There is a natural rhythm that persists beneath the bustle of the world. It sustains life with a steady current— the turning of tides, the quiet transformation that makes way for every bloom, the pulse of our own hearts. But in a culture that glorifies acceleration, endless productivity, and digital omnipresence, this rhythm is easy to miss. We’re taught to override it. To “power through.” To stay informed, involved, and responsive at all times. But what if the most radical move you can make, in the face of modern life’s push forward, is to slow down and seek solace in Earth’s ancient life-giving cadence?
What if choosing rest—intentional, joyful, generative rest—is not retreat, but rebellion?
We live in a world on fire. Even romantics like me can see social systems cracking, ecosystems collapsing, and the seemingly irreparable damage from the endless stream of urgency. And yet, here you are, reading a piece about rest. Not because you are complicit or indifferent. But because something in you, like me, knows that depletion does not serve the revolution. Something in you understands that a burnt-out body cannot support a resilient mind or build a just world. Something in you is reaching toward a different way—a way that starts not with escape, but with presence.
Rest, in this sense, is not about withdrawal from the world, but a return to it. A return to your body. Your breath. Your heartbeat. The land beneath your feet. The people you love. The dreams that have been buried under deadlines and crisis fatigue. The very source of what makes us human. It is a turning toward life, not away from it.
This is not the rest of resignation. This is the rest of resistance.
To choose rest in a culture built on extraction is to reclaim your sovereignty. To opt out of grind-as-worth, hustle-as-identity, burnout-as-badge-of-honor. It is to remember that your aliveness is not a means to someone else’s end. It is an end in itself.
And here’s the paradox: when we begin to honor our own capacity, we actually become more available to the world—not less. Not in the way capitalism defines availability (24/7, always on, endlessly giving), but in the way trees are available to the forest—rooted, alive, interdependent. When you are well, you can show up. Fully. Honestly. Creatively. Sustainably. And your presence, not just your output, becomes a gift.
Think of the people who have moved you most deeply—those who have changed the course of your life, or even just your day. Were they frantic, frayed, endlessly performing their usefulness? Or were they grounded? Clear? Able to hold a moment with their whole being?
We need more of that.
And yet, choosing this path is anything but easy. The voice of dominant culture is loud. It tells us to keep going, even when we’ve reached a point of depletion. It tells us rest is indulgent, even dangerous. Especially if you carry identities that have historically been denied rest. So many of us have been conditioned to equate our value with our labor, our presence with our productivity.
But this is exactly why rest is revolutionary.
To claim your own rhythm in a world that commodifies every second is to plant a seed of liberation. It says: I will not be owned. I will not be optimized. I will not live as if I am only valuable when I am exhausted.
And in doing so, you create space. Space for others to do the same. You normalize what has been forbidden. You model a different kind of power—the power that comes from alignment, not adrenaline. That is brave. That is disruptive.
So what does revolutionary rest actually look like?
Sometimes it’s big—like jumping on a plane, taking a sabbatical, stepping away from social media, turning down work that compromises your integrity. But more often, it’s small. It’s the sacred no. The phone turned off after dark. The slow meal with someone you love. The walk without a podcast. The nap in the middle of the day because you’re tired and that’s reason enough. It’s choosing awe over algorithm. Pleasure over performance.
It’s remembering that you are a part of nature, not separate from it. And nature does not bloom all year long.
You may find, in the stillness, that what you thought was lost is still here—just quiet. Waiting for you. You may remember why you started doing the work in the first place. You may meet your own intuition again, hear the soft voice beneath the static. You may realize you are not behind. You are on time, on rhythm, on purpose.
Of course, rest does not mean disengagement from the world’s suffering. It is not apathy or avoidance. It is fuel. It is remembering that we are not meant to carry it all alone. That we need beauty, joy, and embodiment not in spite of the world’s pain, but precisely because of it. Joy is not a betrayal of the struggle—it is what makes the struggle worth it.
Let’s not forget: the civil rights movement had singers, dancers, cooks, grandmothers. The resistance has always required art, ritual, rest. Not just strategy, but soul. Not just action, but aliveness.
So if you are feeling the call to step back, slow down, or unplug—not out of numbness, but out of reverence—listen. This is not selfish. It is sacred. You are not stepping away. You are stepping in. To your very own life.
Let them call it soft. Let them call it self-serving. You will know it for what it is: sacred refusal. Quiet courage. Revolutionary rest. The world needs your light—not as a hot flame that burns fast, but as a hearth. Something warm. Sustained. Alive.
So this year, what if your most courageous act is not pushing harder—but rooting deeper? What if your rest becomes the revolution?
Article by Angela Boltz who is hosting a retreat at Anamaya from July 12 – 19, 2025 called the Feminine Embodiment Retreat. Click HERE for more information.
