Twenty years ago, I accidentally discovered something about myself. I worked for an agency that closed the week of Christmas and New Year’s, so I suddenly had two full weeks off. I didn’t plan anything productive. No cleaning out closets or meal-prep for January or reorganize my life. I laid around, I watched TV. I did a whole lot of nothing. Just rest. And a funny thing happened. Not during the first week — that week was just collapse. My nervous system finally exhaled after years of managing, achieving, and holding things together.

But in week two? I came back to life. I felt creative, motivated. Ideas started flowing. I wanted to do things — not because I should, but because I finally had space for desire to return. It was the first time I noticed something important about myself:

My creativity is not a spark I make happen.
It’s what rises naturally once I’ve truly rested.

And if I’m honest — I don’t think I’ve recreated that kind of rest since. Life filled up, as it does. I am a mom, a therapist, a supervisor, a teacher, a volunteer. A human who cares deeply and shows up. I have meetings and responsibilities Monday through Friday. Weekends fill with meetings, dinners, grading, and things I promised. All chosen — and still heavy.

From the Outside

People see my life from the outside and think, “She’s doing great. She loves what she does.”Both things are true.

And also, I am tired. Not the “I need a nap” kind of tired — the I need the world to stop so my nervous system can catch up to my body kind of tired. The kind where even finding one whole day off feels impossible.

Recently,  I sat staring at my calendar and realized: I don’t have one single day without responsibility. Saturdays have events. Sundays are with my husband. Monday through Friday I work. Where does rest even go? I felt sad. And a little defeated. Surely one day shouldn’t be this hard to find.

And yet — it is.

Expectation

Here’s the newer part — the thing I didn’t understand back then. It isn’t just time that restores me. It’s the absence of expectation. When I believe I should use rest well, make it count, come back improved, healed, motivated, or clear — my nervous system stays braced. Even my “time off” carries pressure. But when expectations truly come off my plate — when nothing is required of me, not even rest itself — something inside me opens. My brain loosens, my body softens, my curiosity returns. I don’t have to try to feel better. Whatever my system needs begins to emerge on its own. That’s the part I’m practicing now: not just scheduling rest, but removing the quiet rules that usually follow me into it.

Every new year invites us to “start fresh,” to make resolutions, get organized, overhaul our habits, set goals, become better versions of ourselves. There’s excitement in that — but also pressure. It assumes we begin January fully charged. Most of us begin already drained. We try to restart without refueling, push without pausing. We set goals without restoring energy. It’s no wonder we burn out by February.

Stop!

What if the most radical resolution this year wasn’t to improve ourselves — but to stop burning ourselves up while trying?

What does rest actually look like? I don’t mean a spa day or an early bedtime or checking one thing off your list. Those matter — but they aren’t the same as true decompression.

Rest is:

  • a nervous-system exhale
  • time with no agenda
  • space where nothing is expected
  • doing nothing long enough that desire wakes up again
Possible

Rest is not something we squeeze in after we finish everything else. It has to be something we protect on purpose — even if it’s small. I can’t take two full weeks off this year. Maybe you can’t either. So here’s where I’m starting: One full day of rest per month. Not perfect. Just possible. They are boundaries in ink, not pencil. Space where nothing is expected of me. And maybe one day, when the year’s rhythm becomes kinder, I’ll get that two-week reset again. The one that lets me really come out and play. The one where creativity doesn’t feel forced — it just returns on its own.

Maybe we don’t need a bigger plan. Maybe we need a softer one. Not new year, new you — but: New year, same you — with fewer expectations. So here’s your gentle invitation: Before you start over, pause. Breathe. Block one day. Even one. Not to catch up or to be productive. Not to figure anything out. Just to be.

Your spark is not gone. She’s just waiting for the pressure to lift.

Find more from Jamie here.