Here’s what irritates me the most about Jesus: He is never in a hurry. Of course I don’t like to be hurried. But life is fast and full and I want people to jump when I say jump. God is not on board with this plan. This would have been me living with Jesus: “Twenty minutes until Sabbath, Jesus!” “It’s meal time.” “Jesus, You’ve been preaching for three hours.” I would have been the disciple reminding Jesus that the people were hungry and needed to go home (see Matthew 14:15). And, when He stopped to talk with a random lady on his way to a dying girl, I might have burst a blood vessel. (see Luke 8:41-49) 

As a child I was taught to keep moving and be productive. In my teens constant productivity made me somewhat of an oddity. I took summer courses in addition to working full time; I multitasked during movies; and I often carried a book with me to occupy myself should things start to drag. My first recollection of anyone pushing back on this trait was when I began dating. When I met my first (and last) boyfriend, Michael, I was taking a full university class load and working three part-time campus jobs totaling about 30 hours a week. Very soon after we began dating, Michael encouraged me to quit one of my jobs, which I did. He often challenged my hurried and productive lifestyle simply because he didn’t live that way. For example, I always walked fast; he couldn’t stand walking fast. Over time he taught me to “stroll,” as he liked to call it. This drove me nuts!

Often I have found slowing down produces anxiety in me. When I slow down I must face who I am. This can be debilitating. The truth is hard to swallow: I am not who I want to be and change is costly. Constant activity shields me from the awareness that I am scrambling for safety I don’t have—the kind of quiet safety that anchors my spirit. Hustling and productivity provide an escape. Being productive is a deeply ingrained habit, rewarded by my family of origin and my country’s culture. Slowing down requires engaging in the difficult process of renovating my beliefs about myself. While I may find all this terrifying, God is ready to roll up His sleeves and get to work.

If learning to be still began when I started dating Michael, it has now occupied half my life. I spent a decade learning to slow physically: to enjoy a relaxing stroll, to watch a movie and let it be the only activity, to sit and watch the birds. For the most part I have eased into this over time and am finding it comfortable.

Mental stillness has come at a much greater price. My first few years as a stay-at-home mom I managed to “perform” in my new role, as I had in all previous roles. I kept my babies fed and washed and responded to their cries. I cooked and cleaned and went to mommy groups. But shortly after my girls turned one and three years old, I began to struggle mentally and emotionally. The stillness of being home all day was a place of reflection in which all I could see were distortions and shadows. Compassion and hope were blotted out by fear of who I was and fear of getting things wrong. I would cry whenever someone said I was a good mom, because I desired it with every fiber of my being yet felt estranged from it. I pushed myself through each day because I felt if I stopped I would never get up again. I thought if I admitted I was lonely, discouraged and afraid, I would be swallowed up by those feelings.

I have often said the worst possible scenario for my mental health is to be alone in my own mind. Here I was, at home all day with these little people who no longer exhausted me to the point of survival mode, and I found that living with myself was the most painful thing I had ever endured. As a companion to myself, I was critical, short-tempered and punitive. I was so hard on myself that I lived in constant fear and decision-paralysis. God forbid I make a “wrong” choice about how to handle the hundred-and-one decisions I made about my children every day. I was, as they say, my own worst enemy. I was unable to cheer myself on, and instead found every reason to point out how I was not meeting expectations. I had never learned to be kind to myself. I could not let the waters still, to see my beautiful reflection clearly. I was quick to throw stones—to rend the image—because I identified with my brokenness more than my beauty.

One evening after a particularly difficult bedtime with my girls, I retreated to the recliner prepared to rehearse my awfulness and parade my ugliness before myself. Maybe enough shame would help me get my shit together (I’m not sure why I still believe that when it has yet to “work”). But God had other ideas. I felt Him embracing me, and I knew He was there not to talk about how to do better next time, but to hold me because He knew how much it hurt this time. I don’t understand why God is like this, but slowly I am learning to follow His lead. I am learning to embrace myself when I cause pain. And if I can embrace myself when I cause pain, then I can embrace others when they cause pain. I can invite them into this stillness, in which God’s holy presence holds all of us with tenderness. Stillness becomes a place of expanding kindness.

For six years now God has been loosening my corset little by little, teaching me to take up space, to breathe, until the corset is almost forgotten, and I am even invited to be plump and to enjoy it. I can be kind to myself. And when I am, it’s not so bad to be alone and still.