Permission to rest

When life is a lot, it's OK to do less

A True Life Built is a living photo essay on starting over and building a truer life. It’s for anyone, at any age, who is finding the courage to begin again. Subscribe for free posts.

Morning stillness in The Barn at Boyd’s Mills.

A few weeks ago, I ran away to the woods to write. A friend and I spent the weekend in side-by-side cabins in a retreat for authors and children’s book illustrators, an oasis of writing nooks and rocking chairs and home-cooked meals served by the fire.

My cabin was filled with whimsey and childhood wonder: watercolors of cartoon animal on the walls, acorns and tiny forest treasures on the desk. In the guest book, the room’s occupants left encouraging notes and charming sketches for future guests.

The art was childlike, but the notes were distinctly adult. One after the other they said: life feels like a lot, and it’s swamping my art. Writing and drawing is hard right now. But I don’t have to power through, and you don’t either. It’s OK for me to be still—to sit in the red rocking chairs and catch my breath—and it’s ok for you too.

“I came here worn out in my heart. I brought my tired self, a few half-formed ideas and no commitment or worry about being “productive.” I’m leaving with, hopefully, a little more space and hope in my heart.”

“As someone who carries so much emotional weight from work and personal stuff, who performs emotional labor every day, it’s so nice to just exist without obligations.”

“Between the cat dying of cancer, the upstairs neighbor drinking himself to death, and earning the eight-week old fetus has no heartbeat, I was unable to write anything this weekend other than journaling. And that’s OK. I’m grateful for the gurgling of the creek, and the frog who kept me company, whom I sang to. The child inside me feels calm.”

Reading these notes in the pre-dawn darkness, curled up in a pool of lamplight and cozy blankets, I burst into tears. I hadn’t realized how much I needed these reminders.

Notes and sketches passed from author to author.

Life is feeling like a lot at the moment. The news gets grimmer by the day. Work deadlines are piling up. My personal life is throwing curveballs. None of this is the stuff of personal crisis, but cumulatively it’s sapping my energy to create. My attention is flowing outward in a dozen directions and there’s little left for the page. I’m a more rushed, more reactive, less patient version of myself.

I know this feeling: I’m in overdrive. When I feel overwhelmed, productivity is my favorite armor. I put my head down and try to wrestle the chaos into submission. I make lists and color-code my calendar. I fire off emails. I wake up at 6 am and roll to my computer by 6:15. If over-functioning were an Olympic sport, I’d be Simone Biles.

The gentle notes of Cabin 13 empathized and also offered a different solution: the antidote to feeling swamped is not more motion, it’s stillness. It’s setting aside the lists and the compulsion to produce. It’s walking in the woods and sitting by a stream and singing to a frog. But it’s easy to be peaceful in a writer’s cabin, and harder to bring that back to Brooklyn. The news and deadlines and curveballs keep coming.

So each Sunday, as I limp to the end of another week, I am trying to reserve a slice of time for stillness. I walk in Greenwood and watch the coy swim in lazy orange circles. I talk to the turtles sunning themselves like tiny emperors. I watch a child toddle by with fistfuls of fall flowers, goldenrod in one hand and purple asters in the other, and make a tiny bouquet of my own.

I do not write much, besides journaling. I do not call the plumber or deal with the piles of paperwork scattered around my living room. I do not get ahead on my work or cross a single thing off my list. Instead, I replant a fiddle leaf fig and nap in the slanted shadows of afternoon sun. I wake feeling vaguely guilty about my idleness.

So I’m writing myself—and anyone who needs it—a permission slip to do less. Of all the balls I am juggling, some are glass and some are rubber. Some I can let go and catch again later, with no harm done. This blog is one ball that I’m going to set down for a few weeks and pick back up when I’m ready. For now, I’m going to watch the leaves change and the coy swim and create a little more space and hope in my heart.

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One of the unexpected joys of starting over has been hearing from others on similar journeys. If something resonates with you, I’d love for you to leave a comment, drop me an email or share a post with a friend!

Liz is a writer and photographer based in Brooklyn.