I don’t know how to relax without feeling guilty

^{By Priya Narain}

Like so many people, I just waved goodbye to one of the busiest summers I’ve ever had. Every weekend was something: birthdays, dinners, weddings, a quick trip, more dinners. It was all the kind of “fun” that leaves you more tired than before.

I powered through simply because it was summer, and something about the sun being up until 9 p.m. tricks you into thinking you have more energy than you actually do.

I work a hybrid schedule, two days a week in the office (Tuesdays and Thursdays). The other three days I work from home which I wouldn’t trade for the world. So many of my friends’ companies have gone back to five days in person, and every time I hear that, I silently thank whatever lucky star let me keep my freedom.

But because I technically have more time by not having a commute every day, I also have a harder time saying no. Someone texts “want to grab dinner?” and my brain goes, well, you’re home all day, why not? Except one thing turns into three, and before I know it, I’ve said yes to something almost every night of the week.

By Monday, I’m so insanely fatigued that even walking the fifteen steps to my desk feels like a workout. I’ll make coffee, open my laptop, and immediately regret every “sure, sounds fun!” I said the week before.

So when fall started creeping in, I told myself this was it — my recharge season. No plans. No guilt. Just stillness.

By some miracle, I had two weekends in a row completely free. I was ecstatic. I literally marked them on my calendar as do not disturb weekends. I told myself I was going to sleep in, relax, maybe watch a movie, maybe cook something slow and comforting.

But my anxiety had other plans.

Last Saturday, I woke up earlier than I do during the week, like my body had forgotten how to rest, and immediately decided the apartment was a disaster. So I started cleaning. Not just tidying — full-on deep cleaning. Vacuuming under the couch, scrubbing the baseboards, reorganizing the pantry.

It felt productive at first. I told myself I’d earned the right to truly relax that night. But as soon as I sat down with takeout and a movie queued up, my brain went, you didn’t go to the gym today. And once that thought landed, I couldn’t shake it. The movie played, but I wasn’t even watching. I just kept replaying the same internal monologue: You could’ve gone tonight. You had the time.

So Sunday, I got up early again, determined to fix it, and went to the gym. You’d think that would quiet the guilt, but the second I got home, my brain switched to a new worry: You should get ahead on work this week.

And that’s exactly what I did. I opened my laptop, started answering emails, tweaking slides, and pre-scheduling messages for Monday, all while telling myself, I’ll feel more relaxed if I get ahead now.

Spoiler: I didn’t.

Then this past weekend came, and I thought, okay, for real this time — I’m doing nothing.

Except doing nothing turned into punishing myself for doing nothing. I started thinking about my side hustle (better known as a bunch of random ideas jotted down in my notes app), and how I should be using this free weekend to finally bring it to life. Then I started mentally listing every other thing I’ve been meaning to do: organize my photos, finally start that course I bought, deep-clean my inbox, research trips for next year.

The irony is that I ended up doing none of it. I just sat in this weird guilt loop, doomscrolling TikTok to escape the mental exhaustion and disappointment in myself.

At one point, I caught myself spiraling about the next four Saturdays already being booked, and I felt this wave of panic. Like, when am I going to get my life together if I’m always doing something?

Then I spiraled even harder. How do people do this with kids? How does anyone have a family, a job, friends, hobbies, a clean apartment, and still find time to just exist?

I don’t even think my guilt is about laziness. It’s more like this internal pressure to constantly prove I’m doing enough. That I’m adulting correctly. Like if I just sat on the couch watching TV all weekend, I’d somehow lose ground in this invisible race that no one even told me I was running.

And logically, I know that’s ridiculous. No one’s keeping score. No one cares if I spend a Saturday cleaning or watching movies or scrolling on my phone for five hours. But my body doesn’t believe it. It’s like my nervous system only knows two settings: “go” and “guilt.”

Sometimes I’ll see people post about their lazy Sundays and I’ll envy how peaceful it looks. But even then, I’ll think, yeah, but they probably did their laundry first.

I envy people who can truly rest without narrating it in their heads. Who don’t hear that little voice saying, you could be doing more.

The weirdest part is that the things I do to relax don’t even feel restorative anymore. It’s like I can’t fully enjoy them because I know they’re not “productive rest.” I’ve read enough self-help content to know I’m supposed to be journaling or meditating or reading something “nourishing,” but that just sounds like more work.

I try to remind myself that my parents didn’t seem to live like this. They worked, came home, watched TV, and went to bed. They didn’t need to “optimize” their evenings.

So why can't I relax a bit and just breathe ????

Maybe it's the remote work thing. When your home is also your office, the lines blur so badly that it feels wrong to do nothing in the same space you work in.

Or maybe it’s the internet, where everyone is constantly sharing what they’re achieving and learning and building. You scroll and feel like you’re falling behind, even though you’re just trying to exist.

Or maybe it’s just me. Maybe I’ve built my self-worth so tightly around productivity that stillness feels like failure.