We’re told that rest is essential and 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 isn’t relaxing—it can trigger guilt, anxiety, and discomfort. 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 far too long—not productive, but also not truly resting. I notice a difference when I allow myself real rest—without distractions. My body feels lighter, my mind less chaotic. It’s a small but powerful shift. I’ve noticed that when I allow myself intentional rest, like reading a book or lying down with my eyes closed for a few minutes, I actually feel recharged rather than just distracted. This kind of ‘false rest’ leaves me feeling even more drained, mentally checked out, but not actually recharged.
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 terrible 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.
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: Rest is safe. Rest is 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 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.
Rest doesn’t have to be earned. It isn’t a reward for working hard enough. I remind myself of this when I take a guilt-free break, whether allowing myself an afternoon nap or simply sitting with a cup of tea, fully present in the moment. It’s something we all deserve. If slowing down feels difficult for you, try starting small. Take five minutes to breathe deeply, sit in silence, or step outside and notice the world around you.
Do you struggle with rest, too? What small ways have you found to make it feel safer? I’d love to hear from you.