I came into this vacation thinking about rest the way most of us do — time off, fewer demands, a pause from the pace of work and responsibility. And while those things matter, I’m realizing they’re not the whole story. Maybe not even the most important part.
What I’m learning, slowly but honestly, is that rest isn’t just about stopping. It’s about how I spend my time when I’m allowed to choose.
I’ve spent much of my life paying close attention to what others need at work, in leadership, at home, and in relationships. It’s something I value, and something that has served me well. But this vacation has gently surfaced a parallel truth that I’m not always as attentive to my own needs.
There’s a version of rest that looks like complete disengagement. No structure. No plans. Nothing expected. For some people, that’s deeply restorative. For me, it often isn’t. Left too open-ended, “rest” can feel oddly draining rather than renewing.
What I’m seeing more clearly now is that meaningful activity and connection don’t exhaust me — they refuel me. I don’t need constant productivity, but I do need purpose. I don’t need to perform, but I do need engagement. When those things are missing entirely, my energy doesn’t replenish; it thins.
This has helped me reframe exhaustion. It hasn’t usually come from doing too much, but from consistently orienting my time around others’ needs while sidelining my own, or from carrying good responsibilities without enough margin, autonomy, or alignment.
My former boss and leadership expert, Carey Nieuwhof, has said something that has stayed with me:
“Time off won’t heal you when the problem is how you spend your time on.”
On this vacation, that line has taken on new meaning. Not as a critique of my work or my choices but as an invitation to greater honesty.
If I’m thoughtful about everyone else’s needs but vague about my own, no amount of time away will fully restore me.
True rest, I’m learning, isn’t about disengagement. It’s about rebalancing.
It’s engaging without pressure.
It’s structure without demand.
It’s movement without carrying everything myself.
That idea brings to mind the verse where Jesus says, “Take my yoke upon you… for my yoke is easy and my burden is light.” I’ve often heard that as an invitation to lay everything down. Now, I’m hearing something more nuanced.
A yoke still means movement and direction, however it’s a shared way of carrying. One that fits. One that doesn’t require striving.
Maybe rest isn’t about doing less of what matters. Maybe it’s about learning to carry what matters in a way that honours how we’re made.
This vacation hasn’t changed what I care about or the work I’m committed to. But it has clarified something important: sustainability doesn’t come from ignoring my wiring or outworking my limits. It comes from including myself in the equation.
I don’t have this fully figured out yet. But I’m listening more closely.
And that, I’m realizing, is a meaningful form of rest.