There’s something oddly addictive about being busy at work. Not just the movement itself—but the meaning that comes with it.
I caught myself the other day during a suddenly quiet workday. It was a rare slow day, but I tried to fill it with other things—emails that weren’t urgent, spreadsheets that could’ve waited, quick calls I didn’t need to make. It wasn’t productivity—it was avoiding the quiet. Funny how I love relaxing on weekends but can’t stand a moment’s pause during work hours.
You know that flutter of panic when a meeting gets canceled and you’re suddenly left with an empty block in your calendar? That tiny voice whispering: what now? Like you’ve been caught without something important to do?
When my calendar is packed with back-to-back meetings, when work messenger notifications pile up faster than I can clear them, when someone walks by my desk and says “Wow, you’re always so busy!” something in my chest swells. Not with pride exactly, but with relief. See? I matter. I’m necessary. The proof is in the packed schedule, the people waiting for my input, the projects that apparently can’t move forward without me.
Busyness has become our clever disguise, hasn’t it? Each notification, each crossed-off task, each “Sorry, can’t make that, too swamped” gives us something our primitive brains desperately crave: proof of our worth.
But in stillness? There’s no performance to hide behind. Just me and all the thoughts I’ve been outrunning.
Stillness makes me feel… seen. Not in the social media way, but in the “oh no, this is me without performance” way. And sometimes, I’m not sure I like who I am without the to-do lists, the meetings, the little wins.
I think our brains are still wired for tribal survival, where being useful meant being kept. Where contribution equaled protection. No wonder we’ve turned busyness into our modern armor. Each task is another plate of metal between our soft parts and the world’s judgment.
I’ve realized that busyness, for me, has become a kind of costume. It protects me from questions I don’t want to sit with. Like: Who am I if I’m not productive? What if I stop and nothing meaningful rises to take its place? What am I trying to avoid feeling right now?
Last night I tried something. I set a timer for ten minutes and just… sat. No phone, no book, no podcast. Just breathing and being. The first three minutes were excruciating. By minute seven, something shifted. Like muscles slowly unclenching after being tensed for so long.
Maybe the discomfort isn’t warning us of danger, but of unfamiliarity. Maybe stillness feels exposed because we’ve forgotten how to simply exist without justifying our space.
So lately, I’ve been practicing letting the quiet in—even just for a moment during work. Not to fix anything. Not to become more mindful. Just to notice. And maybe, slowly, get more comfortable being exposed without falling apart.
What about you? Do you ever feel safer when you’re overwhelmed? What does stillness bring up for you?
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