One night this past week, as I was getting ready for bed, I had a thought that felt absurd and painfully familiar at the same time: What had I even done today? I immediately began defending myself in my own head. I reminded myself that I had gone grocery shopping, spent time with my mother, and finished a self-help video. I mentally assembled evidence to prove that my day had not been wasted. Then another thought followed: why was I explaining myself to myself? Why did I need to justify how I spent my time in order to feel deserving of rest? In this week’s blog, I want to talk about this strange relationship many of us have with rest and productivity, where exhaustion feels legitimate only when it has been visibly earned.
At this point, I am beyond burnt out. There is a house renovation happening in the background of my life. There is the emotional weight of an uncertain economy and war. There are everyday responsibilities, deadlines, worries, and decisions constantly taking up space in my mind. None of these thoughts consume me entirely, but together they create a quiet heaviness that rarely leaves. Lately, I have felt like I could sleep for days. Despite all of that, I still questioned whether I was “allowed” to feel tired.
That realization stayed with me because I know this pattern is bigger than one evening or one thought. Many of us were raised to believe that rest is reserved for collapse. Unless you are physically ill, overworked beyond measure, or operating at complete depletion, your exhaustion becomes negotiable.
You should push through. Be grateful. Keep going. Other people have it worse. I heard versions of those messages growing up, and some of them still linger.
For years, I believed there was something wrong with me because I needed more sleep than other people. Seven hours was never enough for me, but instead of accepting that, I treated my body like an inconvenience. I judged myself for being lazy before eventually learning more about nervous systems, stress, recovery, and individual biological needs. Today, I no longer feel guilty for needing sleep.
What I am still learning, however, is how to rest before my body forces me to. That distinction matters. For a long time, my worth was deeply connected to productivity. A good day was one where I had done enough, achieved enough, exercised enough, learnt enough, or helped enough people. Rest only felt acceptable after visible effort.
Even my relationship with exercise reflected that mindset. Missing a workout once made me feel restless and guilty, as though I had failed some invisible test. Over time, I began challenging those thoughts. I started allowing myself rest days without trying to compensate for them. I began questioning why movement had quietly shifted from self-care into proof of discipline, worthiness, and control.
Recently, after pushing myself too hard physically and emotionally, I strained a muscle. My body did what my mind refused to do: it forced me to slow down. As I sat with that, I realized that my over-functioning was tied to more than health. Part of it was validation. Part of it was trying to regulate anxiety through constant doing. Part of it was the illusion of control when other areas of life felt uncertain. The deeper fear beneath all of it was this: who would I be if I stopped performing usefulness all the time?
That fear is not mine alone.
Many people, especially women, are praised for how much they carry. Productivity becomes an identity. Being needed becomes self-worth. Rest starts to feel selfish, irresponsible, or unearned. Emotional labor rarely counts because it is invisible. Holding space for others, making decisions, worrying constantly, staying emotionally available, managing relationships, anticipating needs, none of it appears on a checklist, yet it drains the body all the same. We underestimate how exhausting it is to always be mentally “on.”
I saw this dynamic clearly in my mother, who grew up in a household where usefulness determined value. Rest was viewed as laziness. I later married into a family where some of those same beliefs exist in different forms. The message remains familiar: doing is rewarded, being is not. That conditioning does not disappear simply because we recognize it.
Even now, there are moments when I feel uncomfortable resting without explanation. Moments when I instinctively think I should be doing something more productive, more measurable, or more impressive.
Still, my definition of productivity is slowly changing. It is still difficult to practice. Even something as simple as taking a few days away can trigger guilt in me. I worry about rescheduling or cancelling calls with clients and whether stepping back will somehow make me less reliable or less available to the people who depend on me. Then I have to remind myself that I can only show up fully for others when I feel whole myself.
I am also learning to take what I can get when it comes to recovery. Recently, while trying to slow down, I came across a meditation session locally that combined clay work with sound therapy using the hand pan instrument. It sounded calming and creative, exactly the sort of thing my nervous system probably needed. Yet the moment I considered registering, the resistance began.
It’s Sunday, sleep in. It’s too early. You do not sleep early enough for this. You have work later, what if you are exhausted? What if you miss your alarm? The excuses arrived effortlessly. For a moment, I almost listened to them. Then I realized something: I had absolutely nothing to lose by going.
That felt important because old patterns rarely disappear quietly. The version of you that is used to surviving through over-functioning will almost always resist rest, softness, slowness, and care in the beginning. Even healing can feel unfamiliar enough to trigger discomfort. I registered for the session anyway.
I went, sat with clay in my hands, listened to the music, and spent a couple of uninterrupted hours simply existing without trying to optimize myself. I came home with no grand revelation, but with a much quieter nervous system and no regrets. Often, recovery begins in moments that are small.
Some days, productivity looks like working. Other days, it looks like spending quiet time with Coco, taking a real lunch break, catching up with a friend, or doing something that calms my nervous system instead of overstimulating it further.
I am beginning to understand that creating space in life is also a form of growth. Not every moment needs optimization. Not every hour needs to be monetized, tracked, improved, or justified. There is a difference between living and constantly trying to prove that your existence has value.
I spent much of my life believing my worth had to be earned through effort. Now, I find myself asking a different question: What would life feel like if rest did not require permission first? How can my definition of productivity include rest? I ask you the same questions and gently remind you that you can break the pattern of doing to spend more time being.
This is my small corner where I share what I’m still learning how to hold. Somehow, you might find parts of yourself in it, especially the messy and quiet ones you don’t always show. If you see yourself here, you’re not alone, because we are all working on coming home to ourselves.
My 5-minute guide for when you’re feeling overwhelmed, stuck, or lost. Reset your energy and reconnect with yourself. Bonus audio guide included. Available here: Energy Guide
All the best,
Chaitni