I used to think stopping meant failing — like if I wasn’t grinding, I was falling behind. Burnout hit hard: headaches, numbness, forgetting why I even started. The guilt was louder than exhaustion. What changed? A therapist asked me, “Who told you your worth depends on output?” I had no answer. So I started small — 10 minutes of doing nothing, then 30, then whole afternoons. At first, my chest tightened like I was stealing time. But slowly, the quiet didn’t feel like loss — it felt like repair. I learned rest isn’t earned; it’s required. Now, when guilt creeps in, I remind myself: trees don’t apologize for shedding leaves in winter. Neither should I. My value isn’t tied to productivity. Healing isn’t lazy — it’s the only thing that lets me show up fully later. Still hard sometimes. But now, stillness doesn’t scare me. It saves me.
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You mentioned feeling guilty when you rest—why does stopping feel like failing? I used to tie my worth to output, too. What helped me was scheduling rest like a client meeting: non-negotiable, blocked off, labeled “energy renewal.” At first, I’d fidget through it. But slowly, I noticed I returned sharper, kinder—even to myself. Try this: pick one 20-minute window this week. Call it “maintenance,” not “break.” Sit with tea, stare out a window, or lie down—no screens, no “shoulds.” If guilt creeps in, name it: “Ah, there’s the old productivity guilt.” Don’t argue, just note it. Rest isn’t stolen time—it’s infrastructure. You wouldn’t skip oil changes for your car and call that efficiency. Your mind needs tune-ups, too. Start small. Protect that sliver of stillness like it’s a paying gig. Because in a way, it is: you’re investing in your capacity to show up fully later.
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Honestly, I’m obsessed with this spicy tofu bowl lately—kinda weird ‘cause I used to hate tofu. But now? Can’t get enough. Sauce is fire, rice soaks it up perfect. Lunch game changed.
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