Show Notes
Let’s talk about something wildly underrated: rest. Real rest. Not the kind you cram into the five minutes before a Zoom call or the kind you feel guilty for taking because your inbox is overflowing. I’m talking about deep, intentional rest, the kind that only comes when you decide to do less. Not once. Not just on Sundays. But as a way of living. I used to think rest was something you earned. Like a prize for making it to the end of your to-do list (spoiler: that list never ends). I measured my worth in how productive I was, how many balls I could keep in the air, how often I could say “I’m so busy” with pride. If I wasn’t exhausted, was I even trying? You probably know how this story goes: burnout came knocking. Not once, but repeatedly. Each time more insistent, more draining. I’d built a life that looked good on paper but felt awful to live inside of. It was all noise and motion and achievement, yet I was rarely present. Rarely rested. Rarely me. Eventually, I reached a point where I realised something had to change. I could no longer pretend that pushing through was sustainable. That always being available, always saying yes, always “making it work” was healthy or heroic. I had to do less. And not just temporarily. Permanently. The Glorification of Busy We live in a culture that celebrates being busy as a badge of honour. Productivity is treated like morality, like the more you do, the more you’re worth. Rest, on the other hand, is often dismissed as laziness or indulgence. Even when we do rest, we’re expected to make it look productive: meditate with an app, stretch while listening to a podcast, journal our gratitude list while lighting the perfect candle. But here’s the hard truth: * You can’t heal your exhaustion with more output. * You can’t find stillness by constantly chasing it. * And you can’t live intentionally when your life is dictated by everyone else’s urgency. We are bombarded with messages to hustle, scale, grow, and maximise. But what if the real work is in slowing down, scaling back, and learning to be instead of do? What if the bravest thing we can do is opt out of the race altogether? Doing less is not failure. It’s wisdom. It’s recognising that your energy is not infinite, and your life is not a project to optimise. What Doing Less Really Means Doing less doesn’t mean abandoning your responsibilities or opting out of life. It means becoming discerning. It means creating space, not just in your calendar but in your mind. It means letting go of what drains you and making more room for what nourishes you. To me, doing less means: * Saying no to things that don’t align with my values, even if I could technically “fit them in.” * Not filling every gap in my day with noise or scrolling or productivity. * Choosing quality over quantity—in conversations, in work, in how I show up for the people I love. * Allowing slowness, even when urgency feels like the default. This work is uncomfortable, especially at first. Slowing down brings up things we’ve long ignored. The fears we’ve buried under busyness. The questions we’ve avoided by staying distracted. But once the dust settles? What’s left is a life that feels rooted and real. My Journey to Rest Like so many others, the pandemic was my reckoning. When everything came to a standstill, I finally saw how exhausted I was. How performative my life had become. How disconnected I felt from the version of motherhood, entrepreneurship, and womanhood I was trying to maintain. The pause was uncomfortable, yes. But it was also illuminating. Without all the noise, I could hear myself again. And I didn’t like what I heard at first. I was tired. I was unfulfilled. I was running a life that didn’t reflect my values. So I began to let go. Slowly. Imperfectly. I gave myself permission to stop trying so hard. To rest without earning it. To stop equating success with being “on” all the time. Now, rest is no longer a reward I grant myself for surviving the chaos. It’s a foundation I
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There are some things I used to compromise on without really noticing and I would explain them away as nothing more than practicality. Listen, I don’t think all compromise is bad because obviously it isn’t and sometimes life requires compromise… none of us are moving through life getting exactly what we want at every moment. But slowly, over the past few years, I have started to realise that some of the compromises I was making weren’t neutral meaning they were costing me something.
I think one of the most grounding things seasonal living has taught me is that not every season asks the same thing from us, and I don’t just mean the seasons outside the window, although I do mean those too. I mean the quieter seasons of our lives, the less obvious ones, the seasons of holding things together, of building. The seasons of rest, of tending, recovering, recalibrating, waiting, grieving, beginning again. The seasons that don’t arrive neatly on a calendar like the actual seasons, but still shape the way we move through our days.
I think one of the most uncomfortable parts of living intentionally is realising that your life might stop making sense to other people and that’s not because you’re doing anything wrong and it’s not because they are doing anything wrong either, but because difference, when it is lived honestly, has a way of unsettling the stories people carry about what a good life is supposed to look like. There is an unspoken expectation in modern life that our choices should be broadly recognisable. Ideally, they should also be explainable. If we choose something different around work, family, home, ambition, money, education or pace, we are often expected to justify it in a way that reassures other people we haven’t made a terrible mistake, it’s as though our lives need to pass some kind of public approval test before we are allowed to feel settled inside them. But life doesn’t need to be universally appealing to be deeply right for you, in fact, it only needs to be coherent to the person living it snd this is something I have had to learn slowly, and sometimes uncomfortably, over the years. I live a life that many people wouldn’t choose; I home educate my children, I live in a small, 650sq ft home by choice, I centre my days around home, rhythm, presence and ordinary life rather than constant expansion, I identify as a homemaker and I have opted out, where I can, from certain forms of pace, productivity and visibility. Not as a rejection of modern life entirely and certainly not because I think everyone should live like me, but because this is how I stay well inside the life I am actually living. And those choices are not meant to be persuasive (a very common assumption) they are simply mine and I speak to those who either associate with this way of living too, or desire to live in a similar way. I think that is where so much unnecessary tension begins. We assume that when someone makes a different choice, they must be making a statement about ours. * If someone home educates, it can be read as a criticism of school. * If someone stays in a small home, it can be read as a rejection of ambition. * If someone chooses a slower pace, it can be read as laziness. * If someone centres home, family or care, it can be read as regressive, especially for women, whose choices are so often treated as public property and moral declarations rather than personal decisions. But someone else’s inability to imagine themselves in your life is not a verdict on yours; it just means they wouldn’t choose it, it is that simple. And it’s also fine, they don’t have to. I wouldn’t choose lots of other people’s lives either. I can scroll through Instagram and see all sorts of lifestyles that make me think, “Absolutely not for me, thank you kindly”, but I don’t need to announce that in the comments section like a woman holding a clipboard at the gates of acceptable living, because it isn’t my life. And this is the bit we seem to forget… not everything needs our approval or agreement and not everything needs to be filtered through the lens of whether we personally would choose it. Sometimes another person’s life can simply exist. When I first started home educating, I noticed this very quickly. I had made the decision before my first child was even born, so it wasn’t sudden or impulsive. It was something we had thought about deeply. It was a long standing choice rooted in our values, our family rhythm and what we wanted for our children and yet even saying that can make people uncomfortable. Because if I say home education is the best choice for my children, some people hear, “School is the wrong choice for yours” and that’s not an assumption, I have literally had this accusation levied at me more than once. But that is of course not what I am saying… I don’t think every child should be home educated and I don’t think every parent has the capacity, desire or circumstances to home educate. I don’t think school is wrong for every child but I do think home education is
I think many of us are exhausted not because our lives are too small, but because we’ve been taught they should always be bigger, better, more remarkable, more productive and more visible.
Opting out is often presented as the answer isn’t it? The way back to yourself or the antidote to burnout. Or even the thing that will finally make life feel manageable again.