What Rest Actually Looks Like When You're Always Tired

I have a full-time job, and most days include overtime I actually choose, because the extra pay adds up and I’m not going to pretend that doesn’t matter to me. By the time I’m done, tired isn’t really a feeling anymore. It’s just the default setting.

For a long time I thought resting meant waiting until I collapsed into it. Like I had to earn it by pushing until there was nothing left to push with.

I don’t do that anymore. If it’s time to rest, I let myself have that choice. Not after I’ve proven I deserve it. Just because I said so.

That means saying no more than I used to, and actually meaning it. It means telling someone, even just myself, that I’ve reached my limit instead of quietly pushing through it and paying for it later.

Rest doesn’t look like one specific thing for me. Some days it’s a book I’ve been meaning to get back to. Some days it’s drawing on my iPad, losing an hour to a pattern app I really like, not because I’m making anything important, just because my hands want to be doing something calm. Sometimes it’s playing with my cat until neither of us has anywhere better to be. Sometimes it’s a nap I don’t apologize for. Sometimes it’s just eating something I actually want, not something efficient.

None of it is productive. That’s kind of the point.

I’m not superwoman, and I stopped expecting myself to act like one. Giving myself rest isn’t a reward I have to earn. It’s a gift I give myself because I’m allowed to.

Tired isn’t a problem I have to solve. Sometimes it’s just information, telling me it’s time to stop.