I used to schedule my rest.

That’s not a joke. I’d block out “relaxation time” on my calendar like it was a dentist appointment. Thirty minutes on Saturday. Maybe an hour on Sunday if I’d been “good” about my to-do list. The problem? I spent most of that time thinking about what I should be doing instead.

Last March, I got stranded at a train station for three hours. My phone was at 4%. No book. No podcast. Just me and a wooden bench that creaked every time I shifted.

I expected to lose my mind.

Something else happened.

The first twenty minutes were brutal

My brain kept offering suggestions. Scroll Twitter. Check email. Text someone. When I couldn’t do any of that, it got creative: maybe I should pace? Count tiles? Plan next week’s meals?

I didn’t give in. Not out of discipline—I just didn’t have the energy to move.

Around minute thirty, something started to shift. My shoulders dropped. I noticed a woman across the platform eating an orange, peeling it slowly, like she had nowhere else to be. A pigeon walked in circles near my feet. The announcements faded into background noise.

What doing nothing actually feels like

It’s not peaceful at first. It’s uncomfortable. You become very aware of your own thoughts, and they’re not all gentle. I thought about an awkward thing I said at a party in 2019. I thought about whether I’d locked my front door. I thought about what I’d eat for dinner.

But underneath all that noise, there was something quieter. A kind of stillness that didn’t need me to achieve anything.

By the time my train finally arrived, I felt different. Lighter. Like I’d set down something heavy without realizing I was carrying it.

Why this is harder than it sounds

We’re trained to optimize. Every minute is supposed to count. Even our rest gets productivity-hacked—meditation apps that gamify calm, journaling prompts that turn reflection into self-improvement projects.

I’m not against those things. I use them sometimes. But there’s a difference between structured stillness and just… sitting there. One has a goal. The other doesn’t.

And that’s what makes it uncomfortable. Doing nothing means accepting that, for a few minutes, you’re not becoming a better version of yourself. You’re just being the version you already are.

Small ways to practice

I’m not suggesting you strand yourself without a phone (though honestly, it helped). But here are some things I’ve tried since that day at the station:

Morning tea without my phone. Just the mug. Just the window. Just whatever thoughts show up.

Waiting without distractions. Doctor’s office. Checkout line. I keep my phone in my pocket and watch people instead.

Sitting in my car for five minutes after I park. Before going inside. Before switching into the next mode. Just sitting.

None of these changed my life dramatically. But they added up. I’m slightly less twitchy now. A bit more comfortable with silence.

The part I didn’t expect

Here’s the strange thing: doing nothing made me more present when I am doing something.

When I’m cooking now, I’m more likely to actually notice the garlic sizzling instead of running through my mental to-do list. When I’m talking to a friend, I catch myself actually listening, not just waiting for my turn to speak.

Turns out, rest isn’t the opposite of productivity. It’s the thing that makes real presence possible.

I’m still not great at this. Some days I reach for my phone the second I feel bored. But I’m getting better at catching myself. That counts for something, right?