If this is your first time reading my blog, my mother died on Christmas Day 2024. In early 2025 I went back to Montreal to take care of her estate and sell her house. I stayed in Montreal for close to three months. My blog posts are inspired by that time I stayed in Montreal. Alone.

I stopped working in March of this year, and I’ve been watching people’s faces ever since.

There’s this moment that happens every time I mention I’m not working where their expression shifts. A flicker of something crosses their face. Is it confusion? Is it concern? Sometimes it’s wrapped in politeness, but the underlying message is clear: this doesn’t compute.

Last week, someone said to me, “I’m surprised you’re still in Montreal. I thought you’d be back at work by now. I didn’t know work would let you stay away this long.”

That word “let” stopped me cold. As if my time belonged to someone else. As if rest required permission from an external authority. As if the default state of human existence is productivity, and anything else needs justification.

The Script We’re All Following

We’ve all internalized the same story: worth equals output. We learned it in school, where grades measured our value. We perfected it at work, where hours became dedication and promotion became proof of success. We live it in our families, where achievement becomes the currency of love.

This script runs so deep that when someone steps outside it, when they choose rest over productivity, presence over performance, it creates a glitch in the matrix. If I can walk away from work and still be whole, what does that say about everyone else still running on the hamster wheel?

The discomfort isn’t really about me. It’s about the mirror I’m holding up to a life they’ve never questioned.

What “Not Working” Actually Looks Like

Here’s what my days contain: I’m writing children’s books, including one about a child losing their mother. I built a website honouring my own mother’s memory. I’m learning to draw with graphite, mixing watercolours for the first time, designing a coloring book. I cook from scratch, avoiding processed foods that don’t serve my body.

I’m at a crossroads, choosing the slow path. Peeling back layers I’ve hidden for years. Learning to appreciate life more deeply and love myself in ways I’d forgotten were possible.

This isn’t vacancy or self-indulgence. This is intentional architecture of a life built around meaning rather than money. Yet when I describe this reality, I see confusion. As if creativity without commerce doesn’t count. As if pursuing joy rather than status is somehow insufficient.

The truth? I’ve never been more productive. I’m just producing things that can’t be measured in quarterly reports.

The Permission Problem

My choice to prioritize wellbeing over productivity seems to reflect back others’ unexplored desires for a different way of being. When someone living in constant motion encounters someone who’s stepped out of that pace, it can feel threatening. They may try to pull you back in not from cruelty, but from their own unexamined need to validate their choices.

I’m no longer following the script that says our lives must be defined by job titles and external validation. The further I move from that script, the more disoriented some people become. Their discomfort is real, but it’s not my responsibility to resolve.

In many spiritual traditions, the person who steps away from the world to pursue something deeper is respected. In the West, we’ve replaced that archetype with the entrepreneur, the hustler, the one who builds and scales. Stillness gets mistaken for weakness. But stepping back from ambition to listen more closely to yourself isn’t failure. It’s wisdom.

The Radical Act of Being

When I sit in my art class, learning to capture light with graphite, I’m not producing anything marketable. I’m not building a portfolio or developing skills for future profit. I’m simply present with the joy of creating, of watching my hand learn to translate what my eyes observe.

This presence disturbs those who’ve forgotten that value exists beyond utility. My unhurried days, spent mixing paint and writing stories, stand in quiet contrast to the urgency others have normalized. My willingness to pause without apology becomes its own form of protest.

I no longer believe busyness equals value. I don’t measure success in speed, status, or income. I’m building a life that includes grief, wonder, curiosity, stillness, creativity, and joy. A life that honors both being and becoming.

What I Know Now

Rest doesn’t need permission. It’s not a luxury to be earned but where clarity begins. Healing, grieving, wandering, and simply living aren’t lesser than productivity. They’re part of what it means to be fully human.

I’m not more worthy when busy. I don’t need to produce to be valuable. My being is enough. My presence is enough. My life, even when quiet, unstructured, or paused, is still worth honoring.

So no, I’m not working right now. But I’m grieving and creating and learning and allowing. I’m building something that honors my mother’s memory while discovering parts of myself I’d forgotten existed.

And perhaps that’s the most necessary kind of work there is.

The next time someone asks about your rest, remember: their discomfort isn’t your emergency. Your peace isn’t their permission to grant. Your life doesn’t need their approval to be valuable.

You already have everything you need to live on your own terms.

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This reflection represents personal insights and is intended for contemplative purposes. For professional guidance regarding relationship challenges, please consult a qualified therapist or counsellor.

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