I’m terrible at resting. I find it almost impossible to not be doing things. As I write this, I’m incapacitated by flu, and, oh, hey, I’m voluntarily working on this piece. “Why don’t you know how to rest?” is something my husband asks me frequently. I have several answers to this question.
Because I have too much to do. Because I have ADHD and my brain won’t sit still even if my body tries to. Because I was raised by a mother who refused to rest, even when she was ill (including after she had a heart attack) - “I’ll be alright,” is still her mantra, and I think it’s inevitable that I internalised the idea that carrying on no matter what was a virtue. (Side note: I love my mother, my issues are not her fault, I have a post sitting in drafts with the working title They F*ck You Up, Your Mum and Dad on this very topic, which I expect will come at you in couple of weeks - hit the subscribe button if that sounds like your vibe.)
I’ve been battling this cold/flu thing for about a week. (By the way, I still don’t really know the difference between a cold and the flu. For years, I thought flu was just a bad cold. I now understand that that’s incorrect. But I’m not any clearer on what it is. I am achy and shivery - does that mean flu? I’m also stuffy, with a chesty cough and a sore throat though - is that a cold? Who knows. If you do, please tell me. Either way, right now, I can promise you, I am super sexy.) The unidentified illness was generously gifted to me by my son’s nursery. First he got sick from socialising with the other little germ factories, then, because he is three-years-old and loves nothing more than to cough directly into my face, it was inevitable that I followed suit a few days later.
I could have put myself to bed on Monday and got better. I could even, after failing spectacularly to get any actual work done on Monday and ending up in a miserable ball on the sofa while the kids took turns to walk plastic toys over me (pretending to be a bridge, and also the grumpy dinosaur that lived underneath it that the toys should endeavour not to awaken as they crossed the bridge lest it roar loudly at them, was the only game I could manage by this point), have realised the futility of staring at my computer screen while willing myself to be productive and put myself to bed on Tuesday. Reader, it is now Friday and my husband has only just managed to succeed in packing me off to bed. Although, as mentioned, he’s not succeeded that well, because he doesn’t know that I’m sitting up in the chair next to my bed and writing this article.
What is wrong with me?!
I have no real explanation for Monday to Thursday. Apart from that I’m the co-founder of a business and there are people relying on me to get stuff done. However, I work with the most wonderful team on the planet who would have been thoroughly in favour of me going to bed if I’d said, “Hey, I’m feeling rough, I’m going to take a day or two off.” I did not say that. My business partner subscribers to this newsletter and I can already see her reading this and rolling her eyes and agreeing wholeheartedly that, yes, I should have just gone to bed. I know, logically, that resting sooner means recovering quicker and, ultimately, being more productive. The business in question is a diversity and inclusion consultancy and we tell our clients this all the time. I tell our clients this all the time. Why am I so incapable of following through on my own advice? Guilt, I suppose. Shame. Women, especially entrepreneurs, especially mothers, especially mothers who are entrepreneurs and also creatives, are supposed to be hard-working, self-sacrificing, we are supposed to push on through. It is a badge of honour, says society, to be exhausting yourself in service of your responsibilities. Resting is decadent and selfish and indulgent. It’s lazy. It’s irresponsible. It’s failure. That is the message that I, your friendly neighbourhood over-achieving, people-pleasing organic container for the emotion of never-feeling-good-enough, have deeply internalised.
But, as far as the rest attempt currently underway, and currently not succeeding, goes, I want to say that I did try to rest today before I pulled the laptop out. I lay down. I turned the lights out. I put my phone away. Then I turned the light back on because I didn’t want to strain my eyes reading the retrieved phone in the darkness. I put the phone back, lay down, closed my eyes, opened my eyes again, read a book for a bit, then put the book down because I was supposed to be resting. Then I picked my notebook up because I’d had an idea I wanted to capture. Then I lay down, closed my eyes, found myself scrolling on my phone again. After performing this fidgety dance for about 30 minutes, I thought I might as well sit up and use the time productively. (Yes, I know, but since I wasn’t going to rest anyway…)
While all this was going on, my cat was snoring at my feet. She does not have a problem with rest. She is an expert. Cats do not feel they have to work hard to justify resting. They do not think they should be busy doing other things. Rest is their main occupation - cats sleep for around 15 hours a day. They spend the rest of the day eating and demanding attention. They may go out for a short stroll if they feel like it. And they’re so bloody happy. My cat is at her most joyful and content when she is at rest. You can hear it in the deep purr she emits when she’s curled up comfortably, preferably being scratched behind the ears. I want to feel that deeply content - I want to be able to give myself up to my own relaxation and enjoyment so completely that my soul emits that kind of purr. I feel pretty far away from that right now.
Why is rest so dull?
It occurred to me that the main problem with this whole rest idea, is that it’s not actually that fun. I’m not good at sleeping in the middle of the day, my body just won’t do it. My husband can go for a quick 20-minute nap on his lunch break and I am both baffled and awed by this. I could never fall asleep quickly enough to pack enough time actually being unconscious into that 20 minutes to make it worthwhile. And, once asleep, I’m not sure I could then get up again after 20 minutes. But he can. It’s magical. He wakes up refreshed and ready for the afternoon. I would do no work for the rest of the day. But when I’m ill and not supposed to be working, I still can’t sleep. I just lie there, in a darkened room, bored out of my tiny, over-active ADHD brain.
I used to hate being packed off to my bedroom when I was ill as a child. Can’t I play a game? Can’t I do some writing? Can’t we go to the playground? “No, you’re supposed to be ill,” was always the response. I find myself repeating the same sentence to my daughter. When she’s insisted that she can’t possibly go to school because she’s too poorly, and I have settled her down with a makeshift bed fashioned from cushions and blankets on the sofa. She will lie there watching TV, looking wan and listless as a Victorian lady with a chill, until precisely 30 minutes have elapsed since she should have walked into her classroom. Then she will sit up brightly and say, “Can we go to the playground?”
No, you’re supposed to be ill.
There’s an accusation in there, isn’t there? Supposed to be implies, I don’t really believe you. Or at least, I’m suspicious of you. You’re probably trying it on. You’re probably just skiving off. If you’re really ill, you’ll lie still doing nothing. All day.
I mean, no wonder we grow up hating rest.
As soon as you make the statement, I’m not well, you’re anticipating being disbelieved. Or at least feeling that you have to justify being not well enough to take time off. I think part of my failure to rest sooner this week stems from a sense that I couldn’t justify it. I wasn’t feeling bad enough. I could get out of bed, I could move around, I was actually quite happy doing quite a lot of things as long as I didn’t push myself too much. So surely I was actually fine? Surely it would have been totally unreasonable to not get work done or ask my husband to take over more of the housework and childcare when I wasn’t really that bad. (What constitutes that bad? Who knows. A leg falling off? A heart attack? I’m not sure what my personal threshold is - if I hit it, I’ll let you know.)
Then there’s the expectation that, if it really is that bad, then you can’t have any fun. You need to lie still, in a dark room, and either sleep or just stare at the ceiling. You can’t do anything you enjoy - if you’re active, you must not be that ill. You can do all the other things you’re meant to be doing right now. When did rest become punitive? And how can we expect ourselves to engage with it if we insist on making it so miserable?
Rest that makes your soul purr
Here’s the thing - rest doesn’t have to mean sleeping or lying still or just generally powering down. Rest and recovery is giving yourself a break. It can involve doing fun stuff, because that’s the stuff that fills your cup and revitalises you. Resting doesn’t have to be an absence of doing, it just has to be doing stuff that will make you feel good. Energised, fulfilled, joyful… just, you know, less shit.
This is the pep-talk I gave myself to bestow permission on myself to do some writing. But I’m still feeling bad about it. Bad that I’m doing something fun while my husband has taken the day off work to look after our son. Bad that I’m indulging myself instead of playing with my child. Yet I also know that I’m not capable of looking after, or playing with, my human energy ball right now. I’m not capable of working, or cleaning, or anything else that requires sustained effort. Not that writing isn’t effort, but when you’re writing something that feels deeply within you, when the words are already running around in your mind and all you have to do is pin them onto the page, and when all of that feels therapeutic and uplifting, it doesn’t take the kind of energy that a rampaging toddler demands.
I’m not saying I’ve now completely nailed rest. This is my second deviation from the “will you just go and take it easy” instruction from this morning. The first time, I decided I would take a bath because that would soothe my aching muscles and make me feel a bit more human. Maybe it would re-energise me a little. So I went to the bathroom, and I thought that the bath could probably do with a clean first. Then I remembered that I hadn’t cleaned the toilet this week. Long story short, my husband brought me a cup of tea to drink in bed and found me scrubbing the bathroom. He gave me a look that I have become well accustomed to, which says, with all the love and support in the world, “there is literally no hope for you”. And maybe there isn’t. I’m not going to get good at this overnight. But, however much all my basic drives might insist that I should keep going and going no matter what, I do recognise on a logical level that that’s not true.
I know I do better work when I’ve rested and replenished my energy levels. I know I’m a better parent when I’ve nurtured myself and met my own needs. I know I’m a better wife, friend, daughter when I’m not exhausted and run down. And even as I write this, I realise I’m still trying to justify it. That even the wellness movement that has grown up around encouraging women to rest and take care of themselves still couches it in the benefits for everyone else. You’ll have more to pour into others if you fill your own cup first. But, actually, it’s ok to just fill your own cup. And then stop there. Drink it all yourself. Then fill it up again. We have to stop predicating women’s wellbeing on the value to everyone else.
Even wellness culture, all the shiny Instagram influencers with their perfect pony tails and green juices, all the magazine articles, still glamorise burnout. I’ve seen so many social media posts from other entrepreneurs talking about how they’ve experienced terrible burnout, listing all the huge achievements, important speaking engagements and high-demand services that got them there. It’s dressed up as a cautionary tale - don’t let yourself suffer like I did - but it just reads like a brag about how busy they’ve been and how successful they are. To be honest, if your burnout can be solved by a two-week trip to the Maldives - from where you can post daily to Instagram about your recovery - then I’m not completely convinced that you are truly burnt out. (I have read pieces from people on genuine burnout - it’s nothing so glamorous and the road to recovery is much slower and more challenging. I’m glad there are people speaking about the real thing, and I don’t want to deter anyone from talking about their experiences, but if we’re going to talk about mental health then let’s at least be realistic about it.) All this talk just fuels the societal narrative that busyness is a virtue, and the martyrdom of suffering for it is to be applauded.
Let’s stop telling the story that life is something to suffer through. That working yourself to the bone and giving all of yourself to others is the saintly thing to do. We didn’t develop that idea out of nowhere - of course the system we live in wants us to think that way. If we’re killing ourselves working round the clock for the corporate machine - woohoo, higher profits for the shareholders (probably no raise for you, though). If we’re draining ourselves trying to be all things to our kids on our own - woohoo, the government doesn’t have to invest money in childcare or other essential services; it gets all this vital labour for free. More bombs and overpriced houses for everyone, I guess. And higher salaries for MPs. Definitely a higher priority than feeding kids.
I’m aware, at the same time, that rest is often a privilege. I am lucky to be able to afford childcare, to have a mother who lives locally and is more than willing to look after my kids, to have a partner who does their fair share of the childcare and is happy for me to take time to myself when I need it. Sometimes it seems unreasonable to take advantage of these things when others don’t have them. But we don’t make the world better for others by making our own suffering match theirs. We make it better by giving ourselves what energy and resources we can to fight for it to be better for everyone. To campaign for more investment in childcare (and less in bombs and MP benefits), for example.
Your job on this planet is not to serve others. Your task, as a soul having a human experience, is to soak up everything that being alive has to offer. To experience as much joy, and curiosity, and pleasure and excitement as you can pack in. Yes, it’s a more positive human experience when we’re part of communities and families (blood or chosen) and when we give to each other, but not when we crush ourselves into the ground for other people to step on. Yes, most of us need to work to facilitate the good stuff, but if you’re working so much that there’s no time for any of the good stuff then it’s not worth it.
You deserve to rest, and you deserve for that rest to be enjoyable, and as invigorating or nourishing as you wish it to be. Even if you’re not feeling great. It’s still ok to have fun when you’re not feeling great. It’s actually more important to have fun - this is how we get better. Or even if you’re actually feeling totally fine, and you just fancy a day off. Call in sick, tell your boss you’ve got a cold, you’re a grown-up now, no one can say you’re not. (Do not do this too often and then blame me when you get called in for a disciplinary, please.) The point is, there’s no one for you to justify it to, and nothing to justify. Rest, relaxation, self-care and leaning into happiness are vital components of life, and you need to engage with them when you feel the need, wherever you can. God knows it’s not always easy - my three-year-old came in about five times while I was having that bath I told you about (although once was to give me one of his rubber ducks because he was concerned that I didn’t have a toy in my bath, and that was pretty cute). And when he left, I heard him screaming at his dad about something, which descended into him crying, “I want my mumma!” It wasn’t especially relaxing, but I did feel physically refreshed afterwards. So maybe it wasn’t perfect, but it was worth it.
Sometimes you just have to give yourself the day off. You have to accept that either the thing won’t get done until next week or you’ll have to delegate. Sometimes you just have to stick the kids with someone else for a bit. You might have to deal with them crying when you leave, but every time I’ve walked out the door with sobbing children pulling so hard at my heart strings that I can feel them ripping, five minutes later the father, grandparent or nursery staff member that I have left them with will send me a picture of them beaming brightly and playing happily. They’re actually fine. Sometimes you just have to say to hell with the dishes and the dusting and the laundry, and deal with it another day. (I am quite good at this one - why do you think my toilet hadn’t been cleaned all week?!) Sometimes you just have to let it all go. You’re more important than a clean toilet or a tidy email inbox. You owe it to your soul to see it gets the most it can out of this life. Take a nap, read a book, paint a picture, go for a walk. Whatever rest looks like to you, do it - not because it will give you the energy to do all the other things you want to do in life (although it will); do it purely for the joy of experiencing your soul’s purr.
Ok, I’ve convinced myself. I might try giving this a go.
Wow, Allegra, this hits home. I can’t cat-nap either. And I feel so seen with this: “I lay down. I turned the lights out. I put my phone away. Then I turned the light back on because I didn’t want to strain my eyes reading the retrieved phone in the darkness. I put the phone back, lay down, closed my eyes, opened my eyes again, read a book for a bit, then put the book down because I was supposed to be resting. Then I picked my notebook up because I’d had an idea I wanted to capture.”
This was great Allegra! I particularly loved the point you made about resting/filling up for ourselves not in order to aid more ‘pouring’ out to others. I also like the reframe of rest as being something that you do that is enjoyable. Wishing you better! xx