What If Rest Isn’t Something You Earn?

For most of my life, I thought rest came after everything else was finished.

The work.

The house.

The responsibilities.

Whatever problem needed solving.

Whatever person needed something from me.

Then I could rest.

Except there was always something else.

So mostly, I didn’t.

I didn’t think there was anything unusual about this. I thought I was hardworking.

Responsible.

Driven.

Good at getting things done.

And I was.

I built a career where those qualities were useful. Working in emergency dispatch and later supervising security at a major oil sands operation, being alert and prepared mattered. I could stay calm when things went wrong. I anticipated problems. I noticed things other people sometimes missed.

I became very good at functioning under pressure.

What I didn’t understand was that I wasn’t leaving that way of being at work.

I had been living that way long before I had a career.

There Was Always Something to Do

When I eventually learned that I’d spent most of my life in survival mode, I started questioning some of the things I’d always considered personality traits.

Productivity was one of them.

I had always been doing something.

Working.

Planning.

Learning.

Fixing.

Starting another project.

Taking another course.

Thinking about what needed to happen next.

Being useful felt good.

More than good, actually.

Being useful made me feel valuable.

If I was needed, I had a place.

If I was accomplishing something, I wasn’t wasting time.

And if I kept moving, I didn’t have much opportunity to think about what was happening underneath all that movement.

Then I went on medical leave.

Suddenly, the work stopped.

You might think I rested.

I didn’t.

At first, I couldn’t do much of anything because my nervous system had completely collapsed. I couldn’t focus enough to read or write. There were periods when simply leaving the house felt impossible.

But as I became able to function again, I found other things to do.

Courses.

Learning.

Projects.

Anything that gave my mind somewhere to go.

Looking back, I can see something I couldn’t see then.

I knew how to stop working.

I didn’t know how to stop doing.

There is a difference.

Then I Started the Joy Quest

A few years later, after finally understanding how much of my life had been spent surviving, I started asking myself questions I’d never really considered.

What do I actually like?

What brings me joy?

What would I do if the only reason for doing it was that I wanted to?

That eventually became my Joy Quest.

I’ve gone fishing.

Sat beside rivers.

Taken road trips.

Driven ridiculous distances in search of apple fritters and cinnamon buns.

I’m starting to pay attention to clouds and birds and the feeling of a breeze against my face.

I’m discovering that I genuinely enjoy some very ordinary things.

And I’ve also discovered that I am exceptionally talented at trying to make joy productive.

I’ll suggest going somewhere and immediately think:

Is there an errand we can do while we’re there?

If I’m sitting beside a river:

Maybe I should bring my notebook.

If I take photographs:

I could use these for the website.

If I try something new:

This could make a good Joy Quest story.

Apparently even joy has trouble escaping my project-management department.

I’ve caught myself doing this enough times now that I’ve started laughing about it.

But underneath the humour is something I’m taking seriously.

Why is doing something simply because I enjoy it so difficult?

I’m Starting to Think I Know

For most of my life, doing nothing didn’t feel particularly safe.

Stillness left space.

And space allowed things I’d spent years avoiding to get louder.

Productivity gave me somewhere to put my attention.

It also gave me something I understood.

Accomplishment.

I knew how to measure that.

Did I finish the project?

Did I solve the problem?

Did I help someone?

Did I do enough today?

Joy doesn’t work like that.

Neither does rest.

You can’t really achieve sitting beside a river.

There is no performance review for watching a loon swim past you.

You don’t get bonus points for noticing an especially good cloud.

You just have to be there.

I’m discovering that being there might be harder for me than doing almost anything else.

Who Decided Rest Was a Reward?

I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately.

At what point did I decide rest had to be earned?

I don’t remember anyone sitting me down and explaining the rule.

Yet somehow I learned it.

Work first.

Responsibilities first.

Other people first.

Then, if there is anything left, you.

Except there often isn’t anything left.

There is always another thing that could be done.

Another email.

Another load of laundry.

Another chapter.

Another project.

Another way I could make myself useful.

If rest only happens when everything is finished, I could wait for it for the rest of my life.

I don’t want to do that anymore.

I Haven’t Figured This Out

I wish this were the part where I told you I’ve learned how to rest.

I haven’t.

I still negotiate with it.

I still attach errands to adventures.

I still occasionally turn a peaceful afternoon into research.

I still feel the little tug that says I should be doing something useful.

The difference is that now I hear it.

And sometimes I don’t listen.

Sometimes I sit by the water.

Sometimes I watch the birds.

Sometimes I take the long way home.

Sometimes I do something that accomplishes absolutely nothing beyond making me happy for an hour.

And I’m beginning to wonder whether those hours were ever wasted at all.

Maybe rest isn’t the reward for living correctly.

Maybe it’s part of living.

Maybe I don’t need to finish everything first.

Maybe I don’t have to justify an afternoon.

Maybe a day doesn’t need to produce anything to have been worth having.

I’m still learning that.

Slowly.

Which is probably appropriate.

Because turning learning how to rest into another thing I need to accomplish would be exactly the sort of thing I’d do.

So for now, I’m practicing something much smaller.

The next time I find myself sitting somewhere beautiful and my brain whispers:

You should probably be doing something…

I’m going to try answering:

I am.

A Question to Carry With You

When did you learn that rest was something you had to earn?

And if there were nothing left to prove, finish, fix, or accomplish today…

would you know how to let yourself rest anyway?