I remember sitting at my desk last Tuesday, staring at a color-coded spreadsheet that was supposed to “optimize” my life. I had everything mapped out—twenty-minute blocks for reading, forty-five minutes for deep work, exactly twelve minutes for a “mindful” lunch. It looked perfect. It looked like the kind of life a successful, put-together person lives. But I felt like I was suffocating. I was so busy scheduling the life I wanted that I had completely forgotten to actually live the one I currently have.
It’s a strange trap we’ve built for ourselves, isn’t it? This obsession with being “on” all the time. We treat our days like we’re trying to squeeze every last drop of juice out of an orange, but half the time we’re just getting the bitter pith and wondering why we aren’t happy. I’ve spent years in this cycle. Wake up, check the list, feel the weight of it, push through, and collapse. Rinse and repeat. But lately, I’ve been trying something different. I’ve been trying to be… well, a bit less productive. And honestly? It’s been the hardest thing I’ve ever done.
The Guilt of the Empty Hour
We don’t talk enough about the guilt. That nagging, itchy feeling in the back of your skull when you’re just sitting on the porch watching the birds. You know the one. It whispers that you should be doing laundry, or checking emails, or finally cleaning out that junk drawer in the kitchen. We’ve been conditioned to believe that if we aren’t producing something—whether it’s money, a clean house, or “content”—we’re failing.
I felt it yesterday. I had an hour between meetings where, for once, I didn’t have a pressing task. My first instinct wasn’t to rest. It was to find a task. I actually walked around my house looking for something to fix just so I wouldn’t have to admit I was “idle.” It’s exhausting. We’ve turned hobbies into side hustles and relaxation into “self-care routines” that feel like just another chore.
But here’s the thing I’m starting to realize: that guilt is a liar. It’s a byproduct of a world that values us as machines rather than humans. When I finally forced myself to just sit down with a cup of coffee—no phone, no book, just the steam rising off the mug—it took about ten minutes for my heart rate to actually settle. Ten minutes of feeling anxious before I could finally just… be. That’s a long time to wait for a moment of peace.
The Aesthetics of Slow Living vs. The Messy Reality
If you look up “slow living” online, you’ll see a lot of beige linen, sourdough starters, and perfectly sunlit kitchens. It looks expensive. It looks curated. But for most of us, that isn’t reality. My version of slowing down involves a sink full of dishes and a pair of sweatpants I’ve worn three days in a row. It isn’t always pretty.
True slow living, at least the way I’m finding it, is about reclaiming your attention. It’s about deciding that not everything needs an immediate response. It’s realizing that the world won’t end if you don’t answer that text for three hours. It’s a quiet, often messy process of setting boundaries with yourself.
Finding Joy in the Mundane
I used to hate doing the dishes. I’d rush through them, splashing water everywhere, just to get back to the TV or my computer. Now, I try to treat it as the only thing I’m doing. I feel the warmth of the water. I listen to the clink of the plates. It sounds incredibly cliché, I know. I can hear myself saying it and I’m rolling my eyes a little bit too. But there’s a strange dignity in doing a simple task well without trying to “multitask” your way through it.
We’ve been told that “boring” is the enemy. We have podcasts for our commutes, music for our showers, and scrolling for our elevators. We never give our brains a chance to just wander. Some of my best thoughts—the ones that actually feel like *me*—usually happen when I’m doing something profoundly uninteresting, like folding socks or waiting for the kettle to boil. When we kill the boredom, we often kill the wonder along with it.
The Social Cost of Saying No
There’s a social price to pay for this, though. People get used to you being the “busy” one. They expect the quick reply. When you start pulling back, when you start saying, “I can’t do that this weekend,” or “I’m not checking my phone after 7 PM,” it makes people uncomfortable. Sometimes it makes them angry.
I’ve had friends ask if I’m “okay” because I haven’t been as active in the group chat. I am okay. In fact, I’m better than I’ve been in years. But in a culture that treats “busy” as a badge of honor, being “available” and “slow” can look like a crisis. It’s a weird social dance. You have to be okay with being the one who isn’t “in the loop.” You have to be okay with missing out on things.
FOMO (Fear of Missing Out) is real, but I’ve been leaning into JOMO—the Joy of Missing Out. There is something deeply satisfying about knowing there’s a party or an event happening and consciously choosing to stay home and read a book that has nothing to do with personal development. Just a story. Just for fun.
Relearning How to Listen to Your Body
For a long time, I treated my body like a vehicle I was driving into the ground. I’d ignore the headaches, the back pain, the burning eyes. I’d just drink more caffeine and keep going. I thought that was what it meant to be “driven.”
Lately, I’ve been trying to actually listen when my body says “stop.” Not “stop and take a five-minute break,” but “stop for the day.” It’s a terrifying thing to do when you have a deadline or a list of chores. But I’ve noticed that if I don’t listen when the message is a whisper, my body will eventually scream. And a scream usually looks like a week-long burnout where I can’t even look at a screen without feeling sick.
- Physical cues: That tightness in your shoulders isn’t just tension; it’s a signal.
- Mental fog: When you read the same sentence four times, you aren’t being “lazy”—your brain is full.
- Emotional volatility: If a dropped spoon makes you want to cry, you’re past your limit.
I’m learning that rest isn’t something you earn after you’ve worked hard enough. Rest is a biological requirement. You don’t make a car “earn” its gasoline; you just put it in so the car can go. Why do we treat ourselves with less logic than we treat our Toyotas?
The Myth of the ‘Fresh Start’
We always think we’ll start living better “next week” or “after this project is done.” I used to say that all the time. “Once this month is over, I’ll take a weekend off.” But there’s always another month. There’s always another project. If you wait for the perfect time to slow down, you’ll be waiting until you’re retired, and by then, you might have forgotten how to do it.
The change has to be small. It has to be now. For me, it started with not checking my phone the second I woke up. I let myself just lie there for two minutes, looking at the patterns of light on the ceiling. It felt like an eternity the first time. It felt like I was “wasting time.” But those two minutes set the tone for the whole day. They reminded me that I am a person first and a worker second.
It’s Not About Being Lazy
I want to be clear: this isn’t about being lazy. I still work. I still have bills. I still care about doing a good job. It’s about the *spirit* in which you do the work. It’s the difference between running because you’re being chased by a bear and running because you enjoy the feeling of the wind on your face. One comes from fear, the other from life.
When I’m not constantly red-lining my internal engine, the work I *do* do is actually better. I’m more creative. I’m kinder to my colleagues. I’m less likely to make stupid mistakes because I’m actually present. It turns out that the “productivity gurus” were wrong—squeezing every second doesn’t make you better; it just makes you thin. Like butter scraped over too much bread, as a certain hobbit once said.
A Few Things That Helped Me (And Might Help You)
I don’t have a ten-step plan. I hate ten-step plans. But I do have a few small things that have made this transition a little less jarring.
First, I stopped wearing my watch on the weekends. Not knowing exactly what time it is helps break that internal rhythm of “I should be doing X by now.” If I’m hungry, I eat. If I’m tired, I sit. The sun is a good enough clock for a Sunday.
Second, I started doing things poorly on purpose. I’ll go for a “run” that’s mostly a walk. I’ll draw something that looks like a five-year-old did it. Taking the pressure off the outcome allows you to enjoy the process. We’ve become so obsessed with being “good” at our hobbies that we’ve sucked the fun right out of them. It’s okay to be mediocre at something you love.
Third, I’ve started leaving my phone in another room for chunks of time. The phantom vibrations are real—my leg will twitch thinking I have a notification when the phone is thirty feet away. That’s a sign of how deep the conditioning goes. Reclaiming that mental space is a battle, but it’s one worth fighting.
The Quiet After the Storm
As I’m writing this, it’s raining outside. Usually, I’d be checking the weather app, seeing when it’ll stop, planning when I can run my errands. Today, I’m just listening to the sound of it hitting the roof. It’s a nice sound.
Slowing down hasn’t made my problems disappear. My car still needs an oil change, and I still have a pile of emails to get through tomorrow. But those things don’t feel like a personal attack anymore. They’re just… things. By refusing to rush through every moment, I’ve given myself the space to breathe through the hard ones.
If you’re feeling that same itch—that feeling that you’re running a race you never signed up for—maybe try just stopping for a second. Don’t wait for a vacation. Don’t wait for a “reset.” Just sit there. Don’t do anything. Feel the guilt rise up, acknowledge it like an old, annoying friend, and then let it sit there with you. Eventually, it’ll get bored and leave. And when it does, you might finally find yourself standing there, right where you were always meant to be.
It’s a long road back to being a human, and I’m definitely not there yet. I still have days where I fall back into the “hustle” trap and end the day feeling hollow. But the gaps between those days are getting longer. And the quiet moments? They’re getting richer. That, to me, is more productive than any spreadsheet could ever be.