Some days, I wake up, and I know — deep in my bones, behind my eyeballs, under the to-do list tattoos etched on my soul — that I cannot. I just cannot.
Not today.
And still, my brain starts: “We should get things done.”
Should clean. Should work out. Should make progress on healing. (Yes, healing has become a checklist, damnit.) Should reach out. Should be grateful. Should not waste the day.
And some part of me is like, “Cool cool cool, love that for us, but also — what if we just made the bed and put on pants and called that enough?”
And then immediately: guilt.
Guilt because I didn’t “optimize” the day.
Guilt because I’m not in crisis, so why do I need rest?
Guilt because, at the bare minimum, it feels like failure when I’m used to being high-functioning and hyper-aware and overachieving and productive even when I’m sad.
But here’s the thing I’m trying to learn (read: beat into my stubborn system with a glittery self-compassionate hammer): rest isn’t earned; it’s required.
It’s not dessert at the end of a productivity meal.
It’s not a luxury for people who’ve finished the race.
It’s literally how I keep going.
A bare minimum isn’t a failure. It’s a baseline. It’s me keeping the lights on. It’s me saying, “Hey body, hey brain — I see you. Let’s not burn out today, yeah?”
So yes, some days, the most I can do is:
- make the bed (which is folding the duvet into place with one dramatic flourish)
- put on pants (elastic waistbands TOTALLY count)
- drink tea (from the Dr. Who cup, because I deserve it)
- eat something with protein and salt and maybe joy
- take my meds
- not spiral about everything I didn’t do
And on those days, I remind myself healing includes not doing.
Living includes stillness.
There is wisdom in the pause.
Some days, I will do the work. I will clean, write, lift heavy things, create space, and make magic. And some days, I will do the bare minimum, and I will still be worthy.
Still, be healing.
Still, be whole.
Making the bed, washing the dishes, and doing laundry are tasks that sometimes require work.
And maybe that’s sacred, too.