The Weekend I Stopped Running from Myself

It was a Friday afternoon in late September when I realized I didn’t know how to rest. I’d taken the day off work, made zero plans, and told myself I’d enjoy some “me time.” But as I sat on my couch in my silent apartment, drinking coffee that had long gone cold, I felt a rising discomfort that had nothing to do with the room temperature.

For the first time in months—maybe years—I had nothing scheduled. No errands, no deadlines, no Zoom calls, no dinners with friends I wasn’t fully present for anyway. It should have felt luxurious. Instead, it felt like I was under a spotlight I hadn’t asked for, performing a one-person show with no script.

This wasn’t burnout. I knew burnout. I’d danced with it often, always managing to pull away before the final crash. This was something deeper. A confrontation with quiet.

Most people think of rest as doing nothing. But doing nothing is a radical act in a world addicted to productivity. I didn’t know how radical until that weekend.

Friday Evening: The False Start

By 6 PM, I had already scrolled through every social app twice, reorganized my spice cabinet, and contemplated painting my bathroom (I didn’t). The idea of spending a Friday night alone used to horrify me. I'd filled past weekends with plans, believing they made me feel alive. But really, they just made me feel occupied.

I texted a friend, hoping to be rescued from the stillness:

"Hey, doing anything tonight?"

She replied:

"Just having a quiet one. Honestly, you should too. You never stop moving."

I stared at the message like it had insulted me.

Me? Not stop moving? I was just living, right? Except my version of living looked more like running—always moving fast enough to blur the edges of my anxiety and self-doubt.

That night, I tried watching a movie, but my brain wouldn’t cooperate. I found myself fast-forwarding through the plot, unable to sit with the characters. I was beginning to suspect I couldn’t sit with myself either.

Saturday: Detoxing from Distraction

I woke up to silence. No alarms, no meetings, just the soft hum of city life leaking through the window. I resisted the urge to grab my phone, instead forcing myself to lie in bed and breathe.

When was the last time I did nothing first thing in the morning?

I made breakfast slowly, each step deliberate. I cracked eggs like they were fragile secrets. I toasted bread and actually watched it brown, marveling at how it transformed. I sat at my tiny kitchen table and ate without a screen. The world didn't end.

Inspired by this newfound stillness, I decided to go for a walk—no podcast, no music, just me and the city.

The first few blocks were agonizing. My brain reached for distraction like a smoker reaching for one last cigarette. I wanted noise, news, anything. But the longer I walked, the more the city unfolded for me: the old man feeding pigeons like they were old friends, the street artist painting murals on electrical boxes, the laughter of kids chasing bubbles near the fountain.

I wasn’t doing anything. And yet, I was finally experiencing something.

Saturday Evening: The Breakdown and the Breakthrough

That night, something unexpected happened. I cried. Not a single tear or two, but the kind of sobbing that comes from a place you didn’t know existed. It started with a thought: Why am I always running?

Then the memories came rushing in—late nights at the office when I should’ve been sleeping, texts left unanswered because I was “too busy,” the friendships I let fade, and the self-care I treated like a luxury instead of a necessity.

I cried for the parts of me I had neglected. For the joy I postponed. For the rest I treated it like weakness.

But in the quiet that followed, I felt something new: space.

Sunday: Relearning Joy

Sunday morning felt different. The air in my apartment didn’t feel so heavy. I opened the windows. Let the breeze in. Made tea. Played music—not to drown anything out, but because I wanted to hear it.

I spent the day doing things I’d forgotten I loved. I drew for the first time in years—badly, but joyfully. I danced while folding laundry. I journaled without editing my thoughts. I even called my mom, not because I had something to say, but because I missed hearing her voice.

And when evening came, I didn’t dread Monday.

What That Weekend Taught Me

I thought I needed a vacation. What I really needed was permission to stop—to sit in silence, to listen to the parts of me I kept muting. That weekend, I didn’t travel, party, or accomplish anything impressive. But I finally slowed down long enough to meet myself.

Here’s what I learned—and maybe it’ll resonate with you too:

Busyness isn't a badge of honor. It's often a disguise for disconnection.

Rest is productive. It's where ideas are born, healing happens, and clarity grows.

Being alone doesn’t mean being lonely. Solitude can be a powerful teacher.

You can’t outrun your feelings. But you can face them, and they’re usually not as scary as you think.

Joy lives in the small things. We miss them when we’re sprinting through life.

Moving Forward

I wish I could say I became a completely changed person after that weekend, that I now meditate daily and have impeccable work-life balance. I don’t. I still slip into old habits. I still fill up my calendar sometimes because empty space still scares me.

But I also take more pauses. I notice more. I sit with myself more often.

Now, when I feel that urge to run—from discomfort, boredom, or vulnerability—I ask myself, what am I running from? And more often than not, I choose to stay. To be still. To listen.

That weekend didn’t change everything. But it changed something. And sometimes, that’s all it takes to start coming home to yourself.

If You’re Reading This…

Take a breath. Seriously, right now.

You’re allowed to rest. You’re allowed to unplug. You’re allowed to do nothing, not because you earned it, but because you exist. And existence is reason enough.

Maybe you don’t need a vacation. Maybe, like me, you just need a weekend where you stop running and finally hear what your own heart’s been trying to say.