I’ve never been good at doing nothing.
Not in the peaceful, legs-crossed-on-a-meditation-cushion kind of way. Not in the stretched-out-on-a-hammock-with-a-book-and-no-sense-of-time kind of way. When I try to do nothing, I somehow still end up doing something — like folding laundry that doesn’t need to be folded or reorganizing the freezer door by condiment height.
Even when I sit down with the clear intention of resting on my days off, I do it badly. I scroll through my phone while half-watching a show I don’t care about, while mentally making a grocery list I won’t remember later. I call it “unwinding,” but really, it’s more like knotting myself up in a slower, more passive way.
Some people make rest look effortless — like they were born with a natural ability to lounge. I admire these people. They don’t check their email on weekends. They read books without highlighting things. They can lie on the couch and just lie there. No guilt. No fidgeting. No sudden need to single-handedly place that oversized rug underneath the bed (this should have been a 4-person job).
I, on the other hand, am a restless sitter. A guilty rester. A person who takes a shower and thinks, I should be doing more with this shower.
I once tried to schedule an entire Tuesday for doing nothing. I blocked it off on the calendar as if it were a dentist appointment. “REST DAY,” I wrote in all caps. I pictured myself sinking into the couch with a blanket and emerging hours later spiritually healed and emotionally tan.
By 9:14 a.m., after dropping my son off at daycare, I had reorganized a drawer I hadn’t opened in six months.
By 10:03, I was wiping down the tops of door frames, which I didn’t even realize was something I did.
By noon, I had accidentally started a small home improvement project involving a trip to the hardware store, an inexpensive wading pool, and deep regret.
It’s like the moment I say, “I’m going to rest, my brain flips a switch: Now’s the perfect time to finally clean behind the fridge.” Or respond to that email I’ve been ignoring. Or research if ducks have ears (they do — I looked it up).
My version of “doing nothing” often looks suspiciously like “low-level productivity in sweatpants.”
And yet, I keep trying. Because I want to believe it’s possible. I want to know what it feels like to stare out the window and just… stare. Not plan. Not calculate. Not suddenly remember I’m out of butter.
I want to nap without shame. Sit without purpose. Wander around the yard without a rake in my hand.
That, to me, feels like the real luxury. Not a fancy trip. Not a high-thread-count life. But the ability to rest like someone who has nothing to prove.
So maybe I’ll never master the fine art of doing nothing.
Maybe my version of rest will always include a little light Googling and a snack I didn’t mean to make.
Maybe I’ll always be the kind of person who needs to tidy my son’s toys before I can relax near them.
But I’m learning that rest doesn’t have to be perfect to count.
Sometimes, it’s just sitting down before the to-do list is finished.
Sometimes, it’s leaving the dishes and letting the house hum quietly without me for a while.
Sometimes, it’s giving myself permission to be still — even if I fidget the whole time.
And if that’s what “doing nothing” looks like for me, I’ll take it.
Bad rest is still better than no rest.
And I can always clean behind the fridge tomorrow.
The CJBuzz 