Stop thinking of rest as a “reward”

My life never pauses. So how do you rest inside of that kind of chaos? I needed a different way.

This is a guest essay by Hannah Howard.

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Before kids, on the Upper West Side of NYC, I took a spin class on a random Tuesday morning — nothing special about it except that I remember it with startling clarity. I was drenched, legs shaking, heart pounding in my ears. The studio smelled like rubber and ambition. The music thumped; the lights pulsed; I felt like I was working my whole life out on that bike.

We were in the middle of intervals — these brutal sprints followed by what I always thought of as the “throwaway” part, the little rest periods where you catch your breath before you suffer again. The teacher called out over the music, “Remember: the rest is just as important as the work.”

I nearly laughed. What?

In what universe?

I had spent most of my life believing rest was the reward for work, not part of it. Rest happened at the end, after I’d earned it, after I’d emptied myself out. But here was this person shouting as if it were obvious: rest is equal to work. I didn’t understand it yet, but something in me cracked open.

Then I became a parent, and the lesson arrived again, this time much louder.

Before kids, I used to think I was pretty good at rest. I could squeeze it in around the edges: the flop onto the couch after a long shift, those miraculous fifteen minutes between emails, a walk around the block when my brain felt fried. It wasn’t especially intentional, but it kept me going.

When you have babies, though, the edges disappear. There are no scraps. I remember people telling me, “Sleep when the baby sleeps,” and I wanted to say, “Great! And when do I live my life? When do I be a person?” There simply isn’t enough time, and whatever time there is rarely looks like rest.

What I learned at the Wise Women’s Council changed everything. Rest is not only sleep. Rest can be — and often needs to be — something else entirely.

I fell in love with this acronym: EAT.

Rest is the Energy, Attention, and Time we return to ourselves, explained Jordan Maney, one of the guest speakers this year.

Energy: noticing what drains me and what fills me.

Attention: giving myself even a sliver of the focus I give my clients, my kids, my work.

Time: choosing to spend a few minutes on something that’s for me and no one else.

Entrepreneurs and parents are Olympic-level givers. We pour our energy, our attention, our time into so many people: children, partners, coworkers, clients, family members. It’s easy, almost effortless, to put ourselves last on the list. And we all know what happens to the things at the bottom of the list: they go to die.

The truth is, I didn’t grow up seeing rest modeled in any intentional way. My parents worked incredibly hard, at work, and then at home. There was always a project around the house, always a meal to cook, always something to be done. There was creativity and purpose in that, and I’m grateful for the example of dedication. But rest, when it happened, was the collapse — the exhale when every tank was entirely empty.

No one taught me that proactive rest could prevent that collapse. That choosing to repair myself before I was depleted wasn’t lazy or indulgent, it was strategic, sustaining, even brave.

What does rest look like for me today?

Sometimes it’s going to bed a little earlier so I can curl up with a novel under the covers, letting the story soften the edges of the day. Sometimes it’s taking an extra minute — or five — in the shower so I can belt out a song and remember I have a voice outside of work and parenting.

Sometimes rest looks like connection: leaving a rambling, too-long voice note for a friend because I crave the feeling of being known.

Sometimes it’s sweetness: giving my four-year-old an unhurried cuddle just because it fills something in me that nothing else does.

Sometimes it’s uncomplicated joy: tossing a toy for the dog, letting myself laugh at his goofy enthusiasm.

Sometimes it’s choosing to watch K-Pop Demon Hunters with my kids — to actually be with them — instead of multitasking my way through the moment with one eye on my email.

Learning this hasn’t happened in a single epiphany. It’s slow and ongoing. It’s me catching myself reaching for my laptop at 9 p.m. and asking, “What would EAT look like right now?” It’s stepping outside for five quiet minutes between meetings because my body needs air more than it needs inbox zero. It’s closing my eyes in the middle of a chaotic day and remembering that I am not a machine.

I’m still unlearning the version of rest I inherited, the kind you collapse into only when you’re spent. I’m learning the kind that refuels you before you break down. The kind that makes the next interval possible.

Because maybe that spin instructor was right all along. Maybe the rest is the part that transforms the work from something we survive into something we can sustain. Maybe rest isn’t what happens after you give everything away, maybe it’s what allows you to give in the first place.

Maybe rest is the interval that carries us forward.

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Hannah Howard is the author of the memoirs Feast: True Love in and out of the Kitchen and Plenty: A Memoir of Food and Family. She writes for Food & Wine, Travel + Leisure, and Bon Appetit. Hannah lives in Chicago with her family and loves stinky cheese. Subscribe to her Substack, Letters from Hannah. She is also a member of The Wise Women’s Council.

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