The Art of Doing Nothing and Feeling Everything
Here I am, sitting still, struggling to figure out why that very thing feels so terrifying. Is it because I’m in my thoughts? Because I have no choice but to sit with myself? I know it’s all of that. Stillness holds up a mirror—and sometimes, that’s the scariest thing to face.
Time keeps moving, no matter what. Even if you’re standing still, even if you’re trying not to feel it.
My need for escapism became painfully clear after my dad passed away. But truthfully, it’s something I’ve carried with me for longer than that—probably since I left for college. That was the first time I had the freedom to “run.” And I ran. College is a big deal for a lot of reasons, but for me, it was also the beginning of staying distracted. Being busy felt like control. It felt like safety.
I became the friend who was always doing something—always out, always planning the next vacation, always on the go. I wore busyness like armor, like proof that I was okay. But behind that energy, there was something I didn’t want to feel.
Stillness makes me anxious. It means sitting with myself, and that’s not always easy. When the distractions are gone, I’m left with my mirror. And sometimes, that reflection is heavy.
I’ve used productivity to avoid my feelings. I’ve used errands, scrolling, even cleaning just to escape crying. Just to avoid the quiet that might bring the wave I’ve been pushing back.
So one question I have to ask myself is this: Is busyness a kind of emotional armor for me?
Yeah. It is. But at some point, the armor cracks. Reality finds its way in. And you realize: no matter how much you run, you can’t escape what’s happening inside of you.
Stillness is scary because it reveals the parts of ourselves we try so hard to outrun. It strips away the noise, the performance. It’s who you are when no one’s watching. What you really feel.
And then life changes. You get a “big girl” job, and suddenly, you're forced to slow down. There’s less room to hide. Grief becomes louder in the quiet—but sometimes it screams even in a loud room. After my dad passed, I tried so hard to escape those emotions, but they followed me. They showed up in movie scenes. In songs. In conversations with strangers. At concerts and festivals, when I was supposed to feel free. It’s like the world kept whispering: You can’t hide from this.
Even social media became another place to disappear. We think we’re learning, being inspired, saving recipes and affirmations—but mostly, we’re just avoiding ourselves. Even watching a show without picking up our phones feels hard. Noise has become our default. Choosing silence? Terrifying.
I’m realizing more and more that stillness isn’t always peaceful. Sometimes, it’s confrontation. A quiet but urgent conversation you can’t avoid.
I’m writing this now, sitting in a space that used to be filled with the noise of roommates and movement—but it’s just me now. And this weekend, for once, I don’t have a packed schedule or plans to “escape” into. Just me. Just stillness.
And when I sit still, the hard stuff bubbles up: my father’s death. My relationship. Life and its ending. All the quiet fears that trail behind me in the noise. I’m starting to wonder—maybe if I actually sat with these thoughts, maybe if I let them come and go—stillness wouldn’t feel so unbearable.
If you feel the same, I hope you know it’s okay to start small. Dip a toe in. Go outside and feel the grass under your feet. Breathe. Journal. Let the silence be gentle.
Stillness doesn’t have to be your enemy. It might just be your most honest friend.
