We’re told that rest is essential, that it’s how we recharge and heal. And yet, for many trauma survivors, rest doesn’t feel like relief—it feels like a threat. Sitting still, taking a break, or doing nothing can trigger guilt, anxiety, and even a sense of unease that’s hard to explain. This is because trauma often keeps the nervous system in a state of hypervigilance, making stillness feel unsafe.
For me, rest has always been complicated. I often find it hard to slow down because I’ve been conditioned to do instead of be. My brain constantly tries to convince me that I should be accomplishing something, checking something off my list, or being productive in some way. Even when I need it, taking a break can leave me feeling guilty, like I’m wasting time. But the irony is, when I ignore my need for rest, I often end up scrolling on my phone for way too long—still not productive, but also not truly resting. That’s what I’ve come to recognize as false rest—distractions that keep me from being present but don’t actually allow me to recharge.
In contrast, when I allow myself real rest—like reading a book or lying down with my eyes closed for a few minutes—I notice a difference. My body feels lighter, my mind less chaotic. It’s a small but powerful shift.
I didn’t always realize how deeply ingrained this was. As a child, rest was never modeled as something safe. My parents were addicts and weren’t around, so I took care of my younger brother. I didn’t have the option to slow down because I had responsibilities beyond my years. Then, in my foster home, rest was seen as laziness. The expectation was always to be doing something, and that mindset became second nature to me.
Slowing down felt unsafe, almost like I was inviting trouble. Even now, when I try to rest, I sometimes feel an internal panic, like I should be bracing for something bad to happen. The stillness makes room for emotions I’ve spent years trying to avoid. My body was wired to stay in a constant state of alertness, always anticipating the next demand or crisis. So when I try to rest, my nervous system resists—it feels unnatural, even wrong.
Trauma teaches the body and brain to equate stillness with vulnerability. If danger or neglect happened during moments when we weren’t on high alert, then rest becomes coded as unsafe. Over time, we learn to equate productivity with safety and stillness with threat. That’s why, even when life is no longer in crisis, our bodies and minds might still resist slowing down.
So, I stayed busy—because staying busy kept me from having to deal with what my trauma was bringing up. But the body can only run on empty for so long. If I don’t choose rest, my body will eventually choose it for me—in ways I can’t control. Over the years, I’ve realized that when I don’t give myself intentional rest, my body forces it on me in ways I don’t want—fatigue, burnout, irritability, or even getting physically sick.
Now, I remind myself daily that rest is safe and okay. I’m learning to notice the moments when I start feeling overwhelmed and give myself permission to pause before my body shuts down. One of the simplest ways I’ve started practicing rest is by stepping outside for a moment when the sun is shining. Something about feeling the sunlight on my skin makes resting feel easier—like I’m doing something good for myself, even if I’m just being still.
Reframing rest is part of the healing process. I try to tell myself: Rest is productive. Rest is healing. Rest is an act of resistance. It’s not something to be earned or justified—it’s something I’m inherently worthy of. When guilt creeps in, I ask myself: What would I tell an exhausted friend? Would I expect them to push through or offer them kindness and care? That same compassion belongs to me, too.
If rest feels hard for you, try starting small. Take five minutes to breathe deeply, sit in silence, or step outside and notice the world around you. Replace the thought “I should be doing something” with “This is something.” Little by little, we can teach our bodies that rest isn’t dangerous—it’s necessary.
If you struggle with rest, you’re not alone. It takes time to unlearn the belief that productivity equals worth. But healing means allowing yourself to slow down—because you deserve it.
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