For most people, taking a day off work probably isn’t a major life event.
For me, it apparently requires a full weekend of debate.
The idea first entered my mind sometime Sunday. I had the PTO available. There wasn’t anything critical waiting for me on Monday. In fact, there was very little that absolutely required my attention at all.
Yet I spent much of the evening arguing with myself over whether I should take the day.
Part of my struggle was the timing.
Taking Monday off would effectively turn a normal weekend into a long weekend. For some reason, that seemed harder to justify. While I would be sitting at home, other people would be logging in and working. The thought bothered me far more than it probably should have.
I kept looking for a reason that would make the decision easier.
Maybe I was exhausted.
Maybe I needed to get something done around the house.
Maybe I had some pressing personal matter that needed my attention.
The problem was that none of those reasons felt entirely true.
The truth was much simpler.
I just wanted a day away.
For some reason, that didn’t seem like a good enough reason.
Maybe part of the problem was that I couldn’t point to any one thing that justified taking the day.
It wasn’t just work. It was all the little things that seem to accumulate over time. The responsibilities. The decisions. The constant feeling that someone or something needs your attention.
Lately I’ve found myself thinking more about my mom and the challenges that come with helping care for an aging parent. At the same time, I’ve been carrying the weight that comes with watching my son navigate challenges that I can’t fix for him.
As a parent, you spend years solving problems, offering advice, and stepping in when help is needed. Then one day you find yourself in situations where there isn’t anything to do except pray, remain positive, and celebrate the small victories when they come.
Like many people in this season of life, I’m learning that some burdens don’t arrive all at once. They settle quietly onto your shoulders over time.
None of it felt overwhelming by itself.
But taken together, it was enough to make a day of quiet seem appealing.
I’ve spent most of my life being responsible. I show up. I do the work. I answer the emails. I solve the problems. Like a lot of people, I take a certain amount of pride in being dependable.
The downside is that after a while, you begin to think every decision has to be justified through productivity.
If I’m taking a day off, what am I accomplishing?
If I’m resting, what is the purpose?
If I’m not doing something productive, am I wasting time?
By the time Monday morning arrived and I finally made the decision, I felt guilty.
Not a little guilty.
A lot guilty.
I kept wondering whether I was inconveniencing someone. Whether people would think less of me. Whether I was somehow letting the team down.
Then something unusual happened.
Nothing happened.
The world kept spinning.
The company continued operating.
The emails continued arriving.
Life moved on without requiring my constant participation.
I did check in briefly a couple of times during the day when something required my attention, but beyond that, I went quiet. The office survived just fine without me.
Throughout the day, I went to the grocery store. I thought about driving over to Hobby Lobby to see if they had any Christmas decorations out yet. I know it’s not even October, but I’ve always loved Christmas. Something about the lights, the decorations, and the anticipation still gets me excited.
I came home and wrote in a journal that I’m keeping for my grandson.
It’s something I’ve started for him to read someday. A place where his Pops can share stories, pass along a few lessons learned over the years, and leave behind pieces of himself that might otherwise be lost to time. There are things I look forward to teaching him, and stories I hope he’ll enjoy hearing long after I’ve told them.
I also sat down to work on this blog.
Ironically, that led to another familiar internal debate.
Who really cares what I have to say?
And if I write about my struggles, am I just making everything about me?
It reminded me of an episode of Ted Lasso where Ted was filling out a dating profile and seemed uncomfortable talking about himself. I understood that feeling completely.
I’ve never really worried about having thoughts.
I’ve worried about whether those thoughts matter to anyone else.
But maybe that’s not the point.
Maybe writing isn’t about having profound answers.
Maybe it’s about putting words to experiences that other people are quietly having too.
At some point during the afternoon, I took a two-hour nap.
That nap may have been the most productive thing I did all day.
Later, while making dinner, I found myself thinking about having a drink.
Not because I was upset.
Not because I was celebrating.
Mostly because that’s what I often do when I’m cooking dinner.
It occurred to me how many things in life become habits without us even noticing. Certain places. Certain times of day. Certain routines. Our brains start connecting one thing to another.
In this case, cooking dinner had apparently become associated with having a drink.
I didn’t have any wine in the house, and for a moment I thought about going to get some.
Then I decided not to.
Not because there is anything wrong with a glass of wine.
I simply realized I didn’t really want the wine.
I wanted the routine.
Those are not the same thing.
As the day came to an end, I noticed something.
The guilt was gone.
In its place was a feeling I hadn’t expected.
Peace.
What surprised me wasn’t how hard it was to decide.
What surprised me was how quickly I stopped thinking about work once I finally gave myself permission to be away from it.
Maybe that’s what happens when we stop treating rest like something that has to be earned.
Maybe rest isn’t a reward for reaching a certain level of exhaustion.
Maybe it’s simply part of being human.
I wish I could tell you I’ve mastered this lesson.
I haven’t.
Tomorrow I’ll probably go back to work and slip right back into my normal routines. I’ll answer emails, attend meetings, and worry about things that probably don’t deserve as much of my attention as they receive.
But sitting here reflecting on the day, I’ve learned something important.
Sometimes the hardest person to get permission from is yourself.
And sometimes the person who most needs to grant that permission is also yourself.
