Seven Years of Working and I Forgot How to Rest

Photo by Ashley Byrd on Unsplash

This morning I woke up, had breakfast, changed the bedsheets, cleaned the floor, prepared some mint water, washed the dishes. Helper is on leave so I did what needed doing. By mid morning, I was standing in my room thinking — now what. Everything was done. Cupboards set. Clothes pressed. Kitchen wiped. And still this feeling, sitting quietly somewhere in the chest, that the day was somehow empty.

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I have been working for seven, eight years now. Before that I was lazy, honestly. Not in a bad way, just the way you are allowed to be when you are young and the world has not asked much of you yet. I never felt guilty about it. A slow morning was just a slow morning. Rest was just rest. Waking up early, being somewhere by a certain time, not even getting a proper moment to eat. Long hours, full days, a tiredness at the end of it that felt earned. And somewhere in all of that, without me noticing, the structure became the thing. Not just a routine. A feeling. Like the day had weight because I had carried something in it.

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Now it is vacation. I sleep a little later than usual and already there is guilt. I get up and make a small list in my head, something to clean, something to arrange, anything. Because if I do not, the day feels like it is slipping through without meaning. Summers do not help. Too hot to experiment in the kitchen. Too bright outside to feel like going anywhere. So it is just the room, the fan, a book maybe, an online course I keep meaning to start.

Photo by Bailey Alexander on Unsplash

I know this is what vacation is for. I know the body needs this. But I stood in my clean room this morning with nothing left to do and felt, strangely, like I had missed something. Not a task. Just the feeling of being needed somewhere. Seven, eight years of that will do something to you.