Why Stillness Isn't Laziness — It's Recovery
Stillness of the body is not the same as stillness of the soul. Here's what a cabin in West Virginia, a 2-minute breath practice, and a year of arguing with rest taught me.
Why Stillness Isn’t Laziness — It’s Recovery
This past weekend, for the first time in my life, I spent two full days being still without fighting it.
No guilt. No bargaining. No voice in my head saying you should be doing something productive right now.
I simply rested.
And when I came out the other side, I understood something I’ve been circling for years.
Stillness is not laziness. It’s recovery.
Let me show you what I mean.
The Cabin: When I Stumbled Into Soul Stillness
Almost three years ago, my daughter and her family took me to a cabin in the mountains of West Virginia while they went skiing.
No Wi-Fi. No distractions. Just a kitchen, walking paths through the woods, a hot tub, and hours of silence.
Every day, they left to ski. Every day, I stayed behind.
At first, I occupied myself the way I always did. I walked the paths. Studied the trees. As a landscape painter, my mind went to color and brushstroke, to the way light hit bark. I carried a sketchpad and pencils.
But one day, I simply sat.
I didn’t plan to. I just ran out of things to do.
I sat in that cabin for nearly two hours with nothing demanding my attention.
No phone. No noise. No agenda.
At first, it felt awkward. Exposed. Like time was pressing in on me.
And then, about forty-five minutes in, something shifted.
It became easy.
Calming.
I wasn’t meditating. I wasn’t seeking insight. I wasn’t doing anything I would have labeled as spiritual.
I was just there, listening.
To the quiet. To the world outside. To something inside me that didn’t need words.
At the time, I didn’t understand the significance of that moment.
I didn’t know how to repeat it intentionally. I didn’t know how to bring it home with me.
All I knew was that, for the first time, sitting with myself didn’t feel like a problem to solve.
That was soul stillness.
Not the kind where your body is still but your mind is planning dinner.
The kind where time dissolves and you forget you have a body at all.
The Search: Trying to Find It Again
When I came home, I tried to recreate it.
I would sit. Try to quiet my mind. Wait for that feeling to return.
It didn’t work.
My body could be still, but internally I stayed braced. Scanning. Managing. Thinking.
I had tasted something real in that cabin, but I didn’t have a practice to access it.
I just had a memory of what it felt like when it happened by accident.
The Practice: Learning to Recreate What I’d Found
About twelve months ago, I discovered a simple breathing pattern.
Inhale for four. Hold for four. Exhale for six.
I committed to sitting for two minutes at a time. That was it. Two minutes.
Not to achieve calm. Not to receive insight.
Just to sit and breathe.
At first, two minutes felt long.
But I stayed with it.
Over time, something remarkable happened.
The noise softened. Thoughts slowed.
And eventually, there were moments when there were no thoughts at all.
I had found my way back to what I’d stumbled into in that cabin.
Now, sometimes I can sit for thirty minutes like that. Breath moving. Mind quiet. No effort.
And here’s what surprised me:
The inspiration didn’t come during the stillness. It came afterward.
In the hours and days that followed, ideas would surface fully formed. Clear. Unforced. Creative. Alive.
Stillness became fertile instead of frightening.
The Real Work: Learning to Allow It
And yet, even with all of that, I struggled.
This is the part people don’t talk about.
Even after learning how to BE still, I still argued with the NEED to be still.
I would say things like: I’ll take a day off. I’m tired today. I just don’t have the gas.
And then I’d judge myself for it.
I treated stillness like something I had to justify. Like a temporary indulgence. Like something I was allowed only if I’d earned it.
For the past year, that has been my real work.
Not learning how to be still.
Learning how to allow it without guilt.
This Weekend: The Shift
Which brings me back to this past weekend.
For the first time, I spent two full days being still without struggling against it.
No internal bargaining. No story about falling behind.
I didn’t need to explain it to myself.
I simply rested.
And that’s when I understood what this season has really been teaching me.
Stillness is not laziness. It’s recovery.
Recovery after decades of hustle. Recovery after a life spent proving. Recovery after believing rest had to be earned.
Stillness isn’t the absence of life. It’s where life quietly reorganizes itself.
I’m not afraid of it anymore.
I know now that when stillness shows up, it’s not asking me to stop living.
It’s asking me to let my nervous system catch up to the life I’m building.
Movement always returns.
But when it does now, it comes without urgency. Without panic. Without the need to prove anything.
It comes from coherence.
And that’s how I know the stillness is doing exactly what it came to do.
It’s not teaching me to stop. It’s teaching me to trust.
If You Need This
If you’re exhausted right now—truly exhausted—try this:
Two minutes. Just breath.
Inhale for four. Hold for four. Exhale for six.
Don’t expect insight. Don’t expect calm. Don’t expect anything.
Just sit.
Your nervous system will thank you.
And if two minutes feels too long, start with one.
That’s enough.
Give the Gift of Permission to Rest
If you know a woman who’s exhausted from proving, hustling, and earning her right to breathe—give her a year of The Daily ReWire.
Daily reminders that stillness isn’t laziness. That rest is recovery. That she doesn’t have to keep bracing.
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