I used to think a good day was a full day. No empty squares. Everything ticked off. My calendar looked like a crayon box exploded all over it, and my mind was a never-ending scroll of “don’t forget this.” Then, a few months ago, I stumbled into an afternoon that tipped something over in me. I didn’t plan it. I didn’t pencil it in. I simply did nothing. And it rearranged something deep in my chest.
Let me back up. I’m Chantel. I live a full life—mom, wife, friend, dreamer, doer. I love my rhythms. My goals. But I also know what it’s like to carry that low hum of “you should be doing more.” It followed me everywhere. Until the day I finally told it to hush.
What Actually Happened When I Stopped
It was a Tuesday. Random, ordinary Tuesday. A rare pocket of quiet opened up—no school pickup shuffle, no deadline pressing on my chest. My first instinct? Fill it. Reorganize the spice drawer. Shoot off those half-written emails. Tackle the closet monster I’d been ignoring. Instead, I made tea and sank onto the back porch. No phone. No podcast. No book. Just me and the sound of wind sliding through the trees.
It felt wrong at first. My fingers twitched for a screen. My brain threw a parade of all the things I could be doing. I felt slothful. Guilty, even. But I didn’t move. I watched a squirrel tightrope the fence. I saw how the light spilled through the leaves in slow motion. And somewhere in there, something inside me let go. Shoulders dropped. Breath deepened. It wasn’t just my body resting—it was my mind. And my mind had been exhausted for years.
The Guilt of Being Still
Why does sitting still feel so hard? I think it’s because we’ve swallowed a lie: that our worth equals our output. No output, no value. I’d been marinating in that for a long time. But on that porch, I started poking holes in it. What if rest isn’t a treat you earn after grinding, but a basic human need—like water or sleep? What if stillness isn’t empty space, but a different kind of full?
There’s research that nods along with this, though I didn’t know it yet. I was just living it. I later found a piece from the American Psychological Association that talks about how downtime refills your brain’s tank for attention and motivation, sparks creativity, and is flat-out necessary to perform well. You can read more here. But in that moment, I didn’t need a study. I needed a permission slip. So I wrote one for myself.
The Unexpected Gifts of an Empty Afternoon
An hour slipped by. Maybe two. I lost count. And a quiet miracle happened: I started remembering things. Not obligations. Not chore lists. Pieces of me I’d been too busy to notice. A tune I used to hum as a kid. The smell of my grandmother’s kitchen on Sunday mornings. A dream I’d shelved because it felt impractical. These weren’t just daydreams. They were homecomings. I was reintroducing myself to myself.
That’s the thing about doing nothing. It opens up room. And in that room, the quieter parts of us finally speak up. The parts that know what we actually want, what we actually need, what we’ve been drowning out. I realized I’d been running on autopilot for ages, and that afternoon was like pulling off the highway to sit under a tree. I hadn’t known how bone-tired I was until I stopped moving.
Creativity in the Quiet
One of the wildest surprises was a little explosion of creativity. Not the pushy, deadline-barking kind. The playful kind. I started scribbling ideas for a writing project, remembering a recipe I actually wanted to try, sketching a rough garden bed layout. None of it was on a list. It just bubbled up out of the stillness. Turns out boredom is a greenhouse for the imagination. Stop feeding your brain constant noise, and it starts making its own music.
I learned later that this is pretty typical. The brain has a “default mode network”—the part that lights up when you’re not laser-focused on the outside world. It’s tied to creative thinking, problem-solving, and self-reflection. Scientific American puts it nicely: when your mind drifts, you might be doing mental time travel, which helps build your sense of self. You can nerd out on that here. For me, it was a soft reminder that my mind isn’t a machine. It’s a garden. And gardens need fallow seasons.
How to Give Yourself Permission to Do Nothing
I can hear you thinking: “Chantel, that sounds dreamy, but I don’t have a spare afternoon.” I get it. Life is stuffed to the brim. But here’s the thing: you don’t need a whole afternoon. You can start with twenty minutes. The secret is intention. Don’t wait for a gap to magically appear—make one. Block it like a doctor’s appointment. Call it “porch time” or “soul space” or whatever makes you grin. And then guard it like a mama bear.
Start tiny. Banish your phone to another room. Sit somewhere comfy. Don’t bring a book or a project. Just be. Let your mind wander. If anxiety bubbles up, that’s okay. Nod at it and let it drift on. This isn’t about reaching some perfect Zen peak. It’s about practicing presence. The more you do it, the easier it gets. And the goodness stacks up.
Practical Ways to Build Stillness Into Your Week
- Swap scrolling for staring. Got five minutes? Don’t grab your phone. Look out a window instead.
- Schedule a “no-plan” block. Once a week, carve out an hour with zero agenda. See what surfaces.
- Embrace the pause. Between tasks, take three deep breaths and do nothing else. It’s a mini-reset.
- Let your mind wander on a walk. Leave the earbuds at home and just notice the world around you.
These aren’t huge, life-upending changes. They’re tiny acts of defiance against the cult of busy. And they add up more than you’d guess.
What Doing Nothing Has Taught Me About Doing Everything Else
Since that Tuesday, I’ve woven stillness into my weeks. Not every day—I’m no monk—but often enough that it’s rewired me. I’m softer with my kids. Sharper when I work. Less snappy, more steady. I sleep better. I laugh easier. I’m not just checking boxes anymore; I’m actually living inside my own life.
I’ve also quit feeling guilty about rest. Now I see it as part of my rhythm, like breathing. You can’t just inhale forever. You have to exhale. Doing nothing is an exhale for the soul. It’s not a waste of time. It’s an investment in whoever you are when you’re not performing.
If you’re feeling frazzled, heavy, or a little lost in the static, I want to gently nudge you to try it. Pick an afternoon. Clear the decks. Give yourself the gift of nothing. You might be startled by what you find there. I know I was.
Frequently Asked Questions
Isn’t doing nothing just being lazy?
Not even close. Laziness is dodging what needs doing. Intentional stillness is choosing to rest your mind and body so you can show up more whole later. It’s a strategic pause, not a permanent state.
How long do I need to do nothing to feel the benefits?
Even ten minutes can shift something. The goal isn’t a magic number; it’s the quality of the pause. Start with what feels possible and stretch from there. An afternoon is lovely, but a quiet coffee break counts, too.
What if my mind just races the whole time?
Totally normal, especially at first. Don’t wrestle the thoughts. Let them come and go like clouds. With practice, the mental chatter often settles. The act of sitting still is the practice, not the absence of thought.
Can I really do nothing if I have young kids at home?
It’s trickier, but still doable. Tag in a partner, swap childcare with a friend, or steal naptime as your window. Even five minutes of intentional stillness while the kids are safely busy can be a lifeline.
Recent Comments