The Courage to Rest: Turning Toward Ourselves, Not Away

During the last two weeks in July, I rested. I didn’t just slow down or take it easy – I truly surrendered to my body’s recovery from COVID-19. While I was fortunate to have a mild case, there were still a few bumpy days and nights that required me to stop everything and listen closely. And with that, came a more replenished self, where my typical daily habits were replaced with restoration.

What surprised me the most was letting healing be the goal – not productivity, not progress – just healing. The canvas was clean – no longer cluttered by a to-do list or the need to feel productive, but rather, inviting me to dwell in the moment, to let the stillness do its work. And in that space, something felt different. Unlike other forms of rest, this was a long-overdue permission slip – a soft nudge to feel my body’s reaction to the virus without feeding it with fear, anxiety or overwhelm and to care for myself in a way that felt both tender and necessary. I began to notice the spaciousness beneath the noise, a quiet kind of clarity that came not from thinking, but from releasing.

It may surprise you to know that the human mind churns through thousands of thoughts a day — recent research suggests anywhere from 6,000 to 50,000 thoughts. When the unexpected arrives, those thoughts can accelerate into scenarios and stories about what might happen next. But in that week of illness, I discovered what it meant to really listen, moment to moment. To take refuge in healing. To let go. To let the body settle without the mind racing ahead to tomorrow’s worries or backtracking to yesterday’s regrets. This is the heart of mindful presence – resting in the direct experience of what’s here, right now. Creating space for whatever arises to be met with acceptance rather than resistance.

During this unexpected reprieve, two conversations arrived within days of each other – each exposing the very real cost of not slowing down. One with my dear gardener – who I’ve known for 30 years. He said softly, “I’m tired. I need to take some time off. But I don’t know how to tell my clients.” A day later, my electrician spoke with similar weight. His daughter had just returned to Honduras to finish her medical degree. And he said, with a catch in his voice and vulnerability, “Had I known her time was so short, I would’ve taken time off work so I would have been with her more.”

Both men – people whose dedication and humility I’ve long admired –opened a window into what often goes unseen. 

Both moments revealed the same invitation: the need for rest – and the opportunity to ask for it.

Both moments also held the same possibility — the chance to make intentional choices when we slow down enough to notice. Because being “on” often becomes a way of proving our worth. To show we’re reliable. Strong. Unshakeable. For many of us, we say ‘yes’ because we care – because it’s how we’ve been taught to show up. But when we pause and pay attention to what’s driving our yes, we interrupt the autopilot — and begin to reclaim our center of gravity, along with the power to choose how we truly want to show up.

It’s no wonder that in a culture of constant motion, we question whether the impulse to pause is even valid. We’ve absorbed the belief that our worth is tied to output — that stillness signals complacency or even irrelevance.

But what I discovered in those reflective July days — and what these conversations illuminated — was that rest isn’t a weakness. It’s the soil where a different kind of growth takes root. When we ignore that soil – when we keep pushing without pause – the cost isn’t always immediate, but it’s real. Sometimes it shows up as illness, emotional fatigue, regret, irritability or simply missing the moments we can’t get back.

And when we allow rest to take shape, something inside us begins to recalibrate. We feel our emotions, fully. Our thoughts arrive not as demands, but as welcome visitors. Our nervous systems – usually humming with low-level anxiety about what needs to be done next – begin to settle into a rhythm that matches the rest we have chosen.

There’s courage required in this kind of surrender. It means facing the uncomfortable truth that we are enough, even when we’re not producing. An uncluttered mind can listen more deeply, notice subtleties that emerge, pick up on what we’ve been too busy to feel — like fatigue, frustration, overwhelm, or the need for connection. 

When we catch those signals, we can respond with the kind of compassion that supports both ourselves and those around us. So often, the signals are there — but we override them. Had my gardener paused long enough to notice his exhaustion, perhaps he would have found the words to ask for rest before reaching a breaking point. Had the electrician felt the weight of his daughter’s approaching departure sooner, he might have made a different choice with his time. These aren’t failures — they’re reflections of how hard it is to tune in when we’re wired to push through. But they remind us what’s at stake when we don’t listen. And they show us how vital it is to create space — however small — for acknowledging what we need.

Now that I’m recovered, I find myself asking a few honest questions. What gets in the way of rest? What do we miss because we’re too busy proving our worth — guilt, fear of seeming unreliable, self-limiting beliefs? 

Sometimes it’s structural — rooted in the reality of needing to provide, to stay employed, to fulfill roles for others. Sometimes it’s personal — a sense that our value is wrapped up in doing, that we need to earn the right to pause. In both cases, the invitation is the same: to listen and respond to what’s truly calling us. 

Rest isn’t something we earn through exhaustion. It’s not a reward for grinding ourselves down — it’s what allows us to live in alignment with our values. And rest isn’t always about being still. Sometimes it means saying no, or choosing presence over productivity. Often, it means protecting your attention — because how you spend it shapes how you feel.

What returns is often what we’ve been missing all along: the capacity to turn toward ourselves with honesty. At its heart, rest is an act of courage — a willingness to listen to what’s here, what’s needed and what’s been patiently waiting, simply asking for our permission to say 'yes' to ourselves.

So, I’m curious — what comes up for you when you think about taking even a brief rest?