one place the many epiphanies and personal notes I’d been jotting down over the past several months.

To begin, let me back up a bit and explain what’s been unfolding for me since 2008.

As I’ve shared in previous posts, our family felt the “ebbs” of the 2008 financial crisis much like many others. Stress was high, relationships were strained, and we began to question nearly everything we thought we knew.

After writing two bestsellers, my message naturally evolved—from “how to create an amazing life” to “how to make sense of setbacks and profit from your losses.” That shift felt inevitable, as my expertise in the latter seemed to expand almost daily, culminating in the release of my third bestseller.

What had once been a virtuous drive to make things happen—a deep passion for a cause—began to morph into something less healthy: workaholism. And yet, stopping felt impossible. To rest felt like disobedience to a divine call... like I’d be letting down the world, or failing to live up to my highest potential.

More on that here.

I was exhausted. I tried to stop many times, but every time a new challenge arose (and there were always more), I jumped back in, convinced I could fix it. After all, isn’t it a virtue to believe you can and go after it? How could that be wrong?

By 2011, I was so depleted that my drive disappeared altogether.

I had tried stepping off the hamster wheel before, but this time was different. This time, I actually did stop—and strangely enough, I felt at peace.

(Those watching from the outside probably thought, “Well, duh... it’s about time.”)

As I began to declutter my life, every so often something would catch my attention and nudge my thinking just a little. It seemed that, depending on what God wanted me to consider next, one scripture (too long to include here) or another—like this one: “I, the Lord, am not well pleased with him, for he seeketh to excel, and he is not sufficiently meek before me.” (D&C 58:41)—would light up like neon in my mind. I’d feel strongly impressed to pause and ponder it. Sometimes for months.

During that time of reflection, I watched others chase their goals using success principles with impressive results—but sometimes with painful collateral damage. When a dream burns brightly enough, people often accept (or cause) a temporary hell in order to reach it.

It made me take a hard look at myself. Do the ends always justify the means? In every case?

I wasn’t sure.

Even though I had scaled back in my business, I still held tightly to a few hopes, goals, and dreams—ones I absolutely couldn’t let go of—but they were taking a toll on my relationship with my husband.

So I started to ask: "What sacrifices was I willing to make to achieve them? Would there be collateral damage if I kept pursuing them? Had I unknowingly already done too much damage?"

I got quiet.

I didn’t want to share conclusions publicly until I’d spent a long time sitting with the questions. I needed to understand what was universally true. What principle could serve as a foundation no matter the circumstance?

Is achieving a goal always more important than preserving a relationship? Surely... it depends?

As I watched others pursue their dreams, sometimes the payoff seemed worth the cost. But other times... I wasn’t so sure.

Eventually, a simple truth began to surface:

There is a time and a season unto every purpose under heaven.

In other words...

Just because you can, doesn’t mean you should.

The Jackrabbit Factor is all about helping people discover why they CAN. Why the impossible is possible. Why they can achieve their dreams, especially when they didn’t believe it before. It’s a message that continues to change lives around the world. I still hear from readers regularly—like the one I just received yesterday:

"In a month's time we went from $19k/year expecting to be starving artists for the rest of our lives to over $70k/year and much more to come on the horizon. Thank you..."

But even in all the success, I’ve come to see something more clearly:

"CAN" doesn’t always mean "DO."

Agency means we get to choose.

We first discover that we can. That anything is possible. That with a rare kind of faith, we really can co-create an extraordinary life with God.

And then... we pause.

And we choose.

But just because we can use a power, doesn’t mean we should use it in every situation.

Forgive the comparison, but I think it’s easier to understand when we look at the similarities between co-creation and pro-creation.

Co-creation is a term often used when talking about the principles of success—things like the law of attraction. It's a real and sacred power, God-given and meaningful when used in the right way.

Pro-creation, of course, is the power to create life. Also sacred. Also God-given. And also meant to be used with care.

Both of these powers are creative. And both require wisdom and restraint—because without them, even something good can bring pain and heartache. We’re free to choose our actions, but not free to choose the consequences that follow.

And that’s true whether or not we’re consciously aware of the potential fallout.

More on that...

If I have the ability to solve a problem—should I always solve it?

If I can go after a goal—should I always go after it?

I started to realize that just because I’m capable of achieving something, or willing to work for it, that doesn’t necessarily mean I should.

I know. What?? That was a brand-new idea for me, too.

Kinda flips everything upside down, right?

So how do I even begin to explain this shift?

Let’s try it with a few questions:

• Is it ever okay to give up on a dream?

• Could it possibly be okay to set a goal and then do... nothing about it?

• When would it ever be right to intentionally not solve a problem?

I’m telling you, just when I thought I had life figured out...

PLOT TWIST.

What follows is my long-overdue attempt to explain what I’ve discovered.

I’ve taught plenty of classes and written all kinds of articles about the importance of action in the goal-setting process—or what some might call the formula for success.

That principle still stands. Action is important. But today’s discussion is going to take a different turn.

This isn’t about how to get what you want. It’s about how to counsel your wants, and why that might be the more important path.

I’ve been a goal setter for as long as I can remember—probably since I was about twelve. So you can imagine how hard it hit me when, in the early years of our marriage, life spun so wildly out of my control. I fell into a deep depression, largely because I had always believed that if I just set the right goals and worked hard enough, life would line up.

But for seven years, it didn’t. It felt like life had hijacked the controls, and nothing I tried seemed to work. Eventually, though, I had a breakthrough: I realized that many of the painful or disappointing outcomes we experienced weren’t just “bad luck.” They were the direct result of how we—especially I—had been thinking.

It was a huge revelation. And honestly, it came right on time. It was needed. Relevant. Necessary.

Welcomed. Even celebrated.

Because now, with a better understanding of the principles of success, we could start getting things right. And we did—quickly. Within three months, we tripled our income. 

More on how we did that.

But that wasn’t the end of the story.

Sure, our combination lock to “freedom” may have sprung open—but I later discovered there was another lock I didn’t even know I had. And that one was all mine.

It led me to a difficult but important question:

When is it NOT time to set a goal?

I had built a lot of my identity—and my self-worth—around setting and achieving goals. I thrived on the feeling of attempting something difficult and conquering it. I even chose to get my college degree in the one subject that had always given me the most grief. Who does that?

I did. Because I was a conqueror.

There was nothing like the rush of a personal victory. It made sense, then, that I’d build our future—and our kids’ future—on the belief that goal-setting was the #1 most important skill to master.

Even more, I placed the future of my marriage on our ability to set and achieve goals together.

So why do I say, “even worse”?

Well… if you’re not ahead of me already, you should be. And I hope what I share next will help shed some light.

Simply put, I had really lofty expectations for our life together.

My husband shared the vision somewhat, but over time, he helped me see that the pace I expected us to keep—the pace that felt “reasonable” to me—was exhausting for him. It made it nearly impossible for him to impress me, no matter what he did.

From my perspective, we were stagnating. From his, he was growing in quiet, invisible ways I wasn’t even looking for. I was so hyper-focused on how closely our life matched the picture in my head that I couldn’t see his progress at all.

He was, in his own way, on track toward his goals. But because they weren’t our goals—(okay, my goals)—I missed it completely.

And my expectations? They were always miles ahead of wherever we were. I believed if I just dreamed big enough, it would pull him upward too. That it would inspire him to stretch, to go faster, to be happier—and, by extension, I would be happier too.

But it didn’t work like that.

Instead, he felt like he was constantly falling short. Like he’d never be enough. And eventually, he stopped trying. He became convinced—after 20 years of trying—that nothing he did would ever be enough to make me happy. That kind of hopelessness numbed him.

And I didn’t help. I saw his discouragement and blamed him for it. I believed that if he would just set higher goals and work harder, he’d be happier—and then I could finally be happy too.

The truth was, he was achieving a lot—just not the things I had on my list.

Without meaning to, my drive for my version of success was actually slowing down our journey to whatever it was I thought we were supposed to be achieving.

I think deep down, I knew I was part of the problem. But I resented that. Of course we should want the same things, right? And if we did, then shouldn’t he also feel driven to pursue them?

(Sigh.)

I don’t think anything would have changed if I’d kept pushing—myself or him.

And to be fair, I wasn’t some overbearing taskmaster. It was more like… casually checking in on this or that goal—when “this or that” wasn’t even on his radar. He might have been working steadily toward his goals, but because I couldn’t see them, it just looked like stagnation. I’d get frustrated that my list was still untouched.

Looking back, I realize how unreasonable I must’ve seemed. But at the time, I truly didn’t know how to stop. It’s hard to stop doing the wrong thing when you’re still convinced it’s the right thing.

Still, I knew something needed to change—in me—before I could see clearly what needed to happen between us.

So I stepped back. I stopped thinking about goals. I quieted the noise. I held still.

And I asked God what He wanted me to do.

What followed was a long, multi-year journey where I learned something deeply humbling: not all problems are mine to fix. Some problems are someone else’s stewardship, and I needed to let them be solved in their time, their way.

Now there's a leap of faith, to let someone else solve a problem. It can honestly be a harder leap even than exercising your own faith to solve it, sometimes.

Especially if that person doesn't think there's a problem.

But I began to realize that even if I think I might do a better job, or even if I might solve it quicker, or even if there’s a risk that it may never be solved at all, sometimes it’s better to let others flex their muscles and get stronger through the experience, or learn from the failure, whichever way it goes. No matter what the outcome.

I know, that's easier said than done. It takes total faith in God to trust that he will help you handle the outcome, no matter how it plays out.

That was my problem. I had always been afraid we'd fail too much if I let go, that I wouldn't be able to handle the potential disappointments if I disengaged.

Ironically, to take the next step, I had to get away from the world of personal development long enough, stop spending time with friends who were running toward goals, stop listening to mentors (really??), and quiet all the voices in my head that belittled 'small goals', condemned failure as being 'not an option' (of course failure should not be an option, shouldn't it??), and which also incessantly urged me on to GREATNESS (as if that's a bad thing!).

My inner compass, which told me to stop listening to those voices, didn't make logical sense. But I followed it anyway, because the more they nagged, the more my marriage was suffering. I had to find a better way.

Instinctively, I knew I needed to slow down, and just listen to what might show up if all those voices were gone. I also knew it could take months or even years to unravel the confusion and get myself to true clarity, but I was finally ready to take that journey.

After all, not ALL of the voices in our head are from God. Even the good, motivating messages received and carried out at the wrong time, in the wrong way, or to an excessive degree can be a trap, so we must always be discerning.

In time, a quiet, simple thought surfaced—almost imperceptible, but deeply grounding: I had always planned to be with my husband for eternity. My temple marriage covenant was meant to sit above all other priorities. There was no fanfare in the reminder. Just stillness.

So I sat with it:

“If we’re really in this together for the long haul, why do I need him to run faster toward my goals? If we truly have eternity, what’s the rush?”

"Well," I pushed back, “Doesn’t timing matter? Aren’t we supposed to be anxiously engaged in a good cause? Shouldn’t we be a team? If I let go of my expectations, life may never look the way I imagined it.”

Could I give up on my dreams?

Should I?

Letting go of the vision that had strained our relationship would lift a massive weight off my husband’s shoulders—but could I actually do that? Did I even know how? Once you've seen a possibility so vividly, how do you un-see it?

The idea of giving it up made me angry. No—livid.

I shook my fist toward heaven, more times than I can count, crying, “If you didn’t want me to have it, why did you let me see what was possible?! Don’t show it to me if I can’t have it!”

But heaven stayed silent. It let me rage. Let me grieve. Gave no defense, no soothing words. Just quiet.

And I mourned. Hard. Like I’d lost someone dear to me. I “ugly-cried” through it, month after month, round after round.

Then one day, after regaining a shred of composure, I thought, “Fine. I’ll give up then.” Not out of defeat, but from clarity.

I had made a covenant—before God, angels, and witnesses—to honor this marriage. That was a sacred, legally and lawfully binding agreement. As far as I could tell, there had been no such official covenant between me and God about life the way I wanted it to look.

And that realization began to shape my decision.

Resigning to this bitter defeat almost felt like I was committing suicide by poison, and deep down, I was blaming my husband that I had to take it.

Yeah... about that. If this post is feeling a little heavy, here's your comic relief:
(Content Warning - she says the "d" word.)

Blame makes you blind. It narrows your vision until you can only see one side of the coin. I had begun to see my husband not for who he really was, but through the lens of my internal “blaming” dialogue—only noticing what supported my own narrative.

That’s where I was: knee-deep in self-pity, quietly thinking, “Fine. I’ll just be the martyr.”

And yet—something unexpected happened. The idea of giving up started to feel… oddly good. And I don’t mean the bitter satisfaction that sometimes comes with feeling sorry for yourself.

No, this was something else.

Letting go of my goals—the ones I’d carried and fought for—brought an unexpected relief. A lightness.

Yes, achieving goals had always given me a kind of high. But this? This was different. Sweeter. As I imagined what life could look like if I stopped chasing “the next level” and simply lived in gratitude for what already was, I began to feel peace. Even a sense of excitement about a new kind of challenge: getting really creative with whatever life threw at us—and letting my husband set the pace, if he ever wanted to set couple goals at all.

It felt radical. But in my heart, I knew—I was already grieving the life I thought I was supposed to have. I thought, Well, I guess my life is over anyway.

Now listen—I can be a hot-headed ginger. (NOOOO, you say.) And yes, I’ve heard the jokes about redheads having no soul. Sometimes I even wonder if I’m just more emotionally volatile than the average woman—I don’t know. I’ve been working hard to temper my emotions, but at this point in the journey, I was all over the place. One moment I was elated, the next, drowning in anger and despair.

Still, I resolved: “My husband matters more. My marriage covenant matters more.” I tried to really believe that.

But over time, those well-meaning thoughts twisted into something more cynical: “I guess MY life doesn’t really matter here.”

Ouch. But if I’m honest, that’s what it felt like.

I believed that if only he had shared my vision—if only he had wanted it as badly as I did—we wouldn’t be here. I wouldn’t have to choose between the dreams I’d nurtured and the relationship I’d vowed to protect.

But here’s the twist: when I finally released every expectation that he’d ever change, I felt something surprising.

Joy.

A flicker at first, but unmistakable.

I’ve said before that there’s no greater joy than overcoming obstacles to achieve a goal. But I was wrong.

This joy—this unlooked-for peace that came from letting go—was deeper. Richer. More exquisite than any win I'd ever celebrated.

And here’s what stunned me: it wasn’t the joy of achievement. It was something else entirely. Something holy.

I think it was Grace.

For over a year, I kept these feelings close, trying to make sense of them. After more than 15 years of teaching goal achievement and personal development, what was I supposed to do with this? How could I explain that joy came not from getting what I wanted, but from giving it up?

I couldn’t explain it.

Until yesterday, when I watched The Saratov Approach.

It’s a true story—two Christian missionaries in Russia are kidnapped for ransom in the late 1990s. The captors think they’ll make easy money, especially after reading about wealthy Christian churches in Time magazine.

But the church won’t pay the ransom. Not because they don’t care, but because doing so would endanger every other missionary worldwide.

Eventually, when it becomes clear there’s no payout, the kidnappers plan to kill the missionaries to cover their tracks.

Spoiler alert: I won’t ruin the ending, but I do want to highlight one moment that echoed everything I had been struggling to articulate.

We’re Free

One of the missionaries, Probst, manages to slip out of his handcuffs. He wakes his companion and whispers, “We’re free…”

Their escape plan? Not ideal. It involves attacking a captor with a steam iron—someone who, despite being their kidnapper, had also shown them kindness. But it might be their only shot.

It’s terrifying. But they feel justified. Who would blame them for doing what was necessary to survive?

I’ve taught goal-achieving strategies to help people do the hard and scary things that need to be done in order to obtain freedom. There is a terror barrier that must be faced any time we are about to change our life in significant ways.

And now Probst is staring down that same barrier.

But just as they’re about to act, something changes. Probst has a moment—a flash of memories, identity, purpose. He remembers who he is. Why he’s there. He sees a bigger picture. And in that sacred moment of stillness, something divine intervenes. He’s shown just enough to realize that the next right thing is not to fight.

So he puts the steam iron down. And he locks the cuffs back on.

Faith is doing the right thing—even when you don’t know how it’s going to turn out.

That’s what I’ve always meant by The Jackrabbit Factor: how to recognize the next inspired step, even when it doesn’t make logical sense. It’s what Portal to Genius is about too—that the solution to every problem is just one idea away, and that inspired guidance is everything.

As for the missionaries, their outward circumstances don’t change right away. They’re still captives. But they’re aligned with the Bigger Plan, and somehow, that’s enough.

That’s why they chose what they did—not because it would work, but because it was right.

And me?

What if my pursuit of freedom brought me a plan that worked, but caused pain I couldn’t foresee?

What if, instead of forcing my way, I simply chose to let someone else’s life matter more than mine?

I thought back to that earlier resentment: “I guess MY life doesn’t really matter here.” But now... it hit differently.

It turned into a declaration of joy:

“Oh my goodness… My life doesn’t matter here!!!”

I felt a deep, quiet peace as I entertained the idea that maybe—even if it cost me everything, even if I lost every dream—I could give my life to making his better. And that would be okay.

That’s when this scripture came to mind:

"For whosoever will save his life shall lose it: and whosoever will lose his life for my sake shall find it."
~ Matthew 10:25

Ah. So this is what He’s been teaching me all along.

Nobody would have blamed the missionaries for defending themselves. Just as no one would blame someone for walking away from a marriage under strain. But it’s still a choice. And in their case, they paused long enough to notice that God had a different plan.

I hope I’ll always have the courage to pause, too.

So let’s bring it back:

— Remember the moment when Probst was prepared to carry out the plan, but something caused him to pause and ponder? That was me, feeling like I needed to slow down and listen.
— Remember that moment when he sat on the mattress and reflected on his decision to NOT go through with their plan? That was me, simplifying my life and quieting the voices in my head that had been urging me to dream bigger, go faster, and do more.
— Putting the handcuffs back on? That was me, choosing my marriage over my ambitions.
— Writing his last goodbyes? That was me, grieving the death of my dreams.
— Choosing to protect others, even at great cost? That was me, deciding to preserve the relationship, even while I doubted the outcome.
— Feeling calm in the face of uncertainty? That was me, too—discovering a sweeter kind of joy than anything I’d ever experienced before. 

And that peace didn’t come from me. It felt like a clear, unmistakable gift—God saying, I see you. I’m here. I’ve got you.

The rest of the story

The missionaries’ story takes a turn for the better. I hope you’ll watch it. It’s powerful.

As for me, my story is changing, too. Not in the way I expected. But in ways that are undeniably good.

I’ve been quiet for a long time, trying to understand all of this before I spoke it out loud.

But here it is, simply:

I let go of my dreams. With no expectations.
I surrendered my life into God’s hands—no strings attached.

And He gave me something better than what I thought I needed:

Peace.

Related: How to Surrender (and why you'd want to)

(Continued below...)

While I practiced intentionally living without a focus on my goals, my husband noticed a shift too. It didn’t happen overnight, but gradually, he saw that I was expecting less. I talked less about our plans as a couple. Instead of constantly striving toward building our “successful future,” I just focused on doing well at the simple, mundane, day-to-day things that were mine to do.

Eventually—and without a single word of pressure from me—he began to set some pretty lofty goals of his own. Goals I could actually see. But I didn’t expect it. I didn’t even need it. Honestly, I almost didn’t want it—because I was afraid it might make me feel guilty for not doing the same. (For me, getting goal-oriented again too soon would have felt like an alcoholic walking back into a bar.)

Ironic, right?

No, he wasn’t doing it for me. He was doing it for himself.
(And let me be very clear: this is not a story about “letting go so they’ll change.” That’s not what this is. That’s never the point.)

But still, within a relatively short span of time, he lost 35 pounds and took up cycling to keep it off. He started riding his bike 13 miles to and from work each day—up to 150 miles a week. And after only four months of training, he woke up at 3 a.m. one Saturday and biked from Mesa, AZ to Payson, AZ—80 miles—with a group.

He’s been tracking his progress with an online app, and in some areas, he’s outpacing veteran cyclists—ranking among the best in the valley.

(2021 update: Since then, he’s taken cycling tours all over the world, including a coast-to-coast trek across India, and two-week rides through the Czech Republic, Germany, and Austria. His next dream? To cycle the Continental Divide from Mexico to Canada.)

Who is this guy??

His success in cycling started to spill over into other parts of his life. Work improved. Our relationship strengthened. Our family felt more connected. We laughed more, enjoyed life more. I didn’t care what he did or how he spent his time — but I was really proud of him for working so hard and doing so well.

Best of all, we finally got on the same page with goals we both felt excited about. We agreed on a plan and a pace to achieve them together. That’s what I was talking about in my earlier post about what I think of Dave Ramsey.

Getting on the same page again? That was a dream come true for me.

No, we weren’t hitting our couple goals at the speed I might have chosen alone (there’s always room to dream bigger, move faster, do more), but it felt like a good compromise. I was just happy we were united again in our vision.

Then, a few months later, I hit a setback.

His cycling began to take more time and money. He seemed to have forgotten our plan. I think it was still there in the back of his mind, but it had become a chore to remember, because his passion for cycling far outpaced his interest in our shared goals.

Naturally, I started to resent his cycling. The frustration crept back in. I was angry and wanted him to know it.

Having learned my lesson before, I didn’t want to repeat it, so I had to find peace in letting go. I never expected to have to give up on these—the smaller, simpler, slower dreams we’d agreed on.

In many ways, letting go of these smaller dreams was even harder than giving up on the big ones. Because once those are gone… what’s left?

I felt anger, bitterness, grief—all of it, all over again. But this time, it felt even worse.

We’d just watched the movie War Room as a family, and it inspired me. So instead of fighting with him directly, I decided to try the War Room approach. Honestly, I didn’t have much hope that it would work...

But it did! Not right away, but soon enough.

(Someday I might share more about that, but today’s post is already long enough.)

In short, God changed my heart.

He removed the scales from my eyes, and suddenly I saw my husband in a way I never had before. Twenty years of chronic issues, buried grievances, hidden wounds from years of conflict, clouded perspectives — all healed in an instant. Perceptions shifted that I didn’t even know needed fixing.

I didn’t even think it was possible. Well, maybe I thought it could happen, but I never imagined it would come so easily.

Now, I look at him and think, “I get to love him!” Suddenly, I’m eager to serve him—to make him good food, ease his burdens, care more about his concerns than my own, and create a home where he feels great and wants to be. What used to feel like a chore became a joy. I found myself motivated to do things I hadn’t enjoyed before.

It was a miracle—unexpected, unplanned, a surprise gift. But though it was God’s work and not mine, I had been gently prepared to receive it. I hadn’t even realized what I was preparing for. Remember, I’d “made the decision to let go of my dreams without expectations. I was resigned to whatever my new fate would be. I entrusted my life to God’s hands without conditions.”

And in response, He did this.

God is able to do His work.

I can say with confidence that I’ve seen Him do it. Sometimes we just have to stop being the limiting factor.

Trust His plan for your life. Let Him lead you. Trust your Father in Heaven above all other mentors. People may play the role of messenger, and thank heavens for that blessing, but always check what you learn from them against what He speaks to your spirit directly.

So what about setting goals?

About timing—hear me now:

The same voice that told me to stop setting goals is the same voice that once told me to start setting goals. Remember, “to every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven” (Ecclesiastes 3:1).

What’s next for you?

In other words, this isn’t about abandoning goals. It’s not even about setting priorities. It’s about decluttering and listening.

That’s why one particular message at last week’s General Conference made me immediately hop on Facebook and say, “OOOOHHHH—Larry Lawrence’s is my favorite so far! ‪#‎LDSConf‬ — Shantel, that right there was bootcamp summed up in a conference talk, wasn’t it??”

If you don't have time to watch the whole video, here's the excerpt that made me want to shout, "YES!!!":

I knew a faithful mother who humbled herself and asked, “What is keeping me from progressing?” In her case, the response from the Spirit came immediately: “Stop complaining.” This answer surprised her; she had never thought of herself as a complainer...

A humble young man who couldn’t seem to find the right young woman went to the Lord for help: “What is keeping me from being the right man?” he asked. This answer came into his mind and heart: “Clean up your language.” ...

A single sister bravely asked the question: “What do I need to change?” and the Spirit whispered to her, “Don’t interrupt people when they are talking.”

The Holy Ghost really does give customized counsel. He is a completely honest companion and will tell us things that no one else knows or has the courage to say. (emphasis added)

One returned missionary found himself stressed with a very heavy schedule. He was trying to find time for work, studies, family, and a Church calling. He asked the Lord for counsel: “How can I feel at peace with all that I need to do?” The answer was not what he expected; he received the impression that he should more carefully observe the Sabbath day and keep it holy...

Years ago I read in a Church magazine the story of a girl who was living away from home and going to college. She was behind in her classes, her social life was not what she had hoped for, and she was generally unhappy. Finally one day she fell to her knees and cried out, “What can I do to improve my life?” The Holy Ghost whispered, “Get up and clean your room.” ...

The Holy Ghost doesn’t tell us to improve everything at once. If He did, we would become discouraged and give up. The Spirit works with us at our own speed, one step at a time, or as the Lord has taught, “line upon line, precept upon precept, ... and blessed are those who hearken unto my precepts, ... for unto him that receiveth I will give more.”

That’s it. It’s all about what’s next.
Freedom matters. Achievement matters. And YES—goal setting absolutely matters, not just for improving our own lives, but for fulfilling God’s purposes, too. But in the bigger picture, goal achievement is just one small part of the whole.

Ironically, we can totally miss the mark if achieving goals becomes the point of life.

I like to imagine heavenly choirs bursting into song the moment I finally paused long enough to feel the subtle nudge—the realization that I was stepping into something new, something better.

So what about all the dreams I had for my future? I still believe in them. But I’ve come to accept that maybe they don’t need to happen in this life… if they happen at all.

Through this shift, a few new mantras started rising to the surface:

“Treasures in heaven” – If I have to choose between enjoying riches here or there, I’d rather have them there. I trust that riches will be mine in both places, IF they are needed for me to accomplish my life's mission.

“Don’t be the limiting factor” – I believe that God has a bigger vision for my life than even what I can imagine. So I’ll trust him. I will live the principles, just to be sure that I’m not the limiting factor in what God can do with me.

“Tranquility” – to live with my spirit at peace, assured that God is guiding my life and that I’ll be prepared to handle whatever I will face.

“Unseen help is active and real” – I still believe in unseen help, but my goals are back to being more eternal in nature again.

“Peace be still” – Whenever I feel anxious or worried, I remember these words, which at one very difficult time, unexpectedly cut through the noise and chaos in my mind and immediately dissipated all of my concerns.

“Simple, consistent, good habits lead to a life full of bountiful blessings” – Richard G. Scott. I will remember that, “by small and simple things, great things are brought to pass.” I choose to simplify.

I’m confident that once this process has run its course, I’ll return to my intentional, active goal-setting—with a deeper well of wisdom to draw from. I still believe:

Anything is possible… but I don’t have to want everything.

When I’m ready to run again, I plan to approach my desires with more counsel and care. I’ll aim for moderation, work harder to be grateful in all things, and show more patience—with myself and others.

But above all, I want to keep an eternal perspective, and follow the counsel of Joseph B. Wirthlin:

“Come what may and love it.” (Quote by Joseph B. Wirthlin © Intellectual Reserve, Inc.)

As Robert D. Hales put it:

“When you cannot do what you have always done, then you only do what matters most.” (Quote by Robert D. Hales © Intellectual Reserve, Inc.)

Wishing you all the best on your journey through life.

Warmly,

Leslie

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