The Cost of Starting Over

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Starting over is often praised as courage.
A fresh beginning.
A clean slate.
And sometimes, starting over is necessary.
But when starting over becomes a pattern, it begins to carry a cost we rarely name.
Many of us are caught in cycles of restarting.
We begin with resolve.
We gather motivation.
We set intentions.
For a time, things feel clear.
Then life intervenes.
Schedules change.
Energy dips.
Stress rises.
Circumstances shift.
And when our plans no longer hold, we tell ourselves the story we’ve learned to believe:
I failed. I need to start over.
Each restart feels hopeful at first.
But over time, the repetition erodes trust.
We stop trusting our ability to continue.
We stop trusting our rhythms.
We stop trusting ourselves.
Starting over resets effort, but it also resets memory.
It erases what was learned in the disruption.
It overlooks what was sustained, even imperfectly.
The cost is not only fatigue.
It is discouragement.
Every restart subtly reinforces the belief that consistency requires ideal conditions.
That care only counts when it is uninterrupted.
That anything less than the original plan is not worth continuing.
This belief makes life feel fragile.
Formation invites a different response.
Instead of asking, “How do I begin again?”
Formation asks, “How do I return?”
Returning assumes continuity.
It recognizes that something remains, even after disruption.
Returning does not erase the past week, month, or season.
It carries it forward.
Starting over demands intensity.
Returning requires honesty.
Returning acknowledges what was lost, without discarding what was built.
It makes space for adjustment rather than abandonment.
In the context of daily care, the difference is subtle but significant.
Starting over often means new rules, new systems, new pressure.
Returning means resuming what is possible now, with fewer expectations.
In spiritual life, starting over can feel like repentance without grace.
An endless cycle of resolve and regret.
Returning, by contrast, trusts that formation is not undone by interruption.
It understands that faithfulness is measured not by continuity, but by willingness to come back.
The cost of constant restarting is not failure—it is exhaustion.
And exhaustion makes care harder, not easier.
When we allow returning to replace restarting, something shifts.
Care becomes durable.
Rhythms become flexible.
Consistency becomes possible, even in imperfect conditions.
We learn that disruption does not disqualify us.
It informs us.
Formation does not require a clean slate.
It requires presence.
And often, the most faithful step forward
is not beginning again,
but continuing—
right where we are.
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