Hustle to Healing: Finding Grace in the Pause
For a long time, I thought rest was like dessert—you only got it if you finished everything on your plate: work, bills, caretaking, emotional labor, and whatever unexpected chaos the day threw at you. Sound familiar?
If you grew up in a household where “taking a break” looked suspiciously like laziness—or where someone was always working, always sacrificing—then you probably picked up the same rule I did: never stop moving. Ever. Like, if you sit still long enough, something will surely fall apart. Probably everything.
In my family, rest wasn’t modeled. It was postponed. Indefinitely.
I was raised by a father who somehow raised four kids on superhero stamina, and a grandmother whose sharp wisdom could slice through nonsense like a hot knife through generational trauma. They taught me that hustle = survival. And little me? I took that to heart. When my grandmother told me to take care of myself, I thought she meant work harder—push more, do more, be more. I didn’t yet understand that care could mean slowing down, rest, breathe. So I kept running, thinking if I just moved fast enough, I could outrun struggle. Or at least earn a little peace.
Fast forward to undergrad at the University of the District of Columbia: I was juggling three jobs—full-time at a bookstore, evenings at the Kennedy Center, overnights at CVS—while carrying a full course load. How did I do it? Honestly, I’m still not sure. I think I blacked out somewhere between the self-checkout lane and my 8 a.m. lecture.
People called me “driven.” I called it “panic in a blazer.” Because underneath the gold stars and grindset was a voice whispering, If you stop, you’ll lose everything. I wasn’t just productive—I was addicted to being needed. Being busy made me feel safe, useful, in control. But like many of us who’ve perfected the art of over-functioning, that came at a cost.
Eventually, my body called my bluff. I passed out at work. I started fading in class. I felt like a blurry extra in my own life. That was my wake-up call. I dropped two jobs. I took a semester off. It wasn’t noble—it was survival. And honestly, it was one of the bravest things I’ve ever done.
That crash landing taught me what I now tell my clients (and myself): rest is not a luxury—it’s a life-saving practice.
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In my work, I often reference Nedra Glover Tawwab’s Set Boundaries, Find Peace, especially her reminder that “we teach people how to treat us by how we treat ourselves.” That line stopped me in my tracks. I had spent years overriding my own limits to be helpful, dependable, strong. But underneath that was fear—of letting people down, of being seen as less than. Learning to honor my own boundaries didn’t make me selfish. It made me sustainable. And that’s the shift I help clients make too: from self-sacrifice to self-respect.
At the same time, the work of Kristin Neff and Christopher Germer on Mindful Self-Compassion for Burnout helped me reframe how I approached exhaustion—not as a failure of discipline, but as a call for care. Their approach taught me (and continues to teach my clients) that you can’t shame yourself into healing. You have to meet burnout with kindness, not criticism. That means treating yourself not like a machine that needs fixing, but like a human being who needs tending.
These days, I advocate for rest like it’s my love language. Fifteen-minute walks. Silence. No-email weekends. Sometimes just lying on the floor and staring at the ceiling like I’m buffering.
Because burnout doesn’t knock. It kicks the door in. And it doesn’t care about your deadlines, your titles, or your good intentions.
I still work hard—because old habits and capitalism die slow. But now I rest with the same intention. I remind my fellow perfectionists, caretakers, cycle-breakers, and eldest sons of the world: you don’t have to earn your rest. You just have to protect it.
So go ahead. Take the nap. Cancel the non-essential. Let the dishes wait. Plan a “sick” day. Put your phone on “Do Not Disturb” like it’s an act of resistance—because it is.
Your future self (and your nervous system) will thank you.
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RAYSHAUN JOHNSON, LPC, NCC