I’ll never forget the time my mother came home to find an elder family friend, who was just visiting, asking me, maybe four or five at the time, to scrub down the bathroom. At the time, we were living at my grandfather’s house, and she was a friend of the woman my grandfather was with for many years. I don’t remember her name. What I do remember is my mother’s fury. This woman had not only overstepped by asking a child that wasn’t her own to clean, but had done so in a home that wasn’t hers, either.
I share this anecdote because I’m almost certain the reason she did it had something to do with the fact that I wasn’t doing anything “productive.” I was resting. Watching TV, maybe. Just… being.
If you’re Black, chances are this scenario or something like it feels familiar. Whether it was hearing “You look like you need something to do” or being given a chore the moment you sat down, many of us learned early on that rest was something to be questioned. Rest wasn’t modeled as a right. Instead, it was often discouraged—framed as laziness or defiance by caretakers who were passing down the survival lessons they’d learned themselves.
Black folks—Black women and femmes, especially—have long had a fraught relationship with rest. Our relationship with rest, or lack thereof, often begins in childhood. We’ve been raised and conditioned to believe that we must always be working or striving for something. That rest is wasteful. That stillness is suspicious. Saturday mornings didn’t belong to cartoons or leisure; they belonged to cleaning, which makes sense. Historically, Black communities have been denied safe conditions to rest due to systemic oppression, chronic stress, and a constant need to overperform just to survive.
For Black women, these pressures are often doubled. We’re expected to be the strong ones, the providers, the nurturers, the ones who hold everything together, even at the expense of our own well-being. Rest can feel like failure. Stillness can feel unsafe. So we’ve inherited not just these conditions, but the beliefs that come with them.
According to the CDC, Black adults are 40% more likely to experience short sleep duration than white adults—a disparity linked to racism, work stress, and socioeconomic inequities. During Better Sleep Month, it’s especially important to remember that rest isn’t just about sleep. It’s about the deep permission to be still, to feel safe, and to exist without earning it. Angela Akinyemi, a licensed mental health counselor who works with clients from marginalized communities, shared that one of the clearest patterns she sees is the internalized belief that our worth is tied to productivity.
“This is in no way a personal failing,” Akinyemi explains. “The cultures of capitalism and white supremacy tell us that we have to push harder, do more, and get it done now. So we’re afraid of falling behind and of losing momentum, for fear of never being able to get it back—especially those with marginalized identities who feel like we took off from behind the starting line.”
That belief system runs deep. Sometimes we intellectually understand that rest is important, but when we try to slow down, we’re met with guilt, anxiety, or discomfort. “For many of us, pushing has meant survival,” Akinyemi adds. “That could mean seeking safety from transphobia, being the emotional or financial caretaker for a parent, or masking to hide neurodivergence. Overfunctioning and hypervigilance have been protective. It can feel terrifying to let go, like losing a sense of safety, or even a sense of self.”
I’ve felt that in my own life, especially after moving back home as an adult, seeking support I didn’t always receive. Even in a family where mental health is understood on a professional level due to relatives being specialists in the field, the embodied patterns of urgency, control, and sacrifice still linger. And it’s made me realize that rest isn’t just a choice; it’s sometimes even a practice of reparenting yourself in the face of generational expectations.
Akinyemi emphasizes that many of the expectations we carry around rest are inherited, passed down quietly through what our families modeled and not just what they said. For some, like a poor Black woman in the South, for example, something like a spotless home may have been one of the only ways to maintain a sense of dignity and control in a world that constantly tried to strip it away. That deep-rooted need to appear respectable, to not be judged, to always be doing something—these are the echoes of survival strategies, etched into our lineage.
It’s no surprise, then, that rest can feel like rebellion. And for some of us, that’s exactly what it is. Taylor Huntley, a holistic wellness entrepreneur and reproductive justice advocate, shared that she now feels a warm sense of pride in her ability to rest. “I don’t participate in hustle culture,” she shares. “I believe in slowness and divine timing.”
That belief wasn’t always affirmed. As a neurodivergent person, Huntley says she was always told she was “lazy” for napping or taking space for stillness when overstimulated. “As an undiagnosed child, I didn’t know my reasons for stepping away, but I am so happy I did what felt right to my body,” she continues. Huntley’s healing came, in part, through nature and plant medicine. “You can’t rush plant medicine,” she says. “Why don’t we offer ourselves this same respect?”
Melissa Luke, a licensed mental health counselor living with autoimmune disorders, reflects on how rest has shifted for her over the years. “To me, rest is radical and a form of resistance,” she says. “However, it’s been easier said than done at different stages in my life.” Growing up, Luke saw adults resting only when they were forced to. She internalized that being productive was the priority—that rest was something you earned, not something you needed.
Even as a therapist, Luke admits to grappling with shame around rest. “I’ve felt guilt a bunch of times just wanting to take a break,” she shares, explaining how it often becomes a cycle of constantly prioritizing the next obligation over her own well-being. “I’ve argued with myself and experienced anxiety and shame towards myself for needing to relax.” It’s an especially challenging experience as a Black woman navigating the weight of societal expectations, generational trauma, and harmful stereotypes. “You don’t want to perceive yourself as lazy or irresponsible to the world,” she says, “and it’s easy to internalize that pressure to always be doing more.”
Part of reclaiming rest is learning to redefine it. It isn’t just sleep. It can be emotional, sensory, or social. For some, that might look like eating at a favorite restaurant, walking along the beach, or spending time with people who truly see you. As Luke puts it, “Rest is the love you give to yourself.”
But building a relationship with rest also means learning to sit with the discomfort it can bring. Akinyemi encourages people to get curious about their responses. “Ask yourself: is my body feeling unsafe, or am I feeling safe but uncomfortable? It’s okay to stop and really important that we care for ourselves along the way,” she says.
Akinyemi also reminds us that this process takes time. “Sometimes we have a vision of what healed looks like and we judge ourselves for not being able to jump right there. Part of rest is being gentle with yourself.” To reference Tricia Hersey’s Rest Is Resistance manifesto, rest isn’t something we earn, but something we’re already worthy of. It’s our birthright, and one of the most ancient, essential needs we hold in our bodies.
When I reflect on that moment from my childhood—being told to clean just because I was still—I can see now how deep the wiring goes. I can see how hard rest was to claim, coming from a lineage shaped by survival. But I also see now that breaking that cycle doesn’t mean rejecting where we come from. It means choosing to listen to our bodies and honor our humanity in ways our ancestors didn’t always have the luxury to.
Luke offered an affirmation that’s stayed with me: “I am worthy of rest, safety, and relaxation so that my body and strength will be restored.” I’ll be repeating that one often, not just as a gentle reminder, but as a declaration and a reclamation.
I hope you do, too.
Steph R. Long is a Chopra-certified Ayurvedic health educator, meditation instructor, and well-being coach. She’s also the founder of holistic wellness and coaching practice SRL Well-Being and the former Deputy Director of Enterprise for Refinery29 Unbothered, where she oversaw health, wellness, and spirituality content. For more wellness insights, follow her on Instagram and YouTube, and subscribe to her podcast.
