The Guilt That Comes With Rest

It rises up from the depths of my stomach into my chest and takes root. It spreads across my shoulders and into the base of my neck, my skull, behind my eyes. My mind whirrs like a machine, spinning, chugging, clicking with a million of thoughts.

Am I doing enough?

Did I do that well?

Am I enough?

I try and rest and find I am unable. My body cries out and aches with the soreness of constant movement. Movement in my head, my heart, my stationary position in front of screens. It screams at me to rest and I cannot. There is so much more to do, to write, to create.

If I do not do it, the guilt will choke me. Resting isn’t an option when you have so much to do. The guilt reminds me of that.

Will there ever be a time where I can rest without the guilt? Where I can truly practice what I preach and donate my time to self care? Not donate, perhaps, but assign, commit, devote.

How does anyone avoid the guilt? Is it a secret? Another language? A magic trick or perhaps a rusted key to a locked door? Tell me. I beg of you.

My breath is all I have to relax me. I let myself breathe and the breath helps. My body is soothed and reminded it is alive and can do this work. It must do this work.

What has happened to us where rest gives birth to guilt?

How can we change the narrative?

I often wonder what Death will ask. Will they ask if we did enough? Will they ask if we are satisfied with our effort? Will they be pleased we never rested?

Will we?