Rest as Resilience: Reframing Stillness as Strength
Stillness in Storms- Feb 15
- 8 min read
The Power of Rest as Resistance
Rest was never something I consciously thought about growing up. It wasn’t framed as necessary, nor was it ever modeled as something to embrace. My mother’s mental health meant she was either constantly in motion or unable to leave her bed for weeks at a time. My father worked endlessly, making it clear that work ethic was everything—that your job’s opinion of you mattered above all else. My grandparents, shaped by the Great Depression, valued self-sufficiency over stillness. They taught me that everything worth having required hard work.
But no one taught me how to rest.
It has only been in recent years that I’ve started to understand that rest is not just necessary—it is healing. This realization didn’t come as a sudden revelation but as a slow, quiet unraveling of the beliefs I had absorbed.
And yet, I still struggle with guilt when I rest. If my home is not clean, if tasks remain unfinished, it feels impossible to let go. It’s as if I have something to prove, even when no one is watching. The pull to be productive, to always be "doing," still lingers in my bones. But I am working on it—on recognizing the feeling as it comes, on speaking to myself differently. I remind myself that rest is not a failure, that my worth is not measured by how much I accomplish.
If rest were a landscape, I imagine it as an open field with the sun warming my skin, a gentle breeze shifting the air just enough to keep me comfortable. It could also be the hush of an oncoming storm, the sky blooming slate-colored clouds as the world stills in anticipation. Both hold space for quiet, for pause. For me, rest is learning to exist in those spaces without rushing to the next thing.
In a world that glorifies productivity, rest is often seen as a luxury—something to be earned, something easily sacrificed. But rest is not a reward. It is a necessity, a radical act of resilience, and for many of us, it is an unlearning.
For those who have spent their lives in survival mode, rest can feel foreign, even unsafe. The nervous system, conditioned to anticipate threats, resists stillness. The mind, wired to keep going, struggles with slowing down. But just as the land cycles through seasons of bloom and dormancy, so too must we honor our own rhythms.
In What My Bones Know, Stephanie Foo shares her journey of healing from complex trauma, describing how rest was not instinctive but necessary in reclaiming her sense of self. For many of us, deep rest is not something we were taught to value—it is something we must consciously choose.
The Cultural and Personal Weight of Overworking
Nature does not bloom year-round. The trees do not resist autumn, and the rivers do not fight against their frozen states in winter. Yet, in our modern world, we are expected to remain in a constant state of productivity, as if exhaustion is proof of our worth.
Many of us inherited beliefs about rest from generations that did not have the privilege of slowing down. Our ancestors—whether forced into labor, struggling for survival, or navigating systemic oppression—often equated stillness with danger, poverty, or irresponsibility. Rest, for them, was not a given but something stolen in small moments of reprieve.
For those of us carrying generational trauma, this belief can linger: the need to always be doing, achieving, proving our value. But when we reject rest, we reject the wisdom of the land. We forget that the soil, after being tilled and harvested, must also be left to rest so it can regenerate.
Overworking wasn’t something I was explicitly taught, but it was modeled in every aspect of my life. My father, my grandparents, the world around me—it all reinforced the same message: if you aren’t successful, you didn’t work hard enough. Struggle was personal, not systemic. If you failed, it was because you didn’t try hard enough.
But my mother was a brown child raised by a white family who may not have understood the complexities of navigating the world in her skin. There was no cultural preparation, no inherited knowledge of how to exist in a society that saw her as different. And so, rest—something that marginalized communities have often been denied—became tangled with shame. People of color are still labeled lazy when they take time to care for themselves, when they choose preservation over production.
That belief is ingrained, and it takes work to unlearn it.
One of the first moments that challenged this mindset was when I worked for a tribal nation. The pace was slower. The focus was on relationships and connection, not just productivity. It felt so foreign to me that I experienced anxiety—was I doing enough? Was I enough if I wasn’t constantly proving my worth through work?
It took time to realize that this way of being wasn’t wrong; it was just different. More human. More in alignment with the way life should be lived. Reconnecting with my culture has been part of that healing. Unlearning is just as important as learning.
The Nervous System and Rest: Why We Struggle to Be Still
Even when my body is still, my mind is not.
I’ve struggled with anxiety for as long as I can remember. As a child, nighttime was the worst. I saw shadow figures in the dark. I felt things living in my walls. Owls perched outside my window, their presence both eerie and strangely comforting.
As a teenager, I could only sleep if I was completely exhausted. When that wasn’t enough, I drank—excessively. In college, I stayed busy. I filled every moment with activity, with obligations, with distractions. It wasn’t that I couldn’t rest—I just didn’t have time for it. After college, the drinking continued until I passed out. It was the only way I knew how to turn my mind off.
Sobriety changed that. It stripped me of the numbing agents I had relied on for so long. But it didn’t make rest any easier. Even now, I struggle. My body fights relaxation. My thoughts race. The anxiety still lingers.
I’ve learned, though, that there are ways to ease myself into stillness. Counting objects in my surroundings when I feel overwhelmed. Focusing on my breath. Repeating small reassurances—I am safe, I am okay, I am not in trouble. Creating rituals—burning copal, drinking teas, listening to Choctaw songs. Sitting outside at dusk, watching the world quiet itself.
And it helps. It reminds me that rest is not an enemy.
Stillness is a part of every natural cycle. The bear in hibernation is not lazy; she is conserving energy, preparing for the demands of spring. The seed beneath the soil is not inactive; it is gathering strength, storing what it needs before breaking through the surface.
But for those of us who have lived in high-alert states—whether due to trauma, chronic stress, or societal pressures—true rest can feel impossible. The body remains wired, the mind continues racing, and even in moments of quiet, we may feel unsettled.
From a biological standpoint, this is the nervous system’s way of keeping us safe. When the body is used to being in fight-or-flight mode, slowing down can trigger discomfort. The key is to approach stillness gently—through breath, through grounding, through small moments of pause.
Reframing Rest as Strength
I used to think strength was about endurance. About pushing through, about never stopping. Now, I understand that true strength is knowing when to pause.
Strength is learning to be myself—fully, unapologetically. It is recognizing my own power and no longer being ashamed of it. It is making choices based on my own understanding, not out of fear or compliance with Western ideals of success.
Rest makes me stronger because it allows me to step back, to process, to make decisions with clarity rather than urgency. It reminds me that I do not have to respond immediately, that I do not always have to have an answer.
Nature teaches this lesson well. The earth, in its stillness, is never truly dormant. Beneath the surface, it is gathering, regenerating, preparing for renewal.
A tree bends in the wind, its branches snapping under the weight of the storm, but its roots keep it tethered. It rests, it recovers, and it grows again. Flexibility—knowing when to sway, when to root, when to let go—is what allows it to survive.
We, too, must redefine strength. It is not about how much we can endure but about how well we listen to our bodies, how we honor the need for pause, how we learn that slowing down does not mean giving up.
The land teaches us this. The rivers remind us that still water is just as necessary as rushing currents. The forests show us that nothing blooms all year. True resilience is found in balance, in the ebb and flow of effort and rest.
Practical Ways to Integrate Rest as a Resilient Practice
I am still learning how to rest, but I have found ways that work for me:
Grounding Rituals: Burning copal and sage, drinking tea, listening to music as the sun sets.
Plant Allies: Lavender, chamomile, cannabis, copal—each one supporting relaxation in its own way.
Intentional Slowing Down: Sipping a nonalcoholic drink, watching the kids play outside, creating art as an emotional release.
My Sacred Rest Practices: A dream of taking a week-long sabbatical, retreating into a space where I don’t have to speak, only observe. Traveling in a Winnebago, resting in different landscapes. More immediately, scheduling a massage or float therapy, slowly reintroducing myself to the world afterward, savoring the feeling of not being overstimulated.
Rest does not have to mean doing nothing. It can be active, intentional, and deeply connected to the earth. Here are ways to bring rest into your life while embracing land-based and plant-based healing:
Rest Rituals Rooted in Nature
Earthing: Walk barefoot on the ground to reconnect with the land’s energy.
Forest Bathing: Sit in a quiet natural space and simply observe. The stillness of the trees, the slowness of the wind—let it remind you that rest is part of the cycle.
Blue Space/Water Healing: Spend time near a body of water, listening to the rhythmic sounds of waves or a flowing creek.
Herbal Support for Rest
Plants have long been used as allies in calming the body and mind. Consider incorporating:
Chamomile, lavender, or passionflower tea to promote deep relaxation.
Mugwort or valerian root to support sleep and dream work.
Rose or hawthorn to nurture the heart and ease emotional exhaustion.
Journaling as a Rest Practice
Journaling can be a way to slow down and check in with yourself. Try:
Writing in the morning before engaging with technology.
Freewriting in the evenings as a release.
Listing three things each day that made you feel grounded.
Reflection and Call to Action
Rest is not an escape—it is a return. A return to ourselves, to the wisdom of the land, to the understanding that we are not meant to move at full speed, all the time.
Journaling Prompts for Readers:
What does rest mean to you?
What emotions arise when you allow yourself to slow down?
How can you begin to reframe rest as resilience in your life?
What parts of nature remind you to slow down?
If you struggle with rest, know that you are not alone. I invite you to reflect on these questions, to allow yourself even the smallest moments of stillness. Share your thoughts in the comments or within a journaling space.
For further reading:
Conclusion
May you give yourself permission to pause. May your stillness be a source of strength.
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