This One Was Supposed to Be a Break

I wasn’t planning on writing today.

I said that out loud in the kitchen-turned-office. It felt dramatic, considering nobody was there. Just my old, beat-up chair. After nine months of writing, the businesses, and the book, I figured I earned a day off. I actually meant it.

Then the thought showed up. Not profound. Just annoying. I was hanging around the fridge, not hungry, just bored, and my brain whispered, “You could write about not writing.”

I should have swatted it away. Instead, I paused. I hate that I paused. Pausing has become a gateway drug for me.

I opened the fridge again, like it had answers. Grabbed trail mix (it never tastes as good as I think it will). Checked the light I fixed last night, the one with the pipe leak above it. No water. Good. I stared at a stray sock on the dryer. It somehow dodged the last four loads while I was mopping up water at 1:45 a.m. No clue where the partner went. Probably behind the washing machine out of spite.

If I’m not at the computer directing the team or fixing bugs or writing, I call it “rest.” It’s a generous label. A few days ago, I told myself I was “resting” during a long run where I almost lost my G2G Bar at mile four. I don’t think I know how this works yet. If I slow down, a part of me tenses up. It treats anxiety like it’s a virtue.

The thing that pushed me back to the desk wasn’t even interesting. My Oura ring pinged me: “19 hours of battery remaining.” 19 hours is plenty. My phone’s lucky to survive half that long, and my laptop half again. But the charger was plugged into my laptop, so I sat down. That tiny friction was enough. You’re already sitting. Might as well type a little.

I told myself I’d just write a sentence. That doesn’t count, right? But the cursor blinked at me, daring me to pretend I wasn’t writing. So here I am. Not resting. Just hovering in that weird middle place where I follow my thoughts out of habit.

I keep telling people I’m learning how to rest. I mean it when I say it. But I didn’t realize rest happens in your head, not your schedule. It’s not the absence of doing; it’s the absence of the itch. The itch to dissect every moment for content. You don’t have to find metaphors in batteries or leaky pipes or the guy at the grocery store backing into a parking space like it’s the Olympics. Not everything is an essay. 87.3% of life isn’t even interesting.

But the habit sticks. You spend months showing up to the page, and your brain starts greeting every moment with, “Well? Anything?” Sometimes the moment shrugs. Sometimes it hands you a thread. And because you’re trained, you pull it.

A friend texted yesterday asking about the new business. I said I was resting. That was true for about fifteen minutes. Then I was scribbling notes about dashboards and funding. I don’t think the world is waiting for me to produce something right now. I think it’s telling me to sit down long enough for the engine noise in my head to stop.

The irony of writing about not writing isn’t lost on me. I’m used to the loop. Some days the thoughts are quiet. Today they didn’t even knock. They just walked in and refused to leave.

This was supposed to be a break. I really meant that. But a sentence wandered by, I picked it up, and here we are.

I’ll shake my head at myself later. Then maybe, finally, I’ll actually sleep.