This post was originally published on June 1, 2021 on heroncounselling.com.
There are now countless articles on pandemic fatigue, burnout, and the impacts of social distancing on our mental health. As an Asian Canadian counsellor, I am witnessing—and experiencing—racial violence alongside the folks of colour I endeavour to support. The 24-hour news cycle and social media blasts about injustices happening around the world can feel endless and exhausting. The work of justice and allyship is tireless, but the barrage of violence and oppression still leaves wounds on our souls. When I search for respite from the perpetual trauma and cynicism of the first stretch of the 2020s, I am overcome with guilt. Hearing myself say things like “taking time for myself” and “I need a break” makes my stomach churn as thoughts of being selfish and feelings of shame lurk in the shadows.
But “taking time” implies that rest is quantifiable, needing a “break” suggests that the remainder of our time should be spent being productive, and “for myself” presumes that rest only benefits the individual. When rest is quantified, timed, and individualized, we limit the antidotes to burnout—connection, gratitude, and joy. In a society where capital, productivity, and perfection are obsessed over, every waking moment and every endeavour becomes measurable—our work, activism, downtime, and even our healing. What if there were more options than choosing between production and rest, between self and others? What if movement between activity and inactivity were as natural and fluid as breathing, adjusting the rhythm of our breath to match what our bodies need to respond to whatever the environment calls for? If we always think of breaks as interruptions and stagnations, then we will never be able to catch our breath.
When I resist measuring rest, I notice that joy is all around me. Rest allows me to tend to my own wounds, feed my soul, and reconnect with joy. I feel joy when I play a simple game of fetch with my pup or stare up at the vast blue sky. For me, generosity is a form of joy. It fills me up when I find a good takeout place for my hypercritical mother’s birthday. It does not mean her stubbornness is any easier to deal with, that I am putting her needs above mine, or that it drastically changes our tumultuous relationship, but I gain just a bit of understanding in that moment of connection. When I pause my work as a counsellor, I am met with immense gratitude for the clients I work with. I am able to reflect on how much they have taught me and how we have co-created new understandings of our experiences of the world. None of these moments are about prioritizing one thing over another or measuring its utility. They just simply are.
When I am mired in hopelessness, sometimes I create a checklist of self-care practices, and other times I reconnect with joy. Reconnecting with joy, to me, is not the same as looking for silver linings or resilience building. This does not render concepts of self-care and coping tools ineffective, nor does this mean I accept the conditions that have led to the oppression of marginalized folks. Rather, reconnecting with joy is what happens to me when I let go of perfectionism and productivity—when I just allow myself to breathe.
How might you reconnect with joy? How can you trust yourself to just breathe?
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