It’s strange how easily we forget we’re human. That we were never meant to perform endlessly, never built to stretch ourselves thin in the name of being “good enough.” I didn’t notice it at first, the way my days filled to the brim, the way my body stiffened in protest. Rest became something I had to earn, prove I deserved. And by the time I realized I was unwell, I’d long been applauded for the very pace that was breaking me.
My body began to rebel in ways I couldn’t ignore. Back pain that anchored me to my bed, illnesses that showed up like clockwork, anxiety pressing in like a weighted fog. I was exhausted, but still convincing myself I hadn’t done “enough” to justify a break. The idea of slowing down felt indulgent, even weak. But what if the real strength is in the slowing?
There’s something radical about choosing rest. Especially in a world that rewards your productivity more than your presence. It felt like swimming against the current… canceling plans, letting dishes sit in the sink, leaving texts unanswered until I had the capacity to respond with intention rather than obligation. I had to unlearn the lie that rest is laziness, and instead learn that rest is how we reclaim our wholeness.
Emotionally, the hardest part was the guilt. That gnawing feeling that if I paused, I would be perceived as less capable, less motivated, less worthy. But that guilt didn’t come from truth. It came from a culture that equates value with output, a world that expects you to be everything to everyone while asking nothing of yourself.
So I started small. Saying no without apology. Letting silence stretch a little longer. Making space to breathe without rushing to fill it. I began tending to the kind of rest that doesn’t just restore your energy, but your sense of self. The kind that makes you feel like you again, not the version of you that gets things done, but the version that remembers what matters.
And what I’ve come to understand is this: choosing rest isn’t giving up, it’s rising up. It is resistance in its softest, fiercest form. In a world that worships urgency, choosing stillness is a rebellion. It’s a refusal to be emptied for approval, a complete act of self-devotion. It’s saying: I will not sacrifice my body for productivity. I will not trade my peace for performance. I will not abandon myself to be more digestible to a world that thrives on burnout. Rest is not a luxury. It is your right. And reclaiming it unapologetically and intentionally, is how you begin to remember who you are.
In choosing stillness, you’re not falling behind, you’re finally catching up to who you were always meant to be.
Reflective Question:
What would change if you stopped trying to prove your worth and started honoring your need for rest?
Still Becoming 