The 45 Project, part 6: Rest

I woke up tired this morning. It was the particular deep fatigue of your body after a sprint, which is exactly what I feel like I’ve been doing. Several work and family trips unexpectedly landed in the same span of a few weeks, and during this time I’ve been officially over-extended. My to-do list is uncomfortably long with things I haven’t had time to address; the laundry is literally piling up; recently delivered packages sit unopened in the entryway.

It scares me to be this tired, because until a few years ago I lived in a constant forward lean — always doing something, and usually multiple things at once, in the name of productivity — that always led to a crash eventually. I got so good at the doing, that I’d get a little buzz from pushing hard, from getting more done than anybody expected, from juggling two phones and e-mails and someone standing at my office door and a meeting to get to and a crisis blooming and handling it all. On the flip side, even sitting still for a few minutes’ break felt like a betrayal of my to-do list. I would go go go, until a Saturday or Sunday (or both) I would wake up and simply not be able to do anything, not even change out of my pajamas. That day (or days) would be lost to the couch, and the man who delivered my Chinese food would be the only person I could manage to interact with. So when I feel this level of fatigue, it reminds me of that season of my life, and deep down I worry that my attachment to productivity makes me perennially at risk of slipping back into that way of living.

But as I reflect on today’s tired, I realize it is different. This is primarily physical tiredness. It isn’t mental, emotional, or spiritual exhaustion. It’s good old-fashioned physical fatigue. I will rest, and my body will recover. In the meantime, I’ll lower my expectations of what I can achieve.

“I will rest” and “lower my expectations” were foreign concepts to me in all those years in that forward lean. Then a few years ago, I burned out at work and put myself on sabbatical, taking three months off and promising myself I would spend it actually recovering, not planning what might be next. Even then, even with those wide open days to myself, I struggled to rest. I made little deals with myself: you can take a 30-minute nap if you go for a run first. Why? On a day when I could actually nap all afternoon if I wanted, I still timed myself; I still restricted myself, I still forced myself up no matter how exhausted I still was — so that I could be productive, even when I didn’t have anything to produce.

One particularly punishing day of this pattern, I finally figured out what was underneath my drive. My coach at the time kept asking me why I was pushing myself when I didn’t need to, and finally I blurted out “I don’t want to be marked down as lazy.” Wait. Marked down by who — and where is this mysterious record being kept? It was a moment where the behind-the-scenes workings of my mind — and the conditioning of our productivity-obsessed culture — were suddenly front and center. As I probed further, I realized consciously for the first time that I function throughout the day as if someone were watching me, as if I were perennially being judged. Who is this person doing the judging, who has been in the back of my mind invisible — but clearly with a lot of power? When I finally turned my full attention there, I pictured an old White man with a beard, rigid and demanding (imagine the energy of The Architect from The Matrix), and holding a clipboard where he kept a record of how productive I was each day. The thing that really struck me was that when I didn’t get a superhuman amount done in a day, his disdain for me was so intense as to be nearly unbearable. But when I did get a superhuman amount done in a day, falling into bed exhausted and still fully dressed, the strongest approval he could ever give me was a grim nod.

Once I saw him for the first time, I couldn’t stop seeing him. He was there frowning and reminding me how much there was to do every time I sat down on the couch, every time I laid down on the bed, every time I went to a yoga class instead of to my desk, every time I took a break. He was behind so many of my choices — choices that wore me out — as long as he was operating in the shadows. The more I noticed him and named his presence, the more power he lost. That doesn’t mean he’s gone away — to this day, five years later, breaks are still hard for me. I have to push myself to take them, track whether I’ve taken them, and reward myself for taking them. But I’ve been diligent. In those five years, I’ve practiced slowing down, resting, and putting my well-being in front of my to-do list, even when it’s uncomfortable (and it’s always at least a little uncomfortable).

This year, recovering from surgery and feeling my physical limits so acutely (see the June edition of this series), I feel like I finally got all that bumbling practice down into my bones. I had limits I could not ignore or push through — when my body was done, it was done, and rest was non-negotiable. I had to check in with myself and see how I was really doing throughout the day. I had to really listen to my body, to stop when it needed to stop, and to take rest seriously, if I wanted to heal.

I’m grateful that I have practiced caring for myself enough that I’ve finally figured out some things about how to do it. When I woke up tired this morning, with a new week and all its attendant responsibilities ahead of me, I couldn’t lie back down, but I didn’t have to push through either. I wrote in my journal about how I was feeling and asked myself what I wanted and needed. By the time my Bear woke up, I’d figured out a few things I could ask him to help me with. I could clear enough space to make myself a bowl of porridge and a big cup of hibiscus tea, which is what came up in my journaling session. I could make a plan to go to bed early tonight, to build in a bit of rest time during the day, and to map out some fully restorative time. I could give myself permission to move slowly. I could trust that I can show up just as I am and with just the energy level I have today and hold space for my clients, without trying to prove anything to myself or to them. I will rest, and lower my expectations for what I can achieve today. The old man with the clipboard doesn’t go away, but most of the time these days he’s not in charge.

This is part of a monthly series, The 45 Project, reflecting on my first 45 years — find the first five installments here.