For most of my teaching career, I wore “busy” like a badge of honor.
If I wasn’t planning lessons, I was counseling students. If I wasn’t at school, I was grading papers at the kitchen table.
The pace was relentless. I told myself I thrived on it—that being in constant motion was proof of my dedication.
What I didn’t realize was that the constant rushing carried a price tag. Not a financial one, but something much deeper: my health, my relationships, even my sense of joy.
It was only years later, after retirement, that I finally allowed myself to slow down. And slowing down didn’t feel natural at first. It felt uncomfortable, almost indulgent. But the truth is, stepping off that treadmill has given me back parts of myself I didn’t know I’d lost.
Recently, while reading Rudá’s book Laughing in the Face of Chaos, I was reminded just how easy it is to get swept up in constant doing. His words cut through the noise of our productivity-obsessed culture and reminded me that “when we let go of the need to be perfect, we free ourselves to live fully—embracing the mess, complexity, and richness of a life that’s delightfully real.” That line stopped me in my tracks.
I realized I had spent decades chasing “perfect” performance, and in the process, missed opportunities to truly live.
The costs
Slowing down isn’t just about comfort—it’s about survival.
Research shows that staying awake for just 17–19 hours can impair your performance as much as being legally drunk, cutting reaction time in half. Think about that: how many of us have pushed through late nights, convinced we were being productive, while in reality, we were functioning like someone over the limit?
The same illusion shows up in our work habits. A Stanford study found that once we cross 55 hours a week, productivity plummets. Logging 70 hours doesn’t mean we’re getting more done—it just means we’re more exhausted.
And it’s not only about energy. Chronic stress, researchers have found, literally accelerates aging. Every hour spent racing without rest etches its toll on the body. Looking back, I can see how my constant urgency aged me faster than I realized.
But perhaps the biggest cost is the one we don’t measure: the loss of presence. The missed moments with family. The evenings I chose lesson plans over reading bedtime stories. The phone calls I rushed through instead of listening with patience. Time doesn’t give refunds, and I feel that more keenly now as a grandmother.
How I learned to slow down
Here are a few rules I’ve adopted—my own hard-won lessons after years of racing without pause.
They aren’t complicated, but I’ve found them surprisingly powerful.
Guard your mornings
I no longer leap into email or errands the moment I wake up. For years, I began my days already in a rush, as if life were a race to be won before lunchtime.
Now, I start slower. A quiet walk around the block, a few stretches in the kitchen while the kettle boils—these small rituals anchor me. They remind me that how I begin sets the tone for everything that follows.
Choose presence over productivity
This one took me decades to learn.
When I’m with my grandchildren, I don’t multitask anymore. I don’t sneak peeks at my phone or mentally draft my to-do list.
Instead, I give them my full attention. Children notice when you’re really there, and those moments of laughter or storytelling are far richer than any checkmark on a list.
Set softer goals
In my teaching days, I thrived on endless checklists—papers to grade, lessons to plan, students to counsel. Looking back, I realize I carried that same “never enough” mindset into my personal life.
These days, I set just two or three priorities each morning. If I get to them, that’s enough. The rest can wait. This shift has freed me from the trap of always chasing the next task.
Respect your limits
I used to pride myself on burning the midnight oil, convincing myself I was accomplishing more. In truth, I was only running myself down.
Now, when I’m tired, I rest.
As I mentioned, the research backs this up showing that pushing past exhaustion doesn’t actually make us more effective—it makes us less so. And honestly, the world can wait until morning.
Build in reflection
This has been the most transformative change. I used to think reflection was indulgent, a luxury I couldn’t afford in a busy day.
But experiments prove otherwise: workers who spent just 15 minutes a day reflecting on their work improved their performance by a remarkable 22% compared to those who didn’t.
That number startled me. So I started practicing it myself—not as a grand exercise, but in small ways. Sometimes it’s jotting down three lines in a notebook. Other times it’s sitting quietly at the end of the day, asking, “What went well today? What drained me?”
It’s amazing how such a short pause sharpens clarity and keeps me from rushing blindly into the next thing.
Final thoughts
If there’s a cost to never slowing down, there’s also a gift in learning how to pause. It’s not about doing less for the sake of laziness—it’s about creating space for what truly matters.
I sometimes wonder how differently my teaching years might have felt if I’d practiced these habits earlier. But I don’t linger in regret. What matters is that now, in this season of life, I’ve learned the lesson.
And maybe you need that reminder too: you don’t have to earn your worth by always moving. Sometimes the bravest thing you can do is stop, breathe, and let the world wait a moment.
Just launched: The Vessel’s Youtube Channel
Explore our first video: The Brain Beneath Our Feet — a short-film by shaman Rudá Iandê that challenges where we believe intelligence comes from.
Instead of looking to the stars or machines, Rudá invites us to consider that the first great mind on Earth may have existed without a brain at all… and that the oldest form of thought might be living beneath our feet.
Watch Now:
