The Morning I Decided to Actually Rest

I have been in motion for so long that stopping feels like something I need permission for.

I noticed it one morning in early May. I had gotten up at 5 AM — habit, autopilot — made my coffee in my corner, and sat down. And then instead of immediately opening something to check, something to do, something to manage — I sat there. I looked at the window. The light was coming in at the particular angle it gets at 5:30 in May when the sun is higher and warmer than it was in winter. And I just... watched it.

For maybe five minutes I watched the light move.

And my brain, which has been running the tabs for longer than I can accurately calculate, said: oh. We can stop. Briefly. This is allowed.

I have been relearning rest. Not the collapse that happens when you have run out of everything and your body just quits on you. That is not rest — that is shutdown. I mean intentional rest. Chosen rest. Rest that you schedule and protect and take without apology.

My hammock chair helps. There is something about being held in something that swings slightly — it is impossible to be in a hurry in that chair. You get in and the chair says: we are not rushing from here. The physics of it require stillness. I accept this requirement.

May mornings in my corner. Coffee made, window light, chair swinging slightly, no agenda for this specific ten minutes — just being a person who exists and breathes and does not have to produce anything for exactly this long.

I want this for you. I want you to find your version of this. A chair, a window, a porch, a corner of your kitchen before everyone wakes up. A place where you can exist without being useful for a few minutes.

You have been useful for so long. You are allowed to just be.

Buckle up, buttercup. Rest is not laziness — it is maintenance. Take care of the vehicle.