Learning to Feel Safe Resting After a Lifetime of People-Pleasing

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“Rest is not idleness, and to lie sometimes on the grass under trees on a summer’s day, listening to the murmur of water, or watching the clouds float across the sky, is by no means a waste of time.” ~John Lubbock

For years, I thought exhaustion was a sign I lived fully and did my best that day. I felt proud of being exhausted. I squeezed every bit out of the day, and there was nothing left.

If I felt tired, I pushed myself to do just one more thing. It was always just one more thing. If I needed to lie down, I scolded myself for being weak. Around me, it seemed everyone else could keep going—working late, saying yes to every request, holding it all together, and getting everything done.

So I pushed harder. I drank more coffee, ignored the pounding in my chest, and told myself I’d rest “later,” as a reward. And when that later finally came, I was so exhausted and empty, all I managed for myself was the easiest available comfort food and plopping down in front of the TV.

Deep down, I wasn’t just tired from doing too much. I was tired from being someone I thought others needed me to be. I gave my everything, and nothing remained for me.

I was tired from people-pleasing.

When Rest Feels Unsafe

People-pleasing is often misunderstood as kindness, but at its core it’s a survival strategy. Psychologists call it the “fawn response.” When fight or flight aren’t possible, some of us learn to stay safe by appeasing others—saying yes, staying agreeable, avoiding conflict at all costs.

This might protect us in unsafe environments, but over time it takes a toll. The body stays on high alert— scanning for others’ needs, monitoring their tone of voice, ready to jump in and smooth things over.

In that state, rest doesn’t feel like an option.

When I tried to pause—sit quietly, lie down, even take a slow breath—my body rebelled. My chest buzzed with tension. My throat tightened, as if rest itself were dangerous. Doing nothing felt risky, as though someone might be upset or reject or abandon me if I wasn’t useful.

So I stayed in motion. On the outside, I looked capable, dependable, “good.” On the inside, I was running on fumes.

The Cost of Never Stopping

When rest feels unsafe, exhaustion becomes a way of life.

The body breaks down. I developed a stress knot in my shoulder, poor posture, and constant fatigue.

The mind spirals. Anxiety grew louder, whispering that I wasn’t doing enough.

The heart aches. Saying yes when I wanted no left me resentful and empty.

I thought if I could just be more disciplined, I’d manage. But discipline wasn’t the problem—my nervous system was.

It had learned, long ago, that slowing down invited danger. So it kept me on guard, pushing, performing, and erasing myself—all in the name of safety, belonging, being approved of and perhaps accepted.

Realizing Rest Is Part of Healing

The turning point came when I read about trauma and the nervous system. I learned that exhaustion and restlessness weren’t proof that I was lazy or broken. They were survival responses. My body wasn’t fighting me—it was protecting me, the only way it knew how.

That realization softened something inside. For the first time, I saw my fatigue not as failure, but as evidence of how hard I’d been trying to survive.

If my body could learn to see rest as danger, maybe it could also relearn rest as safety.

Gentle Practices for Making Rest Safer

The change didn’t come overnight. But step by step, I began inviting rest back into my life—not as laziness, but as medicine.

Here are a few things that helped:

1. Start small.

Instead of trying to nap for an hour, I practiced lying down for five minutes. Just five. Long enough to notice my body but short enough not to panic. Over time, those five minutes grew.

2. Anchor with touch.

When rest stirred anxiety, I placed a hand on my chest or stomach. That simple contact reminded me: I’m here, I’m safe.

3. Redefine rest.

I stopped thinking rest had to mean sleep. Rest could be sitting quietly with tea, staring at the sky, or listening to soft music. It was anything that let my nervous system breathe.

4. Challenge the story.

When the inner critic said, “You’re wasting time,” I gently asked: Is it wasteful to care for the body that carries me? Slowly, I began rewriting that story.

What I’ve Learned

Rest still isn’t always easy for me. Sometimes I lie down, and my chest buzzes like it used to, urging me to get back up. Sometimes guilt whispers that others are doing more, so I should too.

But now I understand: these feelings don’t mean I’m failing at life. They mean my body is still unwinding old survival patterns.

And the more I practice, the more I see rest for what it truly is:

• A way to reset my nervous system.
• A way to honor my limits.
• A way to reclaim the life that people-pleasing once stole from me.

I used to believe safety came from doing more. Now I see that safety begins with stopping.

Closing Reflection

If you’ve ever avoided rest, told yourself you couldn’t afford to relax, or felt guilty when you tried, you’re not alone. Many of us carry nervous systems that equate worth with usefulness and safety with exhaustion.

But what if the truth is the opposite? What if rest is not indulgence but healing? What if slowing down is not selfish but necessary?

Rest may not feel natural at first. It may even feel unsafe and bring up feelings of panic, pressure to get going again, or a sense of falling behind. But with gentleness, patience, and compassion, the body can relearn what it once forgot: that it is safe to stop.

You are not weak for needing rest. You are human. And in a world that pushes constant doing, choosing to rest might be the bravest thing you can do.

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