Lent is often described as a journey, but most of us imagine the wrong kind of trip.

We picture something orderly and purposeful, like a planned pilgrimage with clear stops and visible progress. In reality, Lent tends to feel less like a guided retreat and more like wandering through harsh terrain. The Church gives us images of deserts and mountains for a reason. Both places are beautiful, but neither is comfortable, and neither can be rushed.

Lately I have been thinking about how perfectly those two landscapes fit together. In a funny way, Antarctica might be one of the best physical analogies for Lent. It contains vast deserts, towering mountains, and long stretches of silence and darkness. It is stark, even unsettling, yet strangely magnificent. You do not go there to be entertained. You go there to be changed.

That is what Lent is meant to do to us.

The Desert Simplifies What We Complicate

Every year I begin Lent with some sort of plan. I imagine what my prayer life will look like, which devotions I will take up, and how disciplined I will be about fasting. Somewhere in the back of my mind there is always the hope that this will be the year I finally “do Lent right.”

Then the desert shows up.

The prayer feels dry. The sacrifices feel small. The daily routine crowds in, and whatever elaborate spiritual blueprint I had imagined starts to crumble. Instead of feeling like a spiritual athlete, I usually feel like someone who packed too much for a hike and now has to carry it through sand.

Part of this comes from how complicated the Catholic world around Lent can feel. There are challenges, book lists, podcasts, and endless suggestions for how to maximize the season. None of those things are bad, but if you are wired like me, it can quickly feel overwhelming. My ADHD brain does not need twenty possible Lenten programs. It needs a path that is clear and walkable.

The Church, in her wisdom, already gave us one.

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