This week, the world asked nothing of me — and I, for once, didn’t argue.

There were no lists to chase, no alarms I obeyed. Just time unfolding like soft linen, one slow hour at a time. The kind of quiet that doesn’t ask to be noticed, but somehow holds you in its arms without saying a word.

And maybe that’s what rest really is — not absence, but presence. A different kind of attending. A holy sort of hush.

The kindness of stillness.

The way a morning unfurls when it knows it doesn’t have to be rushed. The light through the curtains, undecorated and enough. The coffee that went cold beside me, not out of neglect but because I was so present, I forgot to sip.

I am grateful for the silence that wasn’t empty.

For the spaces that didn’t need filling.

For the friends who didn’t ask, “What did you do this week?” but instead said, “I hope you felt peace.”

I’m learning to name quiet as a gift.

To name slowness as survival.

To call stillness by its true name: sanctuary.

I return to work soon. The pace will change. The rhythm will quicken. But I hope I don’t forget this softness. I hope the stillness clings to me like a scent — quiet, but there. I hope I walk back into the world not as someone restored to function, but as someone who remembered she was never a machine. Let the work be purposeful. Let the care be deep. Let me move not from depletion, but from groundedness.

One afternoon — midweek — I sat still long enough to notice the wind. Not just hear it. Notice it.

The way it carried through the open window, folding gently into the room, moving nothing but meaning everything. It was the kind of moment that doesn’t knock — it just enters quietly and sits beside you.

And I thought, When was the last time I let something so small feel so sacred?

That stayed with me. That quiet. That weightless holiness. That reminder that some of the most meaningful moments arrive not in motion, but in mercy.

This week asked me to do nothing — and that was harder than I thought. Because I am built for movement, for care, for showing up even when I’m worn thin. But this week, I didn’t. And it softened me. In the right places.

I no longer want to wear burnout as a badge. I want my strength to look like softness. Like knowing when to rest. Like choosing peace over performance.

This was the week I chose to be a body, not a burden. A soul, not a system.

Because this week felt like a kept memory.

Soft-edged. Quiet-toned. Safe.

“Almost everything will work again if you unplug it for a few minutes — including you.”

— Anne Lamott

I didn’t know how much I needed these minutes — until I gave them to myself. Not as a gift. As a necessity.

This was a Sunday wrapped in linen.

A week tucked between breaths.

No big wins. No loud joy. Just stillness — and the bravery it takes to welcome it.

So if you are reading this and wondering if it’s okay to stop — it is.

If your bones ache from carrying too much — let them rest.

If your soul is whispering, “Please… just pause,” — listen.

We are not meant to be endless.

We are meant to be whole.

Until next Sunday,

Anj ♥️