You Don’t Have to Earn Rest

Unlearning the Hustle Inheritance

My grandmother never just sat.

If she was on the couch, it was because there were green beans to snap or pecans to shell. If the TV was on, she wasn’t watching it—she was working beside it. She reused foil until it unraveled. She washed and repurposed every plastic container that came her way. She canned vegetables, made her own pickles, and taught homemaking classes at church. She raised children, hosted guests, and upheld a certain standard of order and judgment wherever she went.

She was a preacher’s wife, a Depression-era child, a college graduate, and a woman of deeply conservative faith. I didn’t live near her growing up, but her presence was felt across the miles. Her values seeped into our family system like vinegar into cucumbers—preserving more than vegetables.

And whether I realized it or not, she shaped my understanding of what made a person good.

Namely: being productive. Never wasting. Staying useful. Doing your part.

I learned early that rest was earned.

It’s not like anyone sat me down and said it. But the message was clear in how we lived, what we celebrated, what we judged. So I absorbed it.

Even as a young mom, if I sat down to watch TV, I made sure I was folding laundry at the same time. Rest without utility felt… lazy. Uncomfortable. Wasteful. Like I was doing something wrong.

That script—“you have to earn your rest”—has been hard to shake. Even now, when I’m far more self-aware and intentional about my values, I still find myself defaulting to productivity as a source of worth.

I’ve had flickers of awakening over the years. These days, I’m much better about relaxing at the end of the day. After dinner and kitchen cleanup, it’s now the norm—not the exception—for me to let myself slow down. But it’s still tough to rest during the day, or when the kitchen’s a mess. My brain has a whole checklist before I’m “allowed” to sit.

And then came the forced reset.

Surgery has a way of interrupting your patterns.

I had major surgery on March 25. The first few days, I could barely move. Pain kept me horizontal. After that, my body started to cooperate—but only a little. If I did too much, my back would ache. My whole midsection would protest. I knew I needed to take it easy.

And yet, now—just over two weeks later—I keep reaching for tasks that are still off-limits. The hardest one? The floors. I’m not allowed to sweep or vacuum yet, and it drives me absolutely nuts when they’re messy. I catch myself staring at crumbs, itching to grab the broom—then reminding myself (again) that recovery comes first.

Sometimes I still do more than I should, and my body reminds me with sharp, persistent pain.

It’s been humbling. And kind of disorienting.

In that first week, I even caught myself feeling… bored.

It was such a foreign feeling. I rarely let myself slow down enough to notice boredom. So when my daughter asked for help brainstorming and writing something, I lit up. It felt so good to contribute—to create something. To feel purposeful again.

But later, I realized something deeper was at play. It wasn’t just the joy of helping her (though that’s always meaningful). It was the production that lit me up. I had made something. Completed something. Delivered.

That’s when it hit me:

I still attach my worth to my productivity.

So here I am, reckoning with the inheritance.

This hustle inheritance shaped me, but it doesn’t get to define me. I’m choosing a new way forward.

My grandmother’s legacy wasn’t all bad. There’s wisdom in not wasting, in doing things with care, in tending to others with intention. But there’s also harm in believing that our value is measured in output. That rest is only justified after exhaustion. That “doing nothing” is a moral failing.

I don’t want to pass that on.

I want my kids—and myself—to believe that rest is not a reward. It’s a right. That presence matters more than productivity. That we are enough, even when we’re not delivering, fixing, or folding.

I’m still learning this. Still practicing. Still letting go.

But I want to say it out loud, so I can hear it too:

You don’t have to earn your rest.
You are already enough—even when you’re still.

Your Turn

• What rhythms shaped your rest—or stole it?
• What would it look like to rest as an act of defiance?
• What kind of rest are you aching for right now?
• And what might shift if you let yourself believe:
  You don’t have to earn your rest.
  You are already enough—even when you’re still.