I'm writing this from a little cottage surrounded by nature. It's peaceful here. The kind of peaceful where you can hear the birds singing, the wind moving through the trees and the gentle sound of a brook flowing past the bottom of the garden. There's no constant traffic, no demands and no endless background noise. Even the internet is intermittent, which I'm beginning to think might be exactly what I need.
I came here with family to spend time together as we remember my brother whose 49th birthday it would have been in a few days, but sadly died when he was just 38. I was also looking forward to rest, to breathe in some fresh air and escape the noise of everyday life for a little while. But when I woke up this morning, I felt absolutely exhausted. More exhausted than when I'd gone to bed the night before and as I lay there, listening to the quiet, I began to realise that as my body was finally starting to relax, it is only now that I’m beginning to feel just how truly tired I really am.
I've been thinking about how much we expect of ourselves in everyday life and especially the 9–5 routine, which if we’re totally honest is more like the 6am-8pm routine when you consider travel, overtime etc. Then there’s the responsibilities, the constant noise, the people who need us or want something from us. The endless list of things we need to do, should be doing or haven't quite got around to yet. There's the noise inside our own heads. The conversations we replay, the things we worry about and the random thoughts about life that seem to wait until three in the morning before deciding they need our urgent attention.
Sometimes I wonder whether we even realise how much we're carrying until we finally put some of it down. I've become so accustomed to functioning within that busyness that I don't think I've fully recognised what it's been doing to me.
There's a strange place you can find yourself in when this happens. You're not quite ill enough to feel justified in taking time off work, but you're not really well enough to be functioning at your best either. You can still do your job, smile, laugh and meet your responsibilities. From the outside, everything probably looks perfectly normal. But inside, you're tired. A deeper exhaustion that a good night's sleep doesn't seem to fix and because you're still functioning, you convince yourself that you're fine. Until you stop.
Something I've become increasingly aware of since arriving here is that there’s a conflict within me. My heart knows I'm somewhere beautiful, that I don't have to rush anywhere, answer to anyone or achieve anything. But my mind and body seem to be taking a little longer to catch up.
It's almost as though one part of me is saying, "It's okay, you can relax now," while another part is standing guard, waiting for the next thing that needs my attention. When you've spent a long time operating in a heightened state of alertness, whether through stress, past experiences, responsibilities or simply the relentless pace of life, slowing down doesn't always come naturally.
I've noticed myself thinking about what I should be doing, even though there's absolutely nothing I need to do. It's as though my mind has forgotten what it's like to simply be and my body seems caught somewhere between wanting to surrender to the peace and feeling the need to remain on alert.
I'm beginning to understand that being somewhere peaceful and actually feeling peaceful are not always the same thing. My surroundings are telling me there's nothing to worry about, nothing to prepare for, nothing I need to do. But my nervous system hasn't quite received the message and I wonder how long I've been living like this without fully recognising it.
One of the things I'm appreciating most about being here is the simplicity of nature. The birds aren't concerned about whether I've answered my emails. The trees don't care about my to-do list and the wildlife isn't waiting for me to solve a problem or make a decision. Nothing here needs me to be productive and there's something incredibly freeing about that.
Even the unreliable internet has become part of the experience. When the connection disappears, I'm gently brought back to where I actually am and where I am is beautiful. There's a whole world happening outside this cottage that has nothing to do with deadlines, expectations, social media or the demands of modern life. Nature simply gets on with being nature and I wonder how much we could learn from that.
As I'm writing this, I'm sitting outside with my morning cup of tea, overlooking the little brook that runs along the bottom of the cottage garden. The water is gently flowing past, the birds are singing and, for the first time since arriving, I feel as though something inside me is beginning to soften.
The exhaustion hasn't disappeared. There's still a low level of anxiety sitting somewhere in the background and I can still feel that familiar tension in my body. But something has changed. I've stopped trying to make myself relax. Instead, I've simply given myself permission to sit here, drink my tea and enjoy what's happening around me. In doing that, I've realised that I don't have to feel completely at peace to experience a peaceful moment.
I can be tired and still appreciate the beauty around me. I can feel anxious and still find comfort in the sound of the brook. I can acknowledge everything my body is carrying without allowing it to take away the joy of this moment.
Perhaps that's where the conflict within my body begins to soften. Not because one part of me has finally won over the other, but because I'm no longer asking either part to be different. The exhausted part of me is allowed to be tired, the anxious part is allowed to feel unsettled and the part that longs for peace is allowed to enjoy it.
I used to think that rest was simply the absence of activity. That if I stopped working or went away somewhere peaceful, my body would automatically relax. But sometimes we physically stop long before we mentally or emotionally slow down. Sometimes the exhaustion only becomes apparent when the pressure of everyday life begins to settle.
I'm not expecting a few days in the countryside to magically undo months of stress or years of learned responses and I don't want to turn relaxing into something else I have to achieve. How ironic would that be? Coming away to escape the pressure of everyday life, only to put pressure on myself to feel completely restored.
I don't think I'll return home with all the answers. The responsibilities, the work and the routines aren't going to disappear. But I hope I'll take something of this experience back with me. A greater awareness of just how much I've been carrying and a reminder that I don't have to wait until I'm completely exhausted before giving myself permission to rest.
Why do we so often wait until our bodies are struggling before we decide they're worthy of our attention? Why does rest sometimes feel like something we have to earn?
Sitting here, surrounded by nature, I'm beginning to recognise that my body isn't working against me. It isn't failing because it's tired or because it doesn't immediately know how to relax. Perhaps it's simply responding to everything I've been asking of it and perhaps, for once, I need to stop asking. So today, I'm going to let myself be tired. I'm going to allow the anxiety to sit quietly in the background without needing to analyse it or make it disappear. I'm going to listen to the birds, watch the wildlife and allow the quiet to work its way into the places where I've been holding so much tension. For now, with my cup of tea, the sound of the brook and the world quietly carrying on around me, that feels like more than enough.
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