I found myself moving in slow motion nearly every morning. My body was still half asleep, heavy, uncooperative. I prepared a coffee and clung to it like a life buoy as if it were the only thing keeping me upright. Meanwhile, the little one was already running around like Speedy Gonzales, fast, loud, relentless. That alone was enough to frustrate me. I felt unable to keep up with him, no matter how much I tried. The gap between his energy and my capacity felt enormous. I was already unraveling.

The cup felt heavier than usual in my hand. Lifting it took effort, concentration, time. It took me forever to bring it to my lips and I completely forgot that it was lava hot. The shock was violent. I spilled the coffee everywhere. I cursed myself immediately, harshly, without mercy. At least now I was fully awake. While scrubbing the floor, irritated and tense, I kept thinking that I should have been doing other more important things instead. I was already behind. Again.

I was still on my hands and knees when my son suddenly appeared beside me, talking quickly, words tumbling out of his mouth. His lips were moving but for a moment all I could hear was noise. Just noise. It pressed against my head, my chest, my nerves. I felt overwhelmed, cornered, flooded. Before I could stop myself, I shouted at him that I had to clean the stupid floor first. The words came out sharp, louder than I intended. He vanished as quickly as he had appeared, leaving me alone in the kitchen. I let out a long, heavy sigh, so deep it felt as though something inside me had given up.

Then guilt hit. Hard. My body suddenly gave way and I had to sit down on the floor, as if my muscles had simply shut off.

I stayed there, unable to move, trapped in complete silence, while a wave of negative feelings crashed over me. They came all at once. Shame. Anger. Failure. Exhaustion. I couldn’t fight any of it. My inner tension tightened further, coiling inside me. I felt restless, agitated, desperately trying to contain the chaos, to keep it from spilling out but it was already everywhere.

The voice of my subconscious turned ruthless. It reprimanded me relentlessly. I sounded like a bad attorney arguing a hopeless case, grasping for excuses that never held. For every criticism I aimed at myself, I felt forced to justify it, to explain it, to defend it and every attempt only confirmed the same verdict: I was wrong. Again. The cycle was relentless. The effort of it drained me completely.

I felt cornered, with no way out of my own thoughts. Despair tightened around me, heavy and suffocating, as if every possible outcome had already failed. There was nothing left to fix, nothing left to argue. Just the certainty that I was trapped inside myself.

Then helplessness settled in, slowly and quietly. It wasn’t dramatic. It didn’t scream. It simply removed my ability to respond. I stopped trying to defend myself. I stopped searching for the right explanation. I had no more energy to push back against the accusations forming in my own mind.

I could find no more words to defend myself and an emptiness followed. Not relief. Not peace. Just absence. The noise stopped but nothing replaced it. I was no longer hurting, yet I felt hollow, as if something essential had stepped away.

My breathing began to slow on its own. It became steadier, more regular, as the voices gradually faded until they disappeared completely. Throughout this time, I had not moved. I remained on the floor, suspended in that stillness until I noticed a strange dampness. I looked down and realized that I was still holding my dirty dishcloth in my hand, resting on my lap.

I do not remember how long I stayed there, staring at it without doing anything, before my son returned.

He gently asked why I was sitting on the floor and quickly added that he had finished brushing his teeth. His voice was calm, almost cautious, as if he sensed that something inside me was still unsteady.

I looked at him and felt a quiet relief when I realized he wasn’t angry about my behavior. I moved toward him slowly, still unsure of my own strength and whispered an apology for shouting at him. The words came out softly, without explanation, without defense.

In response, he hugged me. It was simple and immediate, as if nothing needed to be repaired or discussed. He told me that he loved me and in that moment, his small heart warmed mine just enough for happiness to return. Not loudly. Not fully. Just enough to remind me that I was still here and so was love.

Only later did I understand that this moment was not a failure and it was not a breaking point. It was not proof that I was incapable or overwhelmed beyond repair. It was simply a moment where my body stopped negotiating with my mind.

I wasn’t resting. I was recovering.

Recovery does not announce itself. It doesn’t come with clarity or motivation. It looks like slowness, like heaviness, like sitting on a kitchen floor because standing suddenly requires too much. It looks like reactions that feel disproportionate and emotions that arrive without warning. Not because something is wrong but because something has been held for too long.

Living in recovery mode means functioning differently. It means needing more time for less output. It means moving more slowly through things that once felt automatic. It means realizing that the pace you maintained for years has a cost and that cost eventually asks to be paid.

Recovery mode is not dramatic. It is quiet. It does not ask to be fixed or optimized. It does not respond to pressure or discipline. It simply asks to be allowed, without being rushed back into performance.

I am not fully rested yet. I am not back to who I was before.
I am catching up with what my body endured while I kept going.

And for now, that has to be enough.

If you wish to continue this reflection

This piece completes a wider inner thread exploring performance, rest and recovery:

• The Self That Performs and the Self That Remains
  The frame. It names the split between functioning and being.
• When I Stop Explaining Myself
  The first visible crack in performance, where language and justification fall away.
• The Illusion of Free Time
  The realization that even rest can become performance in disguise.

For years, I believed "free time" was just the space between work obligations, a mythical creature that only existed to accommodate errands, chores and the endless demands of life. My so-called free time was anything but free. It was a whirlwind of to-do lists, grocery runs, laundry loads and the constant hum of multitasking, all while juggling the needs of my children. If you had asked me back then what I did for fun, I might have blinked at you in confusion. Fun? Who has time for that?

When the kids were out of the house, I became a multitasking ninja. Picture a robot with six arms, seamlessly moving from one task to another, powered by caffeine and sheer determination. I didn’t stop to think about why I was doing it all, I just did it. And when I finally checked off every item on my list and collapsed into bed at night, I felt a strange sense of accomplishment. "Look at me," I thought smugly, "using my free time so productively."

But here's the kicker: I wasn’t actually free. Not even close.

The Productivity Trap

Somewhere along the way, I had equated "free time" with "time to get more things done." It’s a cultural phenomenon many of us fall prey to. We’ve been conditioned to believe that our value is tied to how much we accomplish. Free time? That’s just an opportunity to squeeze in more tasks, right? Wrong.

The problem with this mindset is that it turns you into a machine. And let me tell you machines do break down. After years of running on autopilot 18-hour days filled with endless responsibilities and my system started to malfunction. My body was exhausted, my mind was foggy and my soul was screaming for something I couldn’t quite name.

What I didn’t realize at the time was that I had been neglecting one of the most important aspects of free time: ME TIME.

The Art of Doing Nothing

Now, let me be clear: doing nothing is not laziness. It’s not wasted time. It’s self-preservation. But for someone who had spent years glorifying busyness, the idea of sitting still felt almost rebellious. What do you mean I should just… rest? Relax? Stare out the window and let my mind wander? Surely there’s laundry to fold or emails to answer!

It took a full-blown burnout for me to understand that my constant need to be productive was not sustainable. My brain and body were begging for rest but I had ignored the signs for so long that I didn’t even recognize them anymore. I had to retrain myself to embrace the concept of unstructured time and it wasn’t easy.

Redefining Free Time

The first step in reclaiming my free time was redefining what it meant. Instead of seeing it as an extension of my workday, I started to view it as sacred space, time meant for me and only me. It didn’t matter if I used it to read a book, take a nap or simply sit in silence; what mattered was that it wasn’t about being productive. It was about being present for myself.

I also had to learn how to say no. No to overcommitting myself, no to unnecessary obligations and no to the little voice in my head telling me I wasn’t doing enough. Spoiler alert: that voice is a liar. The House is not on fire so calm down.

The Joy of Unproductivity

Once I gave myself permission to slow down, something magical happened: I started to feel human again. I discovered the joy of unproductivity, the simple pleasure of existing without an agenda. I found myself laughing more, worrying less and actually enjoying life instead of just surviving it.

And here’s the funny thing: when you stop trying to fill every moment with activity, you start to notice all the beauty you’ve been missing. The way sunlight filters through the trees in the afternoon. The sound of your child’s laughter echoing through the house. The quiet satisfaction of sipping a cup of tea without rushing off to do something else. These moments are small but they’re everything.

The Takeaway

If you’ve ever found yourself trapped in the illusion of free time, believing that every spare moment must be maximized for productivity - I urge you to pause and reconsider. Life is not a checklist. Your worth is not measured by how much you accomplish in a day.

Free time is not about getting more done; it’s about giving yourself permission to be. To rest, recharge and reconnect with what truly matters. So go ahead, put down the laundry basket, close your laptop and take a deep breath. The world will keep spinning even if you take a moment for yourself.

And who knows? You might just find that doing nothing is the most productive thing you’ve done all day.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been a compulsive explainer. You know the type of the person who feels the need to justify, clarify and overanalyze every single action, decision or even the most mundane choice. Why did I choose oatmeal instead of toast? Let me give you a five minute TED Talk on fiber content and my mood this morning. Why am I five minutes late? Let me recount the entire odyssey of my commute, complete with dramatic pauses and traffic reports.

It’s not that anyone asked for these explanations. Most people didn’t care. But in my mind, there was always an unspoken demand for me to account for myself. The slightest raised eyebrow or prolonged silence was enough to send me into a full-blown monologue. It wasn’t just a habit, it was a reflex.

I think it started when I was a kid. Like many children, I wanted to avoid trouble at all costs. If I could explain my way out of a sticky situation or preemptively justify my actions, I could dodge punishment or disappointment. At least, that’s what I believed. Over time, this survival mechanism became second nature.

But here’s the kicker: no matter how detailed or heartfelt my explanations were, I still got misunderstood. Often. And when that happened, I didn’t just shrug it off. Oh no, I spiraled! I’d spend hours, sometimes days, replaying the situation in my head like an amateur detective analyzing a crime scene. Where had I gone wrong? Did I use the wrong tone? Did I leave out a crucial detail? Was it my fault they didn’t get it? Spoiler alert: I always concluded that it was my fault.

The mental gymnastics were exhausting. I’d tie myself in knots trying to figure out how to be clearer, more concise or more convincing next time. But here’s the thing about people: they’re not predictable algorithms that respond perfectly to input. You can explain yourself until your throat is dry and your brain is fried and they’ll still hear what they want to hear.

One day, after yet another round of self-flagellation over a botched explanation, I snapped. It wasn’t a dramatic moment. There was no grand epiphany or inspirational soundtrack playing in the background. I just thought, What if I didn’t explain myself at all?

So, I tried it. The next time someone gave me that expectant look, the one that usually triggered my verbal avalanche, I simply... didn’t explain. I stopped myself mid-thought, swallowed my words and left it at that.

And you know what happened? NOTHING! Absolutely nothing. The world didn’t implode. Nobody stormed out of the room demanding answers. The sun continued to rise and set and life went on as usual.

At first, it felt strange, like leaving the house without your phone or forgetting to lock the door. But then it felt... liberating. By not explaining myself, I realized something profound: most people don’t need or even want an explanation from you. They’re too busy worrying about their own lives to care why you chose oatmeal over toast or why you were five minutes late.

I also learned that silence can be powerful. When you stop overexplaining, you give others the space to interpret your actions however they want and that’s okay. Their interpretation is their responsibility, not yours.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m not advocating for complete radio silence in all situations. There are times when explanations are necessary: apologizing for a mistake, clarifying a misunderstanding or communicating in relationships where transparency matters. But there’s a difference between explaining when it’s needed and explaining as a knee-jerk reaction to perceived judgment or discomfort.

The truth is, overexplaining often stems from insecurity, a need for validation or approval, a fear of being misunderstood or disliked. By letting go of this compulsion, I’ve found a new kind of confidence in myself and my decisions. I don’t need to justify every little thing because I trust myself enough to know that my choices are valid. Even if someone else doesn’t fully understand them.

So, if you’re like me, a chronic explainer, consider this your permission slip to stop. The next time you feel that familiar urge bubbling up inside you, pause for a moment and ask yourself: Do I really need to explain this? If the answer is no, let it go!

Trust me, it’s worth it. Not only will you save yourself countless hours of mental anguish but you’ll also discover just how much energy you’ve been wasting on something that doesn’t matter nearly as much as you thought it did.

And who knows? You might even find that people respect you more when you don’t feel the need to justify yourself all the time. After all, there’s something undeniably intriguing about someone who doesn’t overshare or overexplain, someone who simply is.

So here’s to fewer explanations and more peace of mind. You don’t owe anyone an essay about your choices unless, of course, you’re writing a blog post about it like this one (ironic, isn’t it?).

If you wish to continue this reflection

This piece is part of a wider inner thread exploring performance, silence and recovery:

• The Self That Performs and the Self That Remains
  This is the frame. It names the split between functioning and being.
• The Illusion of Free Time
  A realization that even rest can become performance in disguise.
• Living in Recovery Mode
  The aftermath. Not insight anymore but consequence.

Life, as we know it, is a delicate dance between action and stillness, between striving and simply existing. It's a balancing act that often feels like walking a tightrope while juggling flaming torches: thrilling, terrifying and occasionally singe-worthy. Yet, in this space between doing and being, we find the essence of a life well lived.

But what does it really mean to navigate this space? And why do so many of us feel like we're either sprinting on a hamster wheel or stuck in a fog of inertia? Let's dive in, shall we?

The Obsession with "Doing"

If there were a mascot for modern society, it would be a caffeinated squirrel clutching a to-do list. We live in a world that glorifies productivity, where "hustle culture" reigns supreme. From the moment we wake up (thanks to our alarm-clock-slash-phone-slash-email machine), we're bombarded with reminders to do more, achieve more and be more CONSTANTLY.

"Did you crush your workout today?"
"Have you read the 12 books every successful working mother swears by?"
Why are you tired when everyone else seems to manage just fine?
What did you forget this time?
Who did you disappoint today?
Why aren’t you handling this better?
Shouldn’t you be doing more right now?

It's exhausting. And yet, we buy into it because we've been conditioned to believe that our worth is tied to our output. If we're not busy, are we even trying? If we're not achieving, are we failing? Spoiler alert: NO, you're not.

But here's the catch: while doing is important (after all, someone has to pay the bills and clean the cat's litter box), it's only half the equation. Constant doing, without pausing to reflect or simply be, is like eating nothing but protein bars for every meal or in my case, skipping meals to get things done. Sure, it'll keep you going but you'll miss out on the richness and flavor of life.

The Forgotten Art of "Being"

On the flip side, there's "being." Ah, the sweet, elusive state of just existing. It's the stuff mindfulness apps and yoga retreats are made of. Being is about presence, about sitting with yourself and the world around you without feeling the need to accomplish anything. Sounds simple, right? Wrong.

For many of us, being feels unnatural. We fidget. We reach for our phones. We start mentally drafting an email, planning dinner or planning the coming weeks and in worse cases, months in advance. The idea of just sitting with our thoughts can be as appealing as hugging a porcupine.

But here's the thing: being isn't about doing nothing; it's about doing something differently. It's about noticing the way sunlight filters through your window in the morning or how your coffee smells before you take that first sip. It's about allowing yourself to breathe deeply and intentionally without rushing to the next task.

Being is where creativity sparks, where clarity emerges and where we reconnect with what truly matters. It's not laziness; it's fuel for the soul.

The Tension Between the Two

So how do we reconcile these two states? How do we exist in the space between doing and being without feeling like we're failing at one or the other? The answer lies in integration.

Imagine your life as a symphony. Doing is the driving rhythm, the percussion that keeps things moving forward. Being is the melody, the soulful notes that give life its beauty and depth. A symphony needs both to be complete. Too much rhythm without melody becomes noise; too much melody without rhythm becomes aimless.

The key is learning when to lean into each state. There will be times when action is necessary, when deadlines loom or opportunities arise that require hustle. And there will be times when stillness is essential, when your body or mind whispers (or screams) that it's time to rest.

Practical Tips for Finding Balance

Now that we've waxed poetic about the virtues of doing and being, let's get practical. How can you strike a balance between these two states in your daily life? Here are some ideas:

1. Schedule Downtime
   Yes, I know it sounds counterintuitive to "schedule" being but hear me out. If your calendar is already packed with meetings and errands, why not block off time for rest or reflection? Treat it like any other appointment, making it non-negotiable and important.
2. Practice Mindful Transitions
   Instead of rushing from one task to the next, take a moment to pause. Breathe deeply. Acknowledge what you've just completed before diving into what's next. These micro-moments of being can make a big difference.
3. Set Boundaries
   Learn to say no (politely but firmly) to things that don't align with your priorities or values. Overcommitting is a surefire way to tip the scales toward constant doing.
4. Embrace Imperfection
   Spoiler alert: you'll never get this balance thing 100% right and that's okay! Life is messy and unpredictable and sometimes you'll lean too far into one side or the other. The goal isn't perfection; it's awareness.
5. Find Your Flow
   Seek activities that blend doing and being, things that engage your mind and body while also grounding you in the present moment. Think gardening, painting, cooking or even a good old-fashioned walk in nature.

The Beauty of the In-Between

At its core, the space between doing and being isn't a void; it's a bridge. It's where we learn to move gracefully between effort and ease, between ambition and contentment. It's where we discover that life isn't about choosing one over the other but about weaving them together into a tapestry that's uniquely ours.

So the next time you find yourself caught in the frenzy of doing or lost in the haze of being, remember this: balance isn't something you achieve once and for all; it's something you practice every day. And in that practice lies the true art of living.

Now go forth and do (or be) as you see fit.