There’s a voice in my head that sounds like a drill sergeant.
It barks things like:
“You’re being lazy.”
“You’re not following through.”
“If you keep taking ‘days off,’ you’re doomed to never be enough.”
I know that voice.
It’s old survival programming.
It came from the years when slowing down felt unsafe. When rest wasn’t recovery - it was evidence that I was broken. Evidence that I wasn’t trying hard enough to outrun depression, anxiety, suicidal thoughts. Evidence that I’d failed.
So even now, years later, choosing rest still feels like failure.
But today, I’m choosing it anyway.
Not because I’m on the edge of burnout. Not because I’m sick. Not because I’ve “earned” it.
But because I woke up not feeling like myself.
And instead of forcing my way through, I’m letting myself veg. Watch TV. Play dumb games. Sit in the quiet. Recharge.
Not as punishment. Not as proof that I’m broken.
As maintenance. As care. As trust.
Maybe you needed to hear this too:
Rest isn’t weakness.
It’s not laziness.
It’s not failure.
It’s human.
💬 Curious: When was the last time you let yourself rest without guilt? What would it take to let that be okay?
(Watching ‘Endeavour’, Kylie in my lap, air conditioning blasting so I can be under the covers in the middle of July)