On Rest

I’ve always been an active person. Not active in the physical sense, but active as in the opposite of quiet, incapable of pausing or resting.

In the seventh grade, I begged my mother for violin lessons, and she rattled off my roster of activities—academic team, student government, community theatre, piano and voice lessons, concert and church choirs, cheerleading (never mind that yelling was not compatible with my interest in singing, which is why I would abandon the hobby a few years later!)—and told me I was falling asleep in my homework at 10 p.m. nightly and absolutely could not handle another interest.

I realize now not only what a privilege it was financially and physically to be able to participate in all of those endeavors, but how, for me, activity was a coping mechanism, a carefully cultivated way of existing, to avoid being alone with my thoughts during a time when no one thought to question why a high-functioning, high-achieving teen also had violent mood swings, unpredictable crying outbursts, and stretches of sleep so long my parents were always convinced I had contracted mono.

I didn’t seek treatment for these issues until my mid 20s, when I would retreat to a co-worker’s couch crying on a daily basis, and she picked up the phone and dialed the number of her GP, a doctor who introduced me to anti-depressants and at whom I still wave in gratitude when I pass her running on the trails we both frequent near the Chattahoochee River.

And while years of medication and eventually therapy made me self-aware enough to know busyness was my primary coping mechanism for anxiety, I wasn’t really forced to confront it until the world shut down last March. Gone were the international press trips, weekend getaways for concerts or music festivals or distillery openings, the endless stream of appointments, the weekly Pilates and personal training sessions I was mostly too tired to do but felt obligated to maintain, the dinners out with friends, the running from coffee shop to coffee shop for work interviews. I embraced the slower pace, taking long walks with my dog every day, running consistently six days a week, jumping into online fitness classes when the mood struck me, driving to random neighborhoods each week for takeout, sleeping nine and ten hours a night, all a reset my body so desperately craved.

And then things slowly opened again, and I started adding to my calendar. Teaching online Pilates classes, meeting up with my trainer virtually, tacking on more weekly mileage, taking on more responsibilities in my part-time editor role, scrambling to make up for missed dentist and doctor’s appointments until every single minute of my day was planned again, with no more long stretches of time or pauses to research, write, dream, or even relax and just be.

This week, it broke me. Yes, I’m keeping busy. And I’ve had the luxury of housing, work, and health this past year. But things are not okay. Nearly 500,000 thousand Americans are dead, people in Texas are in crisis, the former president of the United States incited an insurrection and has yet to be held accountable, a vaccine seems imminent yet out of reach for so many, and yet, we’re still all working longer and harder, rarely pausing to reflect on these tragedies because not only would they break us mentally, but because our grind culture does not allow for rest. I know journalists who are continuing to work and report from Texas, all while they are without power and water and essentials and people are dying around them. It’s not normal, and yet this is our normal.

The weight of that is starting to impact me, physically. My body will force me to slow down, even when my mind wants to keep pushing, especially as I’m processing trauma (also do not recommend the trio of Promising Young Woman, I May Destroy You, and My Dark Vanessa during the same week). I woke up on Monday morning with a bad crick in my neck, pushed through an 80 minute run, a Pilates session, and writing work, only to wake up with worse pain on Tuesday morning. Three miles into my run, my back seized up, so much I cried out in pain (which scared my dog), but not so much I stopped running (I was still a mile from my car; it was cold and running was faster than walking). I went home, popped some Aleve and laid on my heating pad and still thought I would teach my lunch class before I forced myself to understand how completely irrational and unsafe that was. Sent a text to cancel my class, called my physical therapist for a dry needling session, and then turned off my laptop and watched the Great British Bake-Off all day.

I’m feeling better, but my body is still craving more rest. For runners, rest or “down” weeks are essential for preventing injuries, burnout, and overtraining, and I make sure I schedule one every two to three months. This year, my running down week coincides (on purpose) with a weekend anniversary trip to Savannah, and I’ve decided (in spite of two new assignments I just took on!) to make that same week a down week for other things: teaching, writing, pitching, doing. Recovery for the soul as much as the body.