The Art of Doing Absolutely Nothing

            

            I’ve written before that I believe rest is a radical act of self-respect. I still do, but I’ve come to realize that knowing something in theory and living it out in practice are two entirely different things. Rest isn’t just difficult, it can feel threatening. In a world where our value is so often measured by output, choosing to rest can feel like opting out of worth itself.

I didn’t always feel this way. As a kid, rest was easy. I rested when I was tired. I fell asleep on couches mid-conversation, abandoned projects in favor of snacks, and spent entire Saturdays letting the day unfold without a plan. There was no shame in it. Somewhere along the way, though, I internalized the idea that I needed to earn my rest. That leisure had to be productive in disguise, like learning a new skill, reading for school, cleaning the kitchen while on a phone call. And if it wasn’t? Then it wasn’t valid.

College made this worse. I remember lying in bed one Sunday afternoon, watching the way the light moved across the wall, and feeling this strange, low-level guilt start to creep in. I had finished my assignments. There were no deadlines looming. Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I should be doing something. That if I didn’t fill the time, I was wasting it. I got up. I reorganized my closet. I needed to prove, to myself, to some invisible audience, that I wasn’t being lazy. That was the day I realized how deeply I had bought into the illusion of productivity.

And it is an illusion. Productivity, as we talk about it, is rarely about meaningful progress. More often, it's a performance of busyness, a way to make ourselves feel in control, or worthy, or less anxious about what might happen if we stopped. The truth is, I’ve never made my best decisions from a place of exhaustion. I’ve never come back from burnout with clarity or creativity. I’ve only come back depleted, slower, and more unsure of myself.

Learning to rest is ongoing work. For me, it has looked like:

• Taking walks without my phone and resisting the urge to count steps or turn it into a brainstorm session.
  
  

• Letting myself nap in the middle of the day without needing to justify it by pulling an all-nighter beforehand.
  
  

• Spending time with people I love without multitasking or checking my email in the background.
  
  

• Reading books for joy, not just for information or improvement.
  
  

• Canceling plans when my body says no, even if my calendar says I should say yes.
  
  

It doesn’t look impressive from the outside, but every time I choose rest, I choose to honor something deeper than productivity: my humanity. I’ve had to unlearn the idea that rest is lazy. That stillness is passive. That sleep is something you “get to” after a job well done. Now, I try to see rest as a space for restoration, not reward. And when I ignore that need, I pay for it. My thoughts get scattered. I become impatient with people I love. My creativity shrinks. It’s like trying to pour from an empty cup and then being mad at the cup for being empty.

This isn’t to say that work doesn’t matter. It does. I love being busy with purpose, but rest makes the work meaningful. Without it, even the most fulfilling tasks become burdens. And what’s the point of chasing goals if you never let yourself enjoy the process?

I’m still learning. I still have days where I chase the high of checking things off a to-do list, where I mistake motion for progress, and where I fall into the trap of comparison, looking at what others are doing and wondering if I’m doing enough. But more and more, I’m giving myself permission to pause. Because at the end of the day, I don’t want to be remembered for how efficient I was. I want to be remembered for how present I was. How deeply I lived. How much I loved, not just others, but myself enough to say: rest is a gift I give myself, not a privilege I have to earn.