What My Sick Days Taught Me About Real Rest (It’s Not What You Think)
This morning, before I’d even opened my eyes, I knew.
Not from a calendar reminder or a “you’re due for a flare-up” ping. Just the weight of my own body. Heavy. Cement-heavy. Fire-in-my-veins heavy.
Welcome to the delightful surprise party that is chronic illness. No RSVP needed. You just… wake up in it.
The Flare Days You Don’t See Coming
Some flares sneak up on me. Others kick the door down and announce themselves with full-body spasticity, shooting nerve shocks, and hands that feel like they’ve been beaten with hammers. Today it’s the latter.
My feet and calves are twitching like live wires, and my hands are stiff, aching, and protesting even this act of typing. Vision? Blurry. Pain? Electrical. Plans? Cancelled.
And here’s the kicker: I used to ignore this. I’d push through. Slam a Red Bull, down some coffee, and throw myself into work like I was invincible.
Spoiler: I’m not.
Before Chronic Illness, “Rest” Was an Afterthought
Rest used to mean feeling guilty. Lazy. Weak. I grew up in a culture of “hustle harder” and “push through the pain.” Rest was what you earned once everything else was done, except everything else was never done.
So I’d rest, sure. For twenty minutes. While scrolling. Or I’d lie in bed with my laptop, answering emails like a good little burnout-junkie.
Turns out, that’s not rest. That’s just horizontal productivity.
Now? Rest Is a Ritual
Rest is no longer a break; it’s a boundary. It’s a ceremony.
- The bed is made, properly made. Soft, high-quality linen. No scratchy textures. My skin is too sensitive, and my nervous system too fried, for anything but comfort.
- Sounds of nature fill the room. Crickets. Forests. Sometimes just silence, blessed and still.
- Lavender floats through the air, either from a candle or a diffuser, because my brain needs cues that it’s safe to exhale.
- Baths with Epsom salts when I can manage it. Lavender-infused again. Heat is magic. Fun fact: so is Lavender.
- And always, always tea.
Sometimes a fancy store-bought herbal one, sometimes a wild little blend of whatever’s in the fridge: fresh ginger, honey, lemon, mint, berries. I long for a proper teapot with a built-in infuser. I’ll get it one day, fingers crossed.
My Flare Day Toolkit (a.k.a. Survival by Ritual)
Here’s what’s within reach when I crash-land into a flare:
- An electric hot water bottle in the sheepskin cover my sister sent me from New Zealand. (Find a similar one here.)
- My decade-old Woolworths wool-lined blanket. (Find a similar one here.)
- Slipper socks, because walking hurts, but cold toes make it worse.
- A blue-and-white china teacup, yes, the cup affects the taste; don’t fight me on this.
- Scented candle or lavender diffuser.
- Podcasts that carry my mind somewhere kinder:
- And most importantly, Bugsy curled up next to me like a little heartbeat.
The Day I Finally Understood Rest
There was a moment, a real one, when I realised: rest is not a luxury. It’s not a nap. It’s not working from bed. It’s not multitasking with a heating pad on.
Rest is permission.
Permission to shut off. To stop proving yourself. To not be available to everyone all the time.
I finally saw what my body was begging me for: clear boundaries.
Not “I’ll just do this one last thing.”
Not “It’s fine, I can take that call.”
But a full switch-off, emotionally, physically, and mentally.
Friday to Monday. No clients. No guilt.
Just… recovery.
If My Body Could Speak…
It would say:
“You call this rest?! Give me real rest or I’ll force it out of you.”
And honestly? Fair.
Because my body has forced it out of me before. Through flares. Through burnout. Through collapse.
Rest Isn’t Weakness, It’s Wisdom
If you’re living with chronic illness, or even just carrying too much life in your bones, you don’t need permission to rest. But I’ll give it anyway:
Let your rest be lush. Let it be soft. Let it be sacred.
Let it be enough.
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