When Did I Learn That Rest Was Weak?

ashari19
Jun 10
6 min read

I remember being in the car as a little girl, driving between my mum’s house and my dad’s house.

I must have been about seven or eight.

I was tired.

That heavy kind of tired where your little body just wants to give in. To lean. To soften. To close your eyes and let the hum of the car carry you somewhere quiet.

But instead, I remember gripping the handle above the car door, resting my head against my arm, and trying very hard to make it look like I was still awake.

I remember thinking:

Don’t fall asleep.

Don’t let anyone see you rest.

Don’t look weak.

And if someone said, “You fell asleep in the car,” I would quickly say, “No I didn’t. I was just resting my eyes.”

I can still feel that little girl in me.

Trying to hide her tiredness.

Trying to prove she was strong.

Trying to make rest look like something else.

And I’ve been wondering lately…

When did I learn that rest was weakness?

Because a child doesn’t come into the world believing that.

A baby doesn’t apologise for sleeping.

A toddler doesn’t feel guilty for needing comfort.

A child doesn’t naturally believe that exhaustion should be pushed through.

Somewhere along the way, so many of us learnt that being tired was inconvenient.

That needing rest made us lazy.

That slowing down meant we were falling behind.

That needing space was selfish.

That being still meant we weren’t doing enough.

And as women, mothers, partners, daughters, business owners, space holders, homemakers, workers, carers, creators — we can become very, very good at living like one long summer.

Always blooming.

Always producing.

Always giving.

Always responding.

Always holding the lists, the meals, the emotions, the children, the messages, the work, the invisible everything.

We learn how to keep going.

Even when our bodies are whispering.

Even when our hearts are tired.

Even when our nervous systems are asking for quiet.

Even when our inner world is craving softness.

And in many ways, unschooling my children has given me the space to see this more clearly.

It has given me the space to learn from them.

Because if we let them, our children can become some of our greatest teachers.

I have watched my kids move in and out of their own natural rhythms.

There are times when they are full of energy, ideas, creativity, curiosity and movement.

And there are times when they are simply happy to chill.

To listen to an audiobook.

To lie around.

To potter.

To be in their own world.

To not have every moment turned into something productive.

And I realised how quickly I wanted to attach rest to usefulness.

I used to say things like, “You can listen to your audio while you clean your room,” or “You can do that after you’ve done this.”

As though pleasure, stillness or quiet had to be earned.

As though rest had to be paired with productivity to be valid.

And then one day I caught myself and wondered…

Why can’t they just have a season of winter?

Why can’t they listen simply for the joy of listening?

Why can’t they rest without proving they have done enough?

Why can’t they have moments where nothing is being achieved on the outside, but something is settling, integrating, restoring on the inside?

And maybe that is what my children have been teaching me.

That life is not meant to be one endless stretch of output.

That not every moment needs to be optimised.

That stillness is not wasted time.

That rest is not laziness.

That winter is not something to rush through.

Watching them has helped me question the conditioning in myself.

The part of me that still wants to earn rest.

The part of me that feels guilty sitting down.

The part of me that wants to make even pleasure useful.

But nature doesn’t work that way.

Children don’t naturally work that way.

And maybe we didn’t either, before the world taught us otherwise.

Then winter arrives.

Not just the season outside us, but the season within us.

The part of life that asks us to pause.

To come inward.

To stop performing.

To stop forcing bloom from branches that are asking to be bare.

And this is what I have been feeling so deeply lately:

Winter is not a failure of summer.

The trees are not failing when they lose their leaves.

The soil is not lazy when it lies still.

The seed is not doing nothing beneath the earth.

Winter has its own work.

Quiet work.

Root work.

Unseen work.

Deep work.

Winter is where the body restores.

Winter is where the roots deepen.

Winter is where we compost what we no longer need to carry.

Winter is where we stop pushing forward long enough to listen to what is actually true.

And maybe that is why wintering can feel so confronting.

Because it asks us to stop proving.

To stop earning.

To stop measuring our worth by how much we produce, hold, give, clean, create, fix, respond to, or achieve.

It asks us to remember that we are nature too.

We are not separate from the seasons.

We are not separate from the earth.

We are not designed to live in endless output.

We have cycles.

We have tides.

We have inner weather.

We have times of bloom and times of descent.

Times of fire and times of ash.

Times of expansion and times of return.

And yet so many of us wait until our bodies scream before we listen.

We wait until we are burnt out.

We wait until we snap.

We wait until we are resentful.

We wait until our health, our moods, our relationships, or our joy start showing us that something has to change.

But what if we didn’t have to wait until collapse?

What if rest was not something we earned at the end?

What if rest was woven into the rhythm?

What if wintering became a practice?

A way of listening before the body has to shout.

A way of softening before we break.

A way of honouring the season we are actually in, rather than forcing ourselves to be somewhere else.

For me, wintering is not about disappearing from life.

It is not about abandoning responsibility.

It is not about doing nothing forever.

It is not about becoming someone who has no fire, no passion, no dreams, no devotion.

It is about tending the roots so the bloom can be honest.

It is about coming back to the body.

Back to the breath.

Back to the quiet knowing beneath the noise.

Back to the simple truth that we are allowed to need what we need.

A warm cup of tea.

A slower morning.

A hand on the heart.

A walk outside.

A cry.

A journal page.

A blanket.

A breath.

A moment where no one needs anything from us.

These small acts can be portals.

They remind us:

I am here.

I am allowed to pause.

I am allowed to be held.

I am allowed to rest before I am empty.

And maybe that little girl in the car needed to hear that.

Maybe she needed someone to say:

You can close your eyes.

You can lean.

You can be tired.

You are not weak.

You are human.

And maybe so many women need to hear that too.

So this winter, I am choosing to listen.

To the season.

To the body.

To the quiet.

To the parts of me that are no longer available for living like one long summer.

And this is why I created the Wintering Day Retreat.

Not as another thing to achieve.

Not as another place to perform.

Not as another self-improvement project.

But as a day to pause.

A day to exhale.

A day to be nourished.

A day to move gently, rest deeply, journal honestly, gather in circle, reconnect with the natural world, and remember the wisdom that already lives within the body.

We will use the season of winter, the elements, embodiment, ritual, reflection and the ALIVE methodology to come back into relationship with ourselves.

To arrive.

To listen.

To imagine.

To vitalise.

To embody.

Not by pushing harder.

But by softening enough to hear what has been waiting underneath.

So if your body has been whispering for rest…

If you have been living like one long summer…

If you are craving a day to be held, nourished and reminded that you do not need to earn your pause…

I would love to invite you.

Wintering Day Retreat